I hesitate, my fingers tightening into fists at my side, but I can’t lurk in the shadows or wait for answers to fall into my lap. That’s what I’ve been doing, and it’s not working out. Instead, I descend the stairs with a steady breath and a clear purpose.
The cold intensifies with each step, curling around my sodden slippers and biting through my damp gown. The flickering lanterns overhead do little to banish the dark, but my eyes have adjusted and I no longer need the flames to see clearly.
The stairway opens into a wide, low-ceilinged chamber. The air is sharp with salt and smoke. The temperature drops further here, the cold clinging to the walls, seeping into the wooden beams overhead. Tothe left, a row of shelves gives way to heavy barrels and stacks of sealed crates. A collection of dusty wine bottles line one wall, their corks sealed with thick, dark wax. A single lantern flickers on a hook, illuminating a rack of cured meats hanging near the back wall.
But it’s the women gathered around a central table, its surface strewn with maps, ledgers, and loose pages, that draw my focus.
Sylvie. Bernice. Castle maids. Noblewomen with their daughters who I recognize from the chapel, dutifully seated beside their husbands. The lines that divide these women above don’t exist down here.
The women startle when they notice me—hands flying to chests, chairs scraping, whispers sharpening into alarm. One of the noblewomen steps in front of her daughter like a shield, while another grips a rusted meat hook from the wall.
“How did you find this place?” Bernice demands, eyes narrowing. “Who sent you?”
Sylvie doesn’t wait for an answer. “Lord Lockhart sent you, didn’t he, on behalf of Queen Rothmore—”
“Or her filthy priest.” Another cuts in.
Sylvie resumes, “You found this place for them.”
“No,” I say quickly, hands raised, palms out. “I wasn’t sent here. I didn’t even know this room existed until I heard shouting.”
The oldest woman rises slowly, her presence commanding even in silence. She looks familiar. She sat next to the Queen’s empty seat during the sermon. A trusted ally. Or so I had thought. “You expect us to believe that you, an outsider, a stranger, simply happened upon our only sanctuary?”
Panic ripples through the chamber. A few of the younger women back toward the far wall. One of the older noblewomen whispers, “We need to move. If they know we’re here, that we’ve been traitors to the throne, we shall be next.”
Bernice slams her hand down on the table. “We are not traitors! Loyalty to the throne is not loyalty to a person, no matter how powerful. It’s allegiance to the people. To this kingdom. Delphara Rothmore is the traitor.”
“I’m not here to harm you or spy on you,” I add, holding their wary stares. “I’m here because the Tower brought me.”
Sylvie folds her arms tightly across her chest. “How have you seen it?” she demands, suspicion curling in her voice. “The tower vanished. Faded from the land, from records, long ago.”
I swallow, my voice low. “When I was on the island it…appeared. Covered with moss and dead branches, just waiting to be seen again. Inside, there’s a machine. It’s huge and motionless, but not dead. It’s dormant—like it’s holding its breath.”
I don’t mention the Lovers card. I don’t mention Alderic. I’m not sure what they mean. Not the card, not him, not the way I felt when the Tower opened its door like it had always known I was coming or the way being with Alderic made me feel like I was finally finding myself.
But there’s no more waiting for men with secrets and power to save me, or lead me, or tell me what to do. I’m done with that.
“Bernice, I know you don’t want to believe in magick, but it’s out there. It’s in this kingdom.”
Bernice’s expression turns to ice. “Magick is outlawed. Magick is dead.”
I square my shoulders. “Magick brought me here. The Tower brought me here.”
The tension doesn’t dissolve, but it hesitates, shifts, curiosity prickling beneath suspicion.
“During the priest’s sermon, he spoke about a great sacrifice,” I continue, stepping closer to the table. “And I don’t know how to explain exactly why I feel this way, but I think it’s connected to the Tower. To the machine. To whatever’s waking up in this kingdom.”
The words taste like certainty. Like truth.
“And if I’m right, then we’re running out of time.”
The old woman exhales slowly and sinks back into her chair. Candlelight flickers across the deep lines of her face, etching shadows beneath her sharp, knowing eyes.
“When I was a girl,” she says, “the machines ran on their own. We never questioned why. The royal family flourished. The kingdom prospered. Life was gilded, effortless.”
“Until it stopped,” another woman finishes. She’s younger, but her voice is just as tight. “One day, without warning, the machines went quiet.”
The old woman nods grimly. “And when our king and queen passed, their son Victor took the throne. He was young, foolish. He sulked and drank and wished for his father’s grandeur. He was too busy pitying himself to notice that his new wife had taken hold of the kingdom.”
