When Tam and I reach Everless’s gates, he drops me by the stables with a brown paper package of hard honey sweets from the baker’s.
The dormitories are empty except for one woman in her bed by the far wall wrapped in a blanket and breathing lightly—she must be sick, else Lora would be down here herself, shaking her awake. It takes all my will not to crawl under my thin blanket and shut out the world. The enormity of Papa’s secrets are dragging at me, overwhelming me. Short of banging down the Queen’s door and demanding an answer, I have no idea what to do. My only choice is to try to pass her silly test, if I even can get an audience with her. If I do, maybe I’ll be allowed to serve her.
But this day off from the kitchen is a gift. If I want to learn anything about the Queen before approaching her, I have to start now.
I put on my nicest dress—blue wool, with long sleeves, instead of the brown knee-length dresses we wear in the kitchen. Paired with my servant’s cap, I hope it will allow me to pass for a maid. I swipe an apron and dusting rag from the supply closet in the hall and set off toward the library. I know if I’m found there without permission I could be beaten. Or worse.
I tell myself that if I’m lucky, no one will notice me; I try not to think about the fact that I have never been lucky.
When Papa and I lived at Everless, he had permission to use the library—he’d told them he needed to research blacksmithing techniques, and instead snuck me inside at night to read storybooks by candlelight. It was one of my favorite rooms—the shelves towering two stories high, the floor of dark, shining wood inlaid with tracings of gold, the blissful quiet punctuated only by turning pages and my whispers of wonder.
It’s nearly empty now, the room lit in long rays and longer shadows from the sunset outside the west-facing window. A few nobles sit scattered at the tables and armchairs, reading or writing letters. One large man is dozing in an overstuffed leather armchair. Unlike when I was a girl, the silence holds no promise of stories waiting to be told, no crackle of magic in the air, effervescent as mist in the sun after rain.
But, thankfully, the layout is still familiar. The large, open main space is surrounded by entrances to aisles and nooks, their contents proclaimed by brass plates over the doorways. I scan them, realizing as I do that I have no idea where to start. In our schoolhouse in Crofton, we only ever heard worshipful things about the Queen—her great beauty, her vanquishing of invaders, her wisdom on the throne. Nothing that could explain why Papa would fear her.
I scan the plates—Popular Fables, The Everless Estate, Economics—until I see History across the library. It seems as good a place to start as any. I skirt the room, trying to look like I have a purpose while still remaining inconspicuous, and slip down the aisle.
Books surround me on both sides, their gilt titles gleaming in the low light. I open a slim book titled Sempera: Histories and begin to read halfway down the page.
By the account of a commanding officer of the Royal Navy, it reads, the Queen of Sempera cut the invaders’ throats herself, with a blade that was said to absorb any magic in their blood, gifted to her by the Sorceress. She had her time lender, a darkly hooded woman who walked the battlefield beside her, bleed men where they lay, turning them into blood-iron while the fallen were made to watch—and wait their turn.
I close the book and hold it to my chest, shivering with cold in spite of the room’s heat. Papa never told me much of the invasions and rebellions that took place in the first century of the age of blood-iron, after the Sorceress’s and Alchemist’s magic first spread across the land. But Amma’s adoptive grandfather claimed that one of their ancestors had fought in the Queen’s army. I’d walk to Amma’s cottage, and we’d sit in front of his chair while the old man told stories of thieves who’d let your blood in the night, of lost limbs and rolling heads, until Amma begged him to stop. The invaders, he said, would have killed everyone in Sempera and carried the blood-iron back across the seas. But instead, the Queen ordered her armies to consume the blood-iron of the fallen and grow mighty.
Still clutching the book, I scan my surroundings for somewhere I can sit and read. But then, I see him: Liam Gerling sitting at a desk on a balcony over my head, bent over a sheaf of pages.
I’m frozen where I stand, my heart racing. If he just glanced down, he could see me through the polished wood bars of the balcony railing. Slowly, so as not to attract attention, I back away into the shadow of a tall bookcase.
Torn between fleeing and going about my business, I observe him carefully. Even if he doesn’t recognize my face, he might notice a maid reading instead of dusting. But he doesn’t seem to notice anything at all. His brow is furrowed in concentration and his foot taps impatiently, as if whatever he’s reading frustrates him. Every few moments, he’ll frown, scratch something into his notebook, then go back to reading.
At the sight of his sharp features—so long an object of my nightmares—anger rises in me, quick as the flames from the kitchen hearth. The memory of our expulsion from Everless comes back to me in scattered images, bursts of sound and heat.
I remember Liam shoving Roan toward the hearth. A moment of stillness like the space between lightning and thunder. And then the fire roaring out of the furnace like something alive, flames leaping through the air. The terror in Roan’s eyes.
I close my own eyes slowly, willing the memory away, then open them again. Whatever Liam is reading so intently must be important. Since returning from the academy at the end of summer, he has taken an active hand in managing the Gerlings’ fortune and Everless affairs in general—at least, so I’ve gathered from other servants’ grumblings about him. Would the family have accepted him back so readily if they knew what he tried to do to Roan? Does Roan remember his brush with death?
A manservant—Stefan, if I remember right—breezes by me; I catch the smell of cologne. Stefan looks back at me over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. My breath catches in my chest, but he continues to move down the aisle, then mounts the stairs at the end. He approaches Liam’s desk and taps on his shoulder.
Liam’s head jerks up, irritation twisting his features, and the servant murmurs to him. He sighs and opens a drawer, laying his book and notebook inside before closing and locking it.
I’m about to turn away when something else catches my eye, a flash of strange color as Liam stands. His palms are stained, as if he’s dipped them in wine.
Hinton’s words float up to the surface of my mind. His hands were stained purple. Papa’s hands.
Before I can think better of it, my feet are moving. I put the book down and trail Liam and the servant at a distance as they stride toward the library exit, Liam in the lead.
I make sure to keep half a corridor’s length behind them as they pass through the halls, keeping my eyes on the tails of Liam’s long coat. We’re walking along one of Everless’s main corridors, and the halls are populated with lords and ladies, filtering out from their evening meal back to their rooms—gleaming in silk and velvet and swaying with drink. I keep my eyes down, hoping no one barks at me. Liam ignores all their greetings.
Eventually, though, the hall narrows and empties out, and I fall farther behind the two men. My palms sweat, slick with nerves. Ahead, the men turn a corner, and a few seconds later, I hear their footsteps stop. I slow too, and risk a peek around the corner. They have halted in front of a large door of carved mahogany. I look around—the wall hangings are less luxurious than elsewhere in Everless, but also older and more elegant, with elaborate intertwined geometric patterns. My breath quickens. I’ve never been here before. I shouldn’t be here at all. If I’m caught . . .
To calm myself, I inhale slowly, pausing at the height of my breath—like my father taught me to do when I woke, sweating, from childhood nightmares. It’s a skill I’ve practiced more than a little in the past few days. Two old recurring nightmares seem to have resurfaced since I came back to the estate—one about the night Papa and I were banished, and another, stranger one about a girl who follows me with a knife, her face always in shadow.
Liam and Stefan are conferring with two other men in the hallway—one of whom I recognize as a tax collector, nearly indistinguishable from the one who visited me and Papa in our cottage.
This must be it—the Gerling vault, where they keep their fortune. I’d always imagined them devouring Crofton’s time in one sitting each month, like pigs feeding from a trough. Of course a Gerling would have to be present when they transfer the taxes into the vault. And I shouldn’t be surprised that it’s Liam. Roan doesn’t seem like the type to enjoy spending an afternoon in a drafty tower, counting money.
I pull back behind the corner and strain to listen to their voices, the clink of blood-iron. Then the conversation ceases for a moment, and there’s a loud creak, a heavy scraping of door against ground.
“Go up,” Liam commands, and I’m startled as always by how low his voice is. “I’ll meet you in a moment.”
I press my back against the wall, the pounding of my heart urging him to go up, up, up, so I can steal a look at the vault. The thought of getting inside pulls at me, filling me with a mix of horror and fascination.
Then: Liam has turned the corner and caught me, his eyes boring into mine.
I’m far enough away that I might be able to flee if I could bring myself to move, but shock freezes my limbs. In what seems like only a heartbeat, he stands in front of me.
“You’ve been following us since the library,” he says. His voice is calm, belying the anger tightening the skin around his eyes. “Why?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Now that he’s truly looking at me, my terror of being recognized resurfaces. Again memories flash, the glint of molten metal and my own scream in my ears, acrid smoke.
Even if he doesn’t know me, I’m where I don’t belong. There’s Ivan—his blade.
I was foolish, foolish to follow him.
But I force myself to meet Liam’s eyes, willing my face to be smooth and blank and unafraid. I reach into the purse at my waist and pull out the first coin my fingers touch—a month-iron, from the fund that Duade gave me in Crofton. Old instinct screams at me not to part with the money, but I reach out and drop it into Liam’s hand—his palm is bandaged and fingertips stained purple.
“I saw you drop this,” I say, “in the library.” Then, feigning curiosity—“Do you need something for your hand, my lord? There’s witch hazel in the kitchen.”
Liam’s eyes narrow. He closes his fist around the coin and pockets it, never taking his eyes from mine. “I’m sure you know where we are?” he says.
For a moment, I consider lying again—then think better of it, sure that Liam would hear the deception. “The estate vault.”
“And you’ve heard stories about this place. Am I correct?”
Slowly I nod, unsure of what he wants. Liam’s voice is low, and laced with poison.
“Well,” he says. “What have you heard?”
“If anyone besides a Gerling tries to enter, the door will suck all their time out through their fingers.”
He laughs—the sound is harsh, a burr stuck in his throat. “Were you going to try anyway?” he asks.
“No,” I say firmly, quickly, though I don’t know if it’s a lie.
“It does take time to enter—and you never know how much,” Liam says, the threat present beneath the words like distant thunder. “It could be a day, or fifty years. And when it bleeds you, the door mechanism stains your hands, like this.” He holds up his own. “It’s meant to show when someone has accessed the Everless vault—or tried to. But that’s the least of your worries—Captain Ivan will do worse, if you’re found where you don’t belong.”
I hardly hear the warning—my mind is spinning, thinking of the stain on Papa’s hands. So it is true that the vault takes your time. And Papa was nearly out of that. It would explain why he came to the estate, just to die at its walls . . . why the soup I gave him couldn’t save his life.
But no. No matter how desperate he was, my father wouldn’t steal blood-iron or jewels. Whatever he was trying to get from inside was worth dying for.
“What’s your name?” Liam asks.
“Jules,” I mutter, still thinking about my father’s stained hands. Then my stomach sinks as I realize what I’ve given away.
I look up at Liam. I’m close enough to see that the whites of his eyes are ringed with red. Jules is a common name, I think desperately. He wouldn’t make the connection to something that happened ten years ago.
“You were in the library too,” he says. “Another place you don’t belong.”
His tone is casual, like he doesn’t mean it as a threat, just a statement of fact. It takes me a moment to process the danger in it.
“I—I was looking for a book,” I stammer, the truth escaping in spite of myself. I should have said cleaning, but it’s just as well—he would have seen the lie on my face. “I like reading.” I curse my slow-wittedness and take a step back from him, wanting to escape.
“Lord Gerling!” a voice calls down.
I take advantage of the moment to step away farther. “Good evening, my lord.”
“Wait.” He reaches out and catches my wrist. Now his eyes are slightly wild, the black in his pupils spreading into his eyes’ dark irises. Sensing danger, I freeze, hoping he can’t feel my pulse thundering under my skin.
“What book?” he asks, and when I stare in confusion, adds, “in the library.”
“Oh.” I cast my mind around, and the titles of every book I’ve ever read fly out of my head at once. I don’t know what he’d make of the fact I was studying the Queen. “Nothing important—just an old children’s book.” I catch on a scrap of a memory. “The Tale of Elisa—”
“The Traveler,” Liam finishes for me. His eyes are fixed on mine, wild still, too intent, his head cocked to one side. “I knew a girl once who loved that book.” There’s a current of something in his voice that raises the hair on the nape of my neck.
Then, something changes in him. His posture stiffens, and he steps back from me. “Curiosity ill befits a servant,” he says. “If you’re found where you don’t belong again, I’ll report you to Captain Ivan. I advise you not to test me.”
His words are sharp. Even though a moment ago I was trying to figure out how to leave, I can’t help but blink, stunned.
But I say nothing, just turn on my heel and leave.
Rage makes my hands shake as I walk—almost run—through the halls, desperate to get as far away from Liam as Everless will allow me. For a moment, when he remembered the name of that book, I almost forgot who he was—the boy who caused us to be banished from our homes to cover his own cruelty. The root of all our ruin.
I must never forget again.
I duck through one of the small doorways to the servants’ corridors, eager to get out of sight. Unlike the main hallways, with their lush red carpet and sunlight streaming in through the high windows, the narrow, twisting servants’ corridors are dark and protected. They’re familiar, and I have a sudden feeling I want them to swallow me. I don’t see the figure coming from the opposite direction until we collide at a corner, shoulders smacking painfully together. I stumble and almost lose my balance.
“Sorry,” I mutter, hurrying to pick myself up. And then I catch sight of a corner of velvet coat. This is no servant I’ve nearly run over.
All at once, Roan Gerling’s hands are on my upper arms, pulling me upright.
His eyes go wide as he registers my face, and my breath stops in my throat.
Roan’s coat is askew, his cheeks flushed and eyes bright. He takes half a step back to better see me, his head tilting to one side. Then, slowly, his mouth curves in a slight smile.
I know I should duck my head and flee, but another part of me is shouting at Roan Gerling to see me, really, finally see me, and remember. His face is so crystallized in my mind that it’s hard to believe he can look into my face and not remember my name as well.
“L-Lord Gerling,” I say, my tongue tripping over itself. I drop into a curtsy, feeling my cheeks burning red. “My apologies.”
“No matter.” His chuckle invites me to look up, so I do—it’s hard not to, with his blue eyes drawing mine in like a magnet. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”
I blink. “Nowhere, my lord.”
This makes him laugh. Then he stops, abruptly, and studies my face. “You helped us with the Queen’s arrival,” he says. “Picked up her things when they fell.”
It isn’t the recognition I hoped for, especially after he winked at me at the garden party, but I consume it. Maybe he doesn’t remember exactly who I am after all, but he knows my face. “Yes, sir.”
“What’s your name?” This he asks a little slower, his head tilted to the side, as if gazing at something half familiar.
My heart squeezes and stumbles. Do I tell him the truth?
Liam might know who I am; he’s the one who hates me. If any harm is coming because of my carelessness, it’s already on its way. No danger will come for my father—it already has.
“Jules,” I say. I close my lips, half afraid that whatever it is fluttering in my chest will fly out my mouth.
“Jules,” Roan repeats. “The blacksmith’s daughter.”
My mouth drops open at the sound of my name in his mouth, intimate and precious. I shut it quickly. “We were friends,” I say quietly.
“Of course,” The smile rolls slowly back across his face. “Hide-and-seek. The tree on the north lawn.”
In an instant, the whole memory crashes over me too—summer, the smell of mown grass, a breathless game, Roan’s hand over mine. I nod, unable to speak.
“I saw you at the party. And then, in the halls the other night . . . ?” Roan says the last part delicately, no doubt wary of discussing my broken heart where anyone can hear. My first thought is that I hope he won’t think I’m in love with someone else. Heat courses through me at my own foolishness. And yet—
No, no, it doesn’t matter, I tell myself. He’s marrying the Queen’s daughter.
“I knew it.” Roan takes a step closer to me, still grinning. “You were so mysterious. Here one day and gone the next.”
“I didn’t want to leave,” I say, willing my voice not to tremble. In another world, I ask: Did you look for me?
A whole life, filled with different memories, opens up in my mind—a life in which I didn’t leave Everless—then shutters violently closed.
What does Roan remember? What can I say to him, to explain everything while giving away nothing? “My father— He—”
“My brother chased you off, didn’t he?” He smiles after he says it, but I can’t tell if it’s in jest. Before I can speak, Roan waves his hand through the air like he can brush the past away in one movement. “It doesn’t matter, now that you’re back.” Almost too quickly to notice, his eyes flicker down my body and back up, sending heat through me. “Where have they put you now, Jules?”
“The kitchen.” It’s a much lower station than the blacksmith, and I feel my cheeks flush with shame.
Roan makes a tsk sound between his teeth and moves even closer. I feel the warmth of his breath against my neck. If I were a different girl, I could reach out and touch him.
“I’m sorry I collided with you,” he says after a moment. “I was in a hurry—I have an audience with the Queen.”
But he doesn’t make a move to leave, and I’m startled to see that he’s blushing. That, combined with the absence of his usual easy smile, makes him look vulnerable and childlike.
“Well,” he says. “I’d better go. I don’t want to be late.”
“Wait,” I blurt out. My voice comes out high, questioning. Roan turns back to me. “Y-your coat, my lord.”
Roan looks down and sees the buttons on his coat misaligned, one side hanging lower than the other. He starts redoing the buttons, fumbling in his hurry.
Without thinking, I step forward to help—then realize what I’m doing, and feel my face flame red. But he drops his hands to allow me access. It would be stranger to stop now, so I don’t. I feel the heat of his body through his shirt and vest.
“Thank you, Jules,” Roan says softly.
I smell a faint, familiar scent of lavender coming off him, and know he must have just been with Ina Gold. The misaligned buttons, the flush in his cheek—my chest tightens. Quickly, I step away, dipping my head. “Yes, my lord.” The lump in my throat warps my words a little, but Roan doesn’t seem to notice.
Instead, his hand is on my arm. His grip is warm through the fabric of my dress, and so gentle. Liam’s interrogation a few minutes ago seems like a distant memory.
“You have a keen eye,” he says, a smile playing over his mouth. “I hope we’ll cross paths again.”
When? I almost ask—but then another idea blooms in my mind.
“We might,” I say.
Roan’s eyebrows raise—the smile on his face grows. “How’s that?”
My hope grows with it. I’d never thought I’d have a direct path to the Queen. Now it’s standing right in front of me in the form of Roan Gerling.
“I’d like to interview for the position of the girl who was banished by the Queen. Addie,” I say quickly. His smile falters. “I know they’re short on girls. I heard—” Roan blanches, so I stop short and try a different tack. “I want to be in Her Majesty’s retinue, to serve Ina. That’s where I was coming from just now—the library, studying. I know so little of her history. . . .” I try to take all the longing that he’s ignited in me and channel it into my voice, as if I’ve wished for nothing more dearly in my seventeen years than to wait on the Queen’s daughter hand and foot.
But Roan’s smile returns, and the warmth of it washes over me. “The test? Just a formality, Jules. A load of stuffy nonsense, if you ask me.” He grins. “The Queen is gone tomorrow, but I’ll put in a good word for you with Caro, the Queen’s handmaiden. She decides who gets close to Her Majesty, not some ridiculous test,” he says, more than a hint of pride in his voice. He takes a step back, tilts his head at me again—a new habit he picked up sometime in the last ten years—like he’s searching for an answer to a question. “In fact, why don’t you serve breakfast, for myself and Ina, so she can see how lovely you are? I’ll send for you when we have a free morning.”
“Thank you, my lord,” I whisper, my heart racing.
“Jules—it’s Roan,” he corrects me.
“Lord Roan,” I answer, allowing myself a small, crooked smile.
His laugh, long and loud, rings out in the cramped servants’ corridor.
“I am delighted to have run into you, Jules.” He leans close, brings his mouth nearly to my ear. “More than you know.”