The only thing more fake than my wedding five days ago is today’s trial. The judge doesn’t consider any of my perfectly logical arguments nor the timeline I presented. My words have fallen on deaf ears ever since the blasted inspector handed over my blood-drenched gown. Worse still was the fact that they found a vial of deadly nightshade in the pocket.
The exact poison used to kill King Bandon.
Did I forget to mention that they pinned that crime on me too? There were witnesses who saw me at the castle gates, distressed and begging to see the king. None of them could say whether or not I made it inside, but what other reason would I have to request an audience if I wasn’t there to assassinate him?
I face my jury with my head high, Ronan and the queen watching from the balcony, their expressions giving none of their treachery away. Would this have happened if I had never crossed The Divide? Never pursued Ever? Had any of the romantic words Ronan once spoken to me been real? Had he ever truly aspired to share his life with me?
Had he cared for me at all?
It takes all of twenty minutes of deliberation for the judge to hand down a guilty verdict.
My sentence: Death by hanging.
My father sobs so loudly that his wails can probably be heard on the mountains of Gravale. What I wouldn’t give to be back there now, among the goats and peaks, all thoughts of husbands and betrayal eclipsed by burbling streams and trees to be climbed.
“They’re wrong. They must be wrong. My daughter would never kill anyone.” Father’s voice cracks as Theo leads him out of the courtroom. My brother casts me a sorrowful look from over his slumped shoulder. They both came to see me this morning, hoping for a proper resolution, believing that an innocent woman would never be put to death for such heinous crimes she did not commit.
I knew that this battle was lost before I stepped onto that platform. With Ronan on the throne and his wicked mother at the helm, there is nothing but darkness ahead.
I chose my side in this fight, and unfortunately, it wasn’t the winning one.
I’m brought back to the prison cell where I spent the last few days awaiting trial. The cell isn’t what I imagined it would be, with its fine mattress and single bedside table. There’s even a private privy. The view of the city far below is peaceful, serene, and Nolan has ensured that the guards on duty keep me well fed. He even stopped by with some of the tarts I liked from one of the cafés in the city.
I’m not under any illusions that he’s doing this for me.
Ever since my arrest, Nolan has been trying his best to get back into Nia’s good graces, but she is still giving him the cold shoulder.
Nolan is only doing his job. There’s no telling what his fate would have been if he’d defied Ronan. For all we know, he might’ve ended up standing next to me in that court today.
A kind-faced young man with peach-fuzz dusting his jaw trudges into view, torchlight flickering off his black leather armor. He looks at me in stolen glances, his cheeks coloring with splotches of pink every time I catch him. “You have a visitor,” he says, fumbling for the keys at his belt.
Nia steps into view and slips through the door, her head bowed and eyes red from tears. The door closes quietly behind her, but the sound of the key in the lock cuts through the silence.
My cousin and I stare at each other, her gaze scanning as if searching for any signs of mistreatment. If not for the bars and guards, this place could be mistaken for an inn.
“I’d offer you tea, but I’m afraid all I have is water and a stale scone.” They delivered my breakfast hours ago, when the sun was barely kissing the horizon. I was too nervous for my trial to eat. Now that my fate has been marked, I’m too despondent.
Nia’s lips pinch, her curls swinging as she steps forward. “How can you make a joke at a time like this?”
Because come tomorrow, there will be no time for jokes.
There will be no time for anything.
When she pushes back her cloak, I notice she’s strangling a book. “What have you brought?”
She captures my hand, leading me to the bed where she sinks onto the mattress. I fall down beside her, waiting as she sets the tome on top of the blanket and flips through the pages to one marked with a strip of ribbon.
“I went to the library,” she says, pressing a finger to one of the lines midway down the page. “Read this.”
The section in question speaks to the succession of the throne of Willowhaven. Apparently, if Ronan and his mother were to both fall, the crown would pass to the eldest male cousin. If there are no cousins, then the high chancellor—the king’s head advisor—would be crowned king and his line would continue to hold the throne until such a time that there are no heirs, and the same thing would happen.
All very interesting, but hardly helpful at present. “I don’t understand.”
She closes the book with a huff, clutching the worn leather to her chest. “We have scoured every book in the library on the subject and there is nothing that states the King or Queen of Willowhaven must be Seelie. If Everett can prove that his father was King Bandon, then he would be the rightful heir to the throne.”
And as king, he could rebuild the bridge. “Nia, this is excellent work.”
“I can’t take all the credit. Your brother and his wife have been neck-deep in research since Nolan took you away.”
