The Cogsmith's Daughter (Desertera #1)(35)

Willem placed his hand over hers. “I like you, too, Aya.” With his other hand, he placed a finger under her chin, lifting her gaze to his. For a moment, Aya thought he would kiss her. “But if you keep asking questions, you’re going to ruin my man-of-mystery act.”

Aya squinted and scrunched her nose.

“He’s my uncle.” Willem squeezed her hand. “As he has no sons, I am legally his heir.”

Aya smirked, feeling a petty pride at the fact that the younger, future patriarch of the Collingwood family found her so alluring. Of course, if Willem met Dellwyn, he would probably drop Aya like a poisonous toad. She pushed the thought from her mind, enjoying his attention while she held it. “Was that so difficult?”

“I suppose not.” Willem removed his hand from hers. “Well, Aya, I guess I should select my mask before Abrim comes back in here and throws me out of his shop.”

Aya’s heart fell. She hoped he wasn’t upset that she had pried. The last thing she wanted was for him to think she only cared for his title or wealth. “I suppose you should.”

“I will see you at the masquerade?”

Aya beamed. At least he was still interested in his reserved dance. “If you can find me through my magic mask.”

Willem laughed. “I told you. Those eyes will not let you escape. I will find them for my dance.”

“I hope so.” Aya stood, adjusting the skirt of her toga. “I shall see you then.”

Willem rose as well, taking her hand in his and placing a light kiss on her knuckles. “In two days.” He looked up at her with his hazel eyes. The hint of green was back, burning through the brown.

Aya sighed, feeling as though her body were full of warm air. “In two days.”





CHAPTER NINE


“Varick, slow down!”

Aya stumbled, her body lurching forward as Lord Varick pulled her through the busy corridor. She glanced down to the floor, where the hem of her dress had been torn by a hurried misstep of her toe. Luckily, she was only wearing the hideous ensemble of Lord Varick’s house colors and not her beautiful toga from the bathhouse.

“I’m sorry, Aya, but we have to hurry. King Archon will be livid if we are late!”

Apparently, Varick wasn’t the only noble concerned about the king’s temper. Anxious nobles surrounded Aya and Lord Varick, all caught in a rough gait, going as fast as possible without breaking propriety and running. Together, in their dark house colors, they looked like a murder of crows flying through a strong wind.

Murder.

Aya wondered if she would see a murder today. She had been in the stern estate’s kitchen, learning how to make meat pies with Mrs. Lemot, when Lord Varick had burst through the doorway. His face had been bright red, his beady eyes entirely black, as he tapped his walking staff anxiously on the floor. He had informed Aya to change into the house uniform immediately. As they left the estate, Aya had managed to squeeze out one sentence, and one alone, from the rushed Lord Varick.

“King Archon is conducting a trial.”

The words sent shivers through Aya’s entire body, and she had been as eager as Lord Varick to rush to the courtroom. However, after the first few flights of stairs, Aya’s heels had begun to pinch her feet, and now she could barely keep up the pace without stepping on her dress.

Just as Aya was about to complain again, the nobles in front of them stopped walking. Over the tops of their hats and coiffed hair, Aya spied a set of wooden doors. As she and Lord Varick filtered through behind the rest of the crowd, the courtroom came into sight. The room was entirely round with a throne on a raised platform in the center and two tables with chairs placed before the royal seat. High walls with rows of benches at the top encircled the furniture. Lord Varick led Aya up to these benches, and they seated themselves near the entrance with a direct view of the throne. Other nobles filed in until the benches were entirely filled.

As the excited chatter of the nobles grew louder, Lord Varick leaned in to whisper to Aya. “I know this is going to be difficult for you, my dear. However, I want you to remember, what happens today will be very much like what happened to your father—and almost identical to what will happen to us, should our plot be revealed.”

Under the protection of the crowd’s volume, Aya allowed herself to speak plainly. “My father’s trial took place in this room?”

Varick nodded.

Aya swallowed. “Did you see it?”

“Yes.”

“Did he get a chance to plead his case?” Aya placed a hand over her upset stomach. “Did anyone even listen to him?”

Before Varick could answer, the crowd fell silent. Three nobles entered the courtroom, two of them escorted by palace guards. One of the persons, a middle-aged man with an upturned gray mustache, went to the table to Aya’s right. The other two individuals, a younger man with a bald head, and a young woman with waist-length black hair, were escorted by the guards to sit together at the table on Aya’s left.

Aya felt Varick’s hot breath on her cheek.

“Left is for guilty,” he informed her. “Right is for innocent.”

Aya cocked her head toward Varick. “Don’t you mean for accused and accuser?”

“One and the same.”

The nobles rose, and Lord Varick grabbed Aya’s elbow to pull her upright. The short bishop from Queen Zedara’s greeting ceremony entered the room. He opened his arms wide, his white robes hanging limp from his scrawny arms, and bowed. “My lords and ladies.”