Broken Throne (Red Queen #4.5)(89)

Something flutters in the window, catching my attention for a split second.

The moth is small, its wings gleaming between green and black like a pool of oil. It shouldn’t be out in daylight. Moths are nocturnal creatures, better accustomed to islands of light amid darkness. They also have remarkable hearing. All this passes through my mind in an instant, and the pieces click together neatly.

My mother is watching.

The wolf is at my throat again, its teeth sharp and digging. It threatens to rip me in two. Only the camera, the audience, the eyes of so many keep me rooted to the spot. The familiar fear and shame claw up my spine, poisoning my insides, but I cannot let them see. I cannot let her stop me now. There is still more to say and more of her dreams for me to ruin.

Under the desk, my hand curls into a fist. For once it isn’t rage driving me, but resolve.

I have only ever thought the words I speak next. Never even whispered them. Let alone spoken them to an audience, of ten or ten thousand. Let alone said them to my mother. That woman is always listening, and perhaps now she will finally hear me.

“Hereafter, I shall be known as Evangeline Samos of Montfort, and I swear my allegiance to the Free Republic, where I can live and love freely. I renounce my citizenship in the Rift, in Norta, and in any country where people are caged for the circumstances of birth.”

The pen scratches across the page, nearly ripping it in two with the force of my flourishing signature. Heat bleeds over my cheeks, but my makeup is thick enough to hide any flush that might betray my thundering heart. A buzzing sound rises around me, drowning out the whir of machines. I keep steady and do as I was told. Hold eye contact. Stare. Wait for the signal. The lens of the camera seems to swallow the world; the edges of my vision go soft.

One of the Red technicians fusses with the camera, flicking switches while motioning for Ptolemus and me to remain still. I feel the vibrations of the machine cease as the broadcast ends, cutting to black everywhere but here. The Red lowers his finger and we are released, exhaling in unison.

It’s over and done with.

With a burst of concentration, I shred the steel chair behind me, letting my throne collapse into a pile of needles. It doesn’t take much energy—steel is familiar to me—but I feel exhausted afterward and lean forward on my elbows.

The Reds and the Scarlet Guard shrink back a little, wary of the outburst. The Silver nobles look only disgusted, though none would dare say so to our faces. With a sneer, Jerald makes for his daughter, but Elane avoids him neatly.

She is quick to take my shoulder, and her hand trembles against my skin, quivering.

“Thank you,” she breathes, so only I can hear. “Thank you, my love. My iron heart.”

The lights of the room seem to collect in her skin. She is dazzling, glowing, a beacon calling me home.

It wasn’t just for you, I want to say, but my mouth won’t open. It was for me.

In the window, the moth is gone.

And for her.

Like the rest of the estate, the sculpture garden is abandoned, and somewhat overgrown without a greenwarden’s touch. Carmadon could do wonderful things here. One side offers a commanding view of the valley, down to the Allegiant. Every statue seems bigger and more foreboding than I remember, frozen in arcs of steel and chrome, resolute iron, proud copper, even polished silver and gold. I draw my fingers along them as I walk, rippling each one. Some dance at my command, re-forming into swooping curves or spindles thin as thread. Using my ability for artistry is cathartic, a release of tension that I can usually only find in the training arena. I spend long minutes alone, molding everything to my liking. I need to relax as much as I can, if the next obstacle is to be hurdled.

I must face her alone. Without any crutch. Not Elane, not Ptolemus. It would be too tempting to let them fight this battle for me. And that is not a habit I want to make.

She is waiting for me in a place I love. To taint it. To hurt me. She looks small without her usual creatures, almost hidden in the shadows of a steel arch. No panther, no wolf. Not even the moth. She wants to face me alone. Even her clothes seem dull, an echo compared to the jewels, silks, and furs I remember. Now her dress is simple, a fine dark green, and I glimpse leggings beneath her skirts. Larentia Viper is on the move. I imagine she’s allied with Jerald and the other Silvers, opposing us in sentiment but unable to do so openly.

The wind rustles through her black hair, and I glimpse streaks of gray I’ve never seen before.

“You knew what they were going to do to him.”

The accusation hits like a sledgehammer. I keep my distance.

“You knew that woman, and that weakling, that coward of a librarian, were going to kill your father.” Her teeth gleam, a predator’s snarl. Without her animals to control, my mother is quite vulnerable. Powerless against me, in a garden brimming with my own weapons. It doesn’t deter her in the slightest. She moves swiftly, almost hissing as she stops inches from my face. “Do you have anything to say for yourself, Evangeline?”

My voice rasps. “I gave you both a chance.”

It’s the truth. I told them I was leaving. Told them I wanted no part of their schemes anymore. That my life was my own and no one else’s. And my own mother sent a pair of wolves to hunt me down. My own father sneered at my heartache. No matter how much I loved them both, or how much they loved me, it wasn’t enough.

My mother’s lips quiver and her eyes dart. She searches me down to the bone. “I hope the shame follows you into your grave.”