“I want answers,” she snapped at her steward as she paced her room—at least she tried to pace. The voluminous ball gown kept tangling between her legs. It didn’t matter how pretty the jewels beneath the frosted lace looked—this dress was a pain and she hated it.
Nothing had gone the way she had hoped it would these last few days. She thought she’d at least have more real details about the royal family’s—my family’s, she corrected herself—death by now.
“What happened out in the square? Why did all the Messiers go offline?” she asked, wrenching the ball gown from between her legs again. “What happened to the holo-pads? The comm-links?”
“I am unsure, Your Grace,” the steward replied apologetically. “There was a disturbance in the square when the Messiers were knocked offline.”
She turned back to him in alarm. “A disturbance? Is everyone all right?”
“Between a Metal and a few citizens, Your Grace. There were a few injuries—”
“A man had his arm broken,” the Royal Captain said irately. “It was vile.”
Ana frowned. “And the Metal did that?”
The old man pressed his lips together in a grimace. “We are . . . unsure, Your Grace.”
“There is little evidence to indicate otherwise,” Viera added.
Ana said to the captain, “For someone not there, you’re awfully quick to point a finger. I know . . . knew . . . a rogue Metal. He didn’t do anything unprovoked. It wouldn’t be logical.”
The Royal Captain looked as if she wanted to argue but then bowed her head. “Forgive me. Of course you are correct.”
The steward shifted on his feet uncomfortably. Did Ironbloods ever bother to get to know Metals? How they functioned, why? Of course not, but she could hear her decorum instructor, Lord Machivalle, tsking at her for her lack of tact.
Ana fisted her hands. “Lord steward, when you find out what really happened, please let me know—and keep me updated on the injured man’s condition,” she added.
The steward, clearly relieved, nodded vigorously. “Yes, Your Grace! And Lord Rasovant is investigating the disturbance as we speak. I assure you, there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
She bit her tongue to stop herself from saying what she really wanted to. She was not afraid. She was aggravated.
“I’ll have Rasovant post more Messiers around the perimeter before tonight’s gala,” the Royal Captain said, and the steward nodded.
“Splendid idea! The gala tonight will be wonderful. Your father always loved parties,” he added, and left Ana’s room to go track down her handmaiden, Mellifare. She seemed to run off as often as Ana herself.
Ana massaged the bridge of her nose, stepping out onto the balcony. Ships sailed over the palace toward the moonbay, carrying with them Ironbloods bound for the gala tonight and tomorrow’s coronation. The air was electric with anticipation, the palace aglow with colored lights. Machivalle hadn’t showed for her lesson today, so she was just more irritated than usual. She had more questions about her parents. She had questions about everything, and only Machivalle seemed to want to take her seriously.
“Do I look naive to you?” she asked the Royal Captain after a while, rubbing her pendant.
“No, Your Grace,” Viera responded, “but perhaps to assert your authority you should not wear the Valerio crest tonight.”
“The what?”
The Royal Captain tapped the base of her throat.
My pendant. She frowned. “I’ve had this for as long as I can remember. It’s not a Valerio thing.”
“Ah. But it is, Your Grace. There are only four in existence, and you wearing one speaks volumes without you saying a word.”
She kept rubbing the pendant, trying to smooth out the jagged bits that weren’t melted, but the longer she did, the more like a snake it seemed. She tried to remember where she’d gotten it, but all she could remember was that nightmare on the Caterina—a fire, a man pinning it onto her chest, saying it would protect her.
“It’s not a Valerio thing,” she repeated.
“What isn’t?” asked a voice in the doorway.
Cursing silently, Ana shoved her pendant into her cleavage and turned to face the Ironblood.
“If it isn’t you,” she greeted Robb Valerio.
“Sadly, it is,” he agreed dryly, cutting a thin shape in the doorway in a neatly pressed black tux. His golden cuff links, shaped into the Valerio crest, shone in the room’s low light. Her pendant looked nothing like them.
Nothing at all.
“I hope you two weren’t gossiping about me,” he went on.
“Never,” the Royal Captain replied.
Robb gave the captain a coy grin. “Ah, well, one can dream. Are you ready, Your Grace?”
“Wait!” Mellifare stumbled out of the servants’ entrance with a box in her hands.
The Royal Captain did not look amused. “About time, girl.”
“Forgive me,” Mellifare said with a bow, and held out the box. “For tonight. It was your mother’s crown. The Grand Duchess thought it not fitting for you to go without one tonight.”
Ana hesitated, but unlatched the box anyway. Inside, sitting like a wreath of sunshine, was a golden circlet. It was the crown Celene Valerio had worn, and the Empress before that, and before that.
She drew her hand away. “This crown belongs to whomever I marry, right? My—my consort. This isn’t mine.”
“The Armorov women have worn this crown for a thousand years—”
“But I’m not the consort. I’m not the Emperor’s partner,” she replied, and closed the box. “I am the heir.”
Besides, she didn’t want to wear a crown. It frightened her more than the fancy dresses or tutors. It was childish and silly not to wear it, because it was only a piece of jewelry—like rings or earrings or necklaces with Valerio crests—but it was a piece of jewelry that made people look at her differently.
And she wanted people to look at her for who she was, first.
Mellifare bowed. “Very well. May the stars keep you steady, Your Grace.”
“She’ll have my arm for that,” Robb said dismissively, and offered it. Ana took it and let him lead her out of the East Tower, through the maze of hallways she’d come to memorize by what tapestries hung on which walls and what vases stood on which pedestals, toward the ballroom where the gala was being held. The lanterns ebbed and flowed above them. Messiers stood at every door they passed like blue-eyed sentinels, and it felt as though ever since she’d first visited the North Tower, they watched her as she passed.
“So, will there be any sword fights at this gala? Duels? Drunken orgies?” she asked jokingly. “You know how we outlaws prefer our entertainment.”
“Of course, there will be all of the above—there will even be dancing.”
She shivered.
“Oh, what’s wrong?”
“I hate dancing.”
“Hopefully you won’t dance much,” he replied, glancing over his shoulder to judge how far back the Royal Captain was, before he said in a much lower voice, “I found those records in the library today—pretend like I told you a joke.”
She forced a laugh, gripping his arm tighter. “Anything?”
“My father arrived at the palace just after midnight to meet with the Emperor in the North Tower,” he fake-chuckled, “but I can’t find a record of their meeting.”
“Is that information kept?”
“Always—especially visitations from the Emperor’s family.”
“So what happened between his arrival and the Tsarina?”
“I don’t know,” Robb replied. His fake smile was disconcerting, it looked so real. He was terrifyingly good at pretending. “The logs are all messed up after that. It says my father called the guards to the North Tower twenty minutes after his arrival at the palace, but before they could arrive, fire consumed the Tower. I think we know what happened from there.”
She found she couldn’t fake-smile or fake-laugh anymore. “So all we managed to find out was that there wasn’t a record of your father meeting with the Emperor?”
She wanted to punch something—but then Robb said, “No, we found out why my father didn’t meet with the Emperor.”
“Because . . . he was calling the guards?”
His eyes glimmered. “Because he found something and then called the guards.”
They waited outside the ballroom for the steward to announce their arrival. Sweet, light music eased in through the cracks in the door, dancing with the steady cadence of gossip.
“The fire was a cover-up,” she murmured.
Robb gave her a side-eye glance. “You think?”
“Something happened before the fire that we’re missing. And the fire destroyed the evidence. Metals wouldn’t just burn down the Tower for nothing—”
“That’s the thing,” he interrupted. “The logs didn’t report any new Metals in or out of the palace. There was only one stationed in the North Tower during the fire, the Armorovs’ personal Metal, and it wasn’t accounted for after the Rebellion.”
“What was its number?”
He shook his head, “Someone had stricken it out—”
The doors yawned open into the ballroom.
“We’ll finish this later,” he said between his teeth, as he and Ana gave the awaiting crowd a smile.
From the entrance, a grand staircase curved down into the ballroom. A canopy of ribbons fluttered above them, shimmering silver and gold. Bright lanterns bobbed underneath them, swaying to the tune of the thirty-piece orchestra in the far corner. Ironbloods clad in rich satins and laces and silks danced together in hypnotic swirls, but they stopped as soon as the steward signaled the orchestra into silence, and every guest turned to look at her.
Ana’s heart jumped into her throat as Ironblood gazes pinned her like a moth to a corkboard. They stared at her face. Her scars. She raised her head a little higher so they could get a better look, unashamed of them.
They meant she had survived something no one else had.
Robb leaned over to whisper, “At least you don’t have to sneak into this party.”
She nudged her elbow into his, because he was about to make her lose her composure.
The steward trumpeted as loudly as his nasal voice could carry: “Our Princess Ananke Nicholii Armorov, heir to the Iron Kingdom, and Robbert Mercer Valerio, nephew to the late Selena Demitrios Valerio Armorov.”
Robb laced his fingers into hers, olive skin blending with her bronze, and squeezed tightly—and at first it felt like he was reassuring her. But his hands were shaking against hers, his grip too tight. She squeezed back reassuringly, and they descended the stairs together.
The walk across the ballroom was the longest she’d ever had to endure. It wasn’t because of the heels that pinched her feet, or the way her dress still wrapped around her legs, but because of the eyes that watched them. Waiting for her to trip, to mess up, so that they could validate their suspicions that she was not one of them.
Well, she wasn’t.
So she raised her chin and stared them in the face.
At the other end of the ballroom, the Grand Duchess sat in an ornate silver chair. Lord Rasovant stood like an ever-present vulture beside her, his beard neatly braided, the multitude of medals pinned to his chest polished. Her skin crawled when his dark eyes fell upon her.
“My Ananke!” The Grand Duchess greeted her with a smile. She was dressed in yellow and orange like the sun, with diamonds sewn into swirls. “You look radiant tonight. Welcome home.”
Home.
The word was like salt on her tongue.
To the girl with space in her blood and a gun on her hip, home was Captain Siege, smoking the last bit of a cigar while looking over a battered star chart. Home was Di patiently braiding her hair when she didn’t want to. Home was Jax in his pilot chair. Home was late-night Wicked Luck games with the crew between jobs. Poker nights in the frigid cities of Cerces, half drunk on cheap ale, listening to Wick’s rousing ballads and Riggs’s soft lullabies.
Home wasn’t always warm, and wasn’t always safe, but home was hers. And it was not this prison.
Wordlessly, Ana unraveled her fingers from Robb’s. She felt the Adviser’s cruel gaze follow her as she stepped forward, fanned out her dress, and bowed deeply as Lord Machivalle had taught her.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, and tried to forget that once upon a time she’d sat in a rusty, cramped cockpit, watching as the stars danced around the Dossier’s black solar sails, and she had been happy there.
Happy and at home.
But home no longer existed.