“Torren,” Julian says. “Leave everything else alone. Accept the win.”
I press my lips together.
He reaches out and puts a hand on my shoulder. “You’re not going to do that, are you?”
“Probably not.”
He sighs, but turns to leave. “Then at least get some rest. Late morning tomorrow, the Council will announce Terrance as Senate Leader and there will be the funerary processions for Verhardt and Antinous. You’ll need your strength for those.”
With that, he shuts the door, leaving me in peace. I lean my head back. Tomorrow will be all fake mourning and ceremony. Julian is right. I need sleep or I’ll never be able to handle the cries of professional mourners.
Alone in my apartments, I remove my chest armor and set it on the cushion beside me. Then I stand and take off my shirt and leather skirt. With the weight removed, I realize that Julian is right. The public announcements, day of mourning, and funerals will put to rest any question of the murders. Why can’t I just accept that?
Guilt, maybe. Perhaps I’ve always wanted them to discover who I really am. Getting away with murder is a punishment in and of itself.
I’ve just removed my shin guards when there’s a knock on my door. Julian must’ve forgotten something.
I throw open the door, but it’s not him. Kerasea stands in front of me in a beige cloak with her eyes wide.
“You’re not Julian,” I say. I feel the cool air on my bare chest as blood rushes to my cheeks.
“Not last time I checked, no,” she says slowly.
“Come in.”
The last thing I need is other sentries seeing the High Priestess here while I stand in my underwear. It would fuel gossip for a week in the capital. And now that we’re back home, I’m painfully aware of our positions. In Jubilee, I could lie to myself because she was next door. In the capital, she’s a Southside elite and the High Priestess. I’m a man from the Northside who clawed his way to Praetorian.
Kerasea slowly nods and steps inside.
I close the door behind her, and when I turn, I see the apartment as she must—clean but sparse and, overall, shabby. The ceiling paint is cracked, as are some of the floor tiles. I have never been self-conscious about my home, even when Julian pokes fun at it, but having someone like her here is different. I was offered Villa de Armas—the home of the Praetorian—but there is nothing that could compel me to take it. Not after the screams that echoed there.
“Did you need something?” I ask, rubbing the back of my neck. “I was just about to get ready for bed.”
“Oh, I…I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s late. I should go.”
It’s ten at night. Undoubtedly, she should leave. But now I have to know why she is here.
She takes a step toward the door, and I put out my hand. She stills, two feet from my palm.
“Kerasea, why did you come?”
She smiles, but then her eyes become glassy, and she sniffles. “I don’t know. I… We burned Zel tonight and I just…I couldn’t stand being at the temple and I thought…” She stares at the floor and then shakes her head. “I’m sorry. Now that I’ve said it aloud, I see how this is not your problem. I’m really very sorry to disturb you.”
She takes another step toward the door, and I splay my fingers, my arm still out. I know exactly what she’s feeling. She is sad, tired, frustrated, and seeking solace.
And she came to me.
“The Senate thanked me tonight, publicly commended me,” I say.
She narrows one eye and then clears her expression. “Well, your investigation found the evidence…”
“You know as well as I do that I didn’t deserve a laurel wreath,” I say.
She stares at the floor. “I know the feeling of undeserved praise. Who thanked you?”
“Terrance, Suh, and Paolo.”
“Not Foreau?”
