Broken Throne (Red Queen #4.5)(71)

It should only be another hour or two. I could sleep the minutes away if I wanted. But that feels like something a coward would do. Remove herself from the equation entirely. And I still have some pride left. Not much, but some.

Elane is busy. By design. She knows I want to spend this afternoon alone, without an audience. I might revel in her attention most days, but not right now. No one else needs to see Evangeline Samos running from her duty one more time.

I reach the bottom of my glass too quickly, draining the last drops of alcohol. If I didn’t want to be found, I might call for a servant and order another. I settle for turning the glass over in my hand instead, holding it up to the sky. The sun sparkles on the many facets of the crystal cup, reminding me of the way Elane can make light dance and split. She fits here better than I do. Not perfectly, of course. The Free Republic of Montfort is as different from our home as can be possible. Silvers, Reds, and newbloods, living together as equals. Beneath a democracy, of all things. It’s still a shock. I should get used to it, though. This is my place now, and Montfort is what the Nortan States are going to become, if all goes to plan.

I don’t put much faith in plans these days, not when I know firsthand how easily they can change.

Another reason I like the garden—there isn’t much metal here. I don’t have to feel anything I don’t bring with me. And these days, I bring very little. In my old life, I used to wear dresses formed from sheets of chrome, or pants laced with steel. Iron-toed boots. Armored jackets. Platinum crowns. Even my most beautiful gowns were bulletproof. My clothes were a message as much as an artistry, displaying the strength and power we Silvers held so dear in Norta. And everything I wore came in varying shades of black and silver, the colors of House Samos. A family that no longer exists, or at least is of no importance anymore.

Cousins of iron, kings of steel. The refrain rings in my head, an echo and a ghost. I would forget those words if I could, and the ill-fated ambitions that birthed them.

Though I have no cause to fear attack in Montfort, I’m not an idiot, and I don’t go anywhere without some metal. It’s just jewelry today. A necklace, a bracelet, several rings, all winking around the edges of my soft sweater. Enough to defend myself if needed, but easy to forget it’s even there. I wonder if this is what everyone else feels. Nothing but themselves. The cold breeze, the scratch of drying grass, the sun dipping steadily toward the distant mountains. I like the emptiness, vulnerable as it leaves me. I sit back, enjoying the sensation, and look upward. I can see the peaks even over the walls of the garden, their heights crowned in deepening snow. Mare went up there once, trying to outrun something. I understand the urge. Now she’s somewhere even farther north, still recuperating. Still mourning. Still running, even if she’s finally standing still.

Suddenly the edge of my perception sings. The lack of metal on my person also makes it easy to sense intruders. This one has no weapons, no guns that I can feel, but his steps are sure and quick, closing the distance from the far side of the garden. I clench a fist, reluctant to move and break the silent spell of afternoon. I know who the visitor is. I can feel the wedding band on his finger. Gold and silver both, braided into a circle.

“I promise, I’m not disturbing the plants,” I mutter, drawing up my knees as Carmadon approaches.

He surveys me with a keen eye, smirking in his usual way. His gaze snags on my empty glass. “That mint wasn’t ready.”

“It tasted ready,” I lie, the air cold in my mouth.

The premier’s husband chuckles, showing even, white teeth. He doesn’t mind the temperature like I do; he’s used to the shifting weather of the mountains. This is his home, and he has watched it change more than I can fathom. Sometimes I forget his blood is as silver as my own, despite the cool undertones to his dark skin. He’s married to a newblood, and he certainly acts like one.

He folds his arms, settling into a firm stance. Carmadon is a handsome man, and he cuts a striking figure against the autumn sun. As always, he wears white, fresh as fallen snow. “I know that locks aren’t an obstacle to you, Evangeline, but they should at least be a suggestion.” With a tick of his thumb, he gestures across the garden, in the direction of a gate now hanging off its hinges.

“My lord Carmadon,” I reply, pretending to bask. Donning a winning smile forged in a lost court, I push the shaded glasses up onto my head. “I’m simply enjoying your fine work. Isn’t that the point of this place?” I wave a hand at the garden still in bloom. “To show off?”

Of all the Montfortans, I think Carmadon tolerates me most. So it rankles when he shakes his head. “Sometimes I forget how much you have to learn.”

I sneer, feeling the familiar prickle of annoyance. I’m not a child and I’m not stupid. I will not be condescended to.

“I suppose this is a good place to think,” he says, gesturing to the meticulously arranged garden. “You know, there are clerks in the city who specialize in job placement. Perhaps I can arrange an appointment for you?”

I roll my eyes. The careful prodding toward finding a profession, a life, here in Montfort never ceases to annoy. Even if my time living off the Republic’s government is coming to an end soon, I don’t want to think about it. Not today.

“Whatever job I choose will be lucky to have me. I don’t need placement.” And I don’t need to be reminded of the clock steadily ticking against me, against Elane, against Tolly and Wren.