“He didn’t have a choice,” I remind her.
Her eyes harden even as her hands flex around the cover. “Hedidhave a choice. He could’ve stopped working for Ronan the moment he found out the prince was a corrupt piece of shite, but he chose to bite his tongue. It’s disgraceful and I shall never forgive him.”
“Never is a long time to hold on to your anger.” And my cousin is too full of life, too full of joy to lose that spark. “Don’t forgive him for his sake; forgive him for yours.”
Her curls spill over her wool-clad shoulder when her head tilts. “When did you become so philosophical?”
“Since I found out I’m to be executed tomorrow at dawn.”
The book clatters to the bed, falling open to a page of the royal family tree.
How fitting.
“They cannot do that, not before Theo has filed your appeal. I won’t let them.”
Theo won’t have time for his appeal, and Nia cannot do anything about it.
No one can.
I’ve made my peace with what’s to come—at least I’ve tried to. “Will you do me one favor though? Will you promise me that you will find a way to get this book to Ever? Willowhaven deserves better than that heartless wretch Ronan as its king.”
The glassiness in Nia’s eyes spills down her cheeks when she nods. “This isn’t the last time we’ll see each other.”
It’s not. But tomorrow will be a day of mourning. Tomorrow I won’t get to tell her these words.
I fold my arms around my cousin, her snowy curls tickling my nose as I press my face into her jasmine-scented hair. “I love you, Nia.”
With the book pressed between us, she wraps one arm around my back, her body trembling with emotion. “I love you, Kerris.”
The guard returns, his expression giving nothing away as he unlocks the door to let Nia out.
Her sobs haunt the stone hallway on the long, narrow walk toward the prison’s exit.
Choking back tears of my own, I turn toward the rays of sunlight streaming through the bars and peer toward The Divide, wishing I could see my love one last time.
* * *
The gallows have been erected where only a handful of days ago I stood in a white dress, expecting to marry a prince. My wedding gown has been replaced by a fitted gray muslin so long it sweeps the cobblestones as I trudge toward the raised platform, escorted not by my father but by four armed guards.
This crowd is even larger than the one that came to watch the wedding, which says so much about the true state of this city. For all its sunshine and blooms, there is still too much darkness.
I climb the stairs. One. Two. Three. Standing face-to-face with a man as tall as he is wide wearing a black mask over his face, my heart beats firmly in my chest.
“Kerris Dawn, you have been sentenced to death for the murder of our great king, Bandon Reve, and Master Trevor Dillon. Do you have any last words?”
Only this morning, I had so many things to say. But now, all I can think about is how poorly these small-minded people have treated their neighbors. They deserve to know the truth about their leader, to be given a chance to decide for themselves.
I straighten my spine, throw back my shoulders, and say as loudly as I can, “Ronan Reve isn’t the rightful heir to the throne. Everett Gathin is.”
Ronan’s face turns as red as a robin’s breast, the vein in his forehead thumping as he glowers from his throne. Beside him, his mother smirks, ever the cold, calculating queen.
The masked man drags me by the chains still binding my wrists, forcing me to climb atop a rickety stool as he fits the length of coarse rope around my neck and tightens the noose at my nape.
I’m not scared.
I’m not scared.
I’m not scared.
