You do it because you're saying goodbye.
"No," I say out loud. "No. No, no, no."
I throw the blanket off and leap to my feet. My ankle screams—the dumb thing's still half-busted from the mountain—but I no longer give a damn. I shove my feet into the first shoes I find, which turn out to be a pair of stupid little flats someone left out with yesterday's clothes, and I yank open the door so hard it bounces off the wall.
The hallway is empty. The whole house is quiet, that deep predawn quiet where it feels like you're the only person alive.
But I'm not the only person alive. I know where the men are.
I've watched Afon disappear into the war room every morning for two days. Down the main hall, left at the painting of the dead king or whoever it is, double doors, the room with the long table where Lukas spreads out maps and folders and talks in his low voice about a coming battle that isn't my business.
Well, guess what?
It's my business now.
I run. The flats slap against the marble and my ankle protests every step. But I don't slow down, because there's a clock tickingand I don't know how much time is on it. I clutch the ring in one fist and the wrapper in the other so hard the foil edges bite into my palm.
I hit the double doors and shove them open without knocking.
The war room is already full. There are maybe eight men inside, including Lukas and his son, Kir, standing at the head of the table over a map. Coffee cups everywhere, wreathed with cigarette smoke. They all look up at once, and I watch every single hand in that room twitch toward a weapon before they register that it's just me.
Just the bride. Just the woman in the wrinkled t-shirt and the borrowed flats, hair everywhere, eyes wild.
"Caroline," Lukas says with mild surprise. "You should not be in here."
"Where is he?"
His face doesn't change, but his eyes seem to darken. "Where is who?"
I hold up the ring and the wrapper. My hands are shaking so hard I'm afraid I'll drop both items. "Don't treat me like I'm stupid, please. I don't have time and neither does he. Where is Afon?"
Kir looks at his father. One of the other men glances toward the window, toward the long drive, and that's all I need to see. That little flick of the eyes toward the place where a car would have left from.
"He's gone, isn't he?" I interrupt.
Lukas sets down the folder in his hand. Everything that man does is slow, like he's got all the time in the world, like the world will simply have to wait for him. Doesn't he see that, right now, I want to scream?
"We don't know that he's?—"
I wave the ring in his face. "Do you see this shit? I know you don't know what the wrapper means, but I'm pretty damn sure you know enough about Afon to guess why he left behind this ring. He wouldn't give that back unless he didn't think he'd be coming home."
For the first time since I've met him, Lukas Lazarev looks his age. Just for a second. Just a flicker. Then it's gone and he's ice again, but I saw it.
"Sit down, Caroline," he says.
"No."
"I wasn't asking."
"I saidno."
And then, because my legs are carrying me and my head hasn't caught up yet, I walk the length of the table. Past the men, who part for me like they don't know what else to do with a barefoot-but-for-flats woman vibrating with rage. Past the maps and the coffee and the gun someone's left lying casually next to a notepad. I walk all the way to the head of the table, to the empty chair at the far end, opposite Lukas, and I pull it out and I drop down in it like his throne is mine for the taking.
I put the ring on the table in front of me. I lay the wrapper down flat beside it, smoothing it out the way Afon must have smoothed it a hundred times.
And I look down the long table at Lukas Lazarev, who has more money, more guns, and more dead men behind him than I can imagine, and I say, "One of you is going to tell me what's happening. Right now."
Nobody moves.
