Broken Throne (Red Queen #4.5)(72)

Carmadon knows it too. But it doesn’t stop him from pressing on. “You’re a talented young woman, yes, but you’ll fare much better if you line up a job before my husband’s government stops paying your way.”

Quickly I push to my feet, slinging the blanket over my shoulder. A flush rises on my cheeks, hot with blood. I don’t need to listen to this. Not today.

“If your intent was to drive me out of your little vegetable patch, then well done. You’ve succeeded,” I mutter.

“Oh please, don’t leave on my account. I don’t mind you visiting my garden. But eventually your brother is going to come stomping through and crush something he shouldn’t.” His easy, joking manner returns as quickly as it disappeared. “That, I would like to avoid.”

Mention of my older sibling puts me on edge. My fingers curl tighter around the blanket, and suddenly I wish for something large and metallic to shred. “Ptolemus doesn’t know I’m here.”

Carmadon tips his head, letting the afternoon light gleam against his naked scalp. “You think he isn’t going to search every inch of this place until he finds you?”

“He doesn’t have the time.”

“That jet won’t leave until he wants it to,” he scoffs. “You can’t wait him out.”

At that I laugh out loud. The sound echoes through the empty garden, a bark more than a demure laugh. Sneering, I lay the blanket back down with a flourishing wave, before sprawling out against the fabric. Feeling petty, I even slide my shaded glasses back into place. “Watch me, Carm.”

Only his eyes flicker in response. Coal black, but flecked with deep, emerald green. I shriek when something wriggles beneath me, a snake or a—

Vine.

A dozen of them, swift and taking me by surprise. I lash out with my bracelet, weaving it into a razorlike whip, but the vines twist and dodge, pushing me back to my feet in a graceless heap. One even flicks the blanket over me, covering my head.

“Excuse me,” I snap, ripping the blanket away. My faces flushes again and I can feel my hair falling out of its braid. If I didn’t look like a mess before, I certainly do now. “That was quite rude.”

Carmadon drops into an exaggerated, insulting bow. “I beg your pardon, Princess.”

The title lands the way it should. Like a kick in the gut. The rings on my fingers sharpen, growing spikes as my insides twist. For a second I stare at the grass, trying to collect my thoughts and swirling feelings. But they dance beyond my grasp, too far to reach.

Princess Evangeline. Lady of House Samos. Daughter of Volo and Larentia.

I am none of those things anymore. Not after today. I should be glad—I should be relieved to be rid of the name and the life my parents gave me. And parts of me are. But the rest of me can’t help but be reminded of what I traded away to live as who I am now. What I betrayed. What I killed. What I lost forever.

“Will you miss it?” Carmadon asks softly, taking a step forward. I shift as he moves, keeping my distance.

My eyes crack back to his, blazing and furious. A challenge and a shield. “Titles and crowns mean nothing here. There won’t be anything to miss.”

But I feel the absence like a hole in me. I’ve felt it every day for weeks, since I set foot on that underground train, put Archeon behind me, and abandoned my parents to whatever fate waited for them. My blood runs cold. I know what happened. I wasn’t there, but I know. And the thought of my father, terrible as he was, walking off the bridge, his body broken and smashed apart below . . . I can’t stand it. I hate it. I wish I never knew.

“You should be going with Ptolemus.” Carmadon is undeterred by my emotional storm, ignoring it as kindly as he can. “It’s the best way to end this.”

Behind me, his vines slither back over the grass, curling over one another. I turn with my old skill, loosing the necklace from my throat. It slices the thickest vine in two with a satisfying hiss before wrapping around my neck again.

“Are you going to make me?” I ask, doing all I can to keep my voice in check. I’ve already made my decision. Will no one honor that? “Will the premier?”

“No, Evangeline,” he says quickly. “But you know I’m right. Your brother is abdicating his crown, and you should be with him when he does.”

My lip curls. “He can speak without me holding his hand.”

“I know that. But I mean, when he abdicates, the Kingdom of the Rift passes to you.”

Even a Silver child knows that. It’s painfully obvious. Everyone knows the laws of succession in my old country, or at least what they were. Men first, and when none are left, the crown passes to a daughter. A person born to be a pawn becomes the ruler of the board.

I would be a liar if I said I had not thought about it. In the dark, in the quiet moments, in the space between lying awake and falling asleep. No one could stop a ruling queen from living how she wished, with whoever she liked.

A queen of a Silver kingdom, and all that entails. The thought pricks at me, drawing a blossom of shame. Once, the sensation was unfamiliar. Now I feel it most days. It’s difficult not to, in a country like this, compared to the country I came from, the country I would have maintained.

“That’s what the letter is for,” I mutter. Just a few sentences, enough to cut me out of the life I was meant to live.