Burning Glass (Burning Glass, #1)(50)

Again, no door existed to the outer corridor, only another door to yet another room.

Heart pounding, I approached the door, painted evergreen with ice-capped mountains and a setting sun. This door was taller than the last two. I opened it, pushed away the chest of drawers blocking the entrance, and found myself in a beautiful bedchamber, also green—almost living. Tapestries of lush forests, streams, and flowering grass covered the walls.

This room had not been as neglected as the others. The furnishings and window glass had been dusted and polished at least once within the past year. An inviting bed with creamy satin blankets took residence against the corridor wall. This wall, unlike the ones in the previous rooms, had an outer door, though a heavy beam was nailed across it. I scanned the rest of my surroundings. Draped over a cedar chest beside the bed was the mossy-green and embroidered blanket that Anton had brought on our journey to Torchev—the blanket belonging to his mother, the dowager empress. This room must have been her bedchamber.

Surely Valko knew about these hidden places, then. So why had Anton given me a key leading to supposed rooms of safety if his brother was aware of their existence? But then, this bedchamber was boarded up—most likely at Valko’s orders—and the door to the nursery had been hidden by the empress’s chest of drawers. No, Anton wouldn’t have directed me here if he wasn’t certain the rooms were secure.

I inhaled a deep breath and revolved to stare at the last intersecting door, painted midnight blue with silver stars.

Anton. This had to be his room. And if it was anything like the ones I had passed through—each lovely in its own way, but not excessive like the emperor’s—then it suited the prince perfectly. Knowing Anton, he had chosen such a room himself, despite the grander ones on the third floor that remained unoccupied.

As I tiptoed toward the midnight-blue door, I felt the faint pulsing of his aura. Was he sleeping?

I set down my candle on a small table and put my key in the lock. With a quiet click, I opened the door.

The air, cool with moisture, penetrated my nightgown. A copper tub—the tub brought to my room when I needed bathing—rested before me. A cloudy film of soap had settled upon the water’s surface. Nearby, a wrung washcloth lay draped over a stepping stool.

“Sonya?”

My hair spilled over my shoulder as I startled to face Anton. He stood up from his desk chair. My heart thrummed, for he was wearing only his breeches, his chest still wet, his hair curled at his neck and temples. I clutched the folds of my nightgown and forced myself to breathe, to think clearly. I had surprised him by entering, not the other way around. Though I never imagined surprising him like this.

Try as I might, I couldn’t look away from him. I couldn’t be the modest girl who lowered her lashes. A beautiful need coursed through my veins. It was difficult to remember Anton wasn’t past his nineteenth year, especially when I saw him this way. Though his aura felt vulnerable, every inch of his body declared his strength and maturity.

With a shaky inhale, I rolled back my shoulders and steeled myself to the reason I came here. I didn’t wait for Anton to put on his nightshirt, though he hurriedly grabbed it from a chest at the foot of his bed. “Is Valko truly your brother?” I asked without preamble.

He frowned as he tugged his shirt on. The linen clung to the wet and defined muscles of his chest. I flexed my hands. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Did the emperor come to your rooms tonight?”

“I didn’t stay to find out. Is he your brother?” I asked again.

The candle on Anton’s writing desk underlit his face, catching on his cheekbones and the hollows around his eyes. “Yes, he is.”

Unconvinced, I drew closer. A book with a pale-blue binding lay open on the desk. He shut it and turned it over so I couldn’t see the title, then set it atop an unfinished letter. A quill rested beside it. Anton must have been writing when I entered his room. Secrecy shrouded his aura and prickled the hairs on my arm. My chest filled as he began his trick of deep breathing and intense focus to block me. “Are you certain?” I asked, forcing myself to exhale of my own accord. “I was young when my parents sent me away. I can’t even remember their faces. How can you be sure Valko is the same boy from your childhood?”

Anton moved away from his desk and folded his arms. “My mother was sure.”

“How could she be? Did Valko have a distinguishing feature—a scar or a birthmark?”

The prince’s hand drifted to his forearm. His thumb brushed a spot hidden by his sleeve. Something in my belly fluttered. I wasn’t sure why. “He doesn’t have a birthmark.” Anton watched for my reaction carefully. “As for my mother, she alternated visiting both of us when my father could spare her, though she never told me my brother survived.”

Releasing a breath of frustration, I paced away from him. The light of his candle cast a weak glow over the varnished woods and deep blues of the room. The window curtains were drawn shut.

“What is this about?” Anton approached me.

I shook my head as helplessness crowded my thoughts. “Sometimes I wish Valko were the imposter. Then you could rule in his stead.”

Anton halted, his brow stern. “I have no desire to be emperor.”

“I don’t believe that.” I moved closer so I could see his eyes in the darkness, feel his aura with more clarity. His intense focus wavered the nearer I advanced. He swallowed and squared his shoulders. “You were raised to assume this position,” I said, “just as he was. I’ve heard you speak in the council chamber. I see how much you love your country, how much you can offer it.”