Broken Throne (Red Queen #4.5)(99)

I’m ashamed to say I reached for him first. His wrist, his neck, searching for a pulse that wasn’t there. He already felt cold.

She was alive, her breathing shallow, the rattle of it softer by the second.

I can tell that her breath is even now, clouding like my own in tiny, rhythmic puffs. I squint, hoping to see more of her. Is she well? Is she different? Is she ready?

The act is futile. She’s too far away, and the lights of the palace are too dim to do much more than outline her bundled figure. It isn’t too far to shout, and I don’t care about waking up half the estate. Still, my voice dies in my throat, my tongue weighted down. I keep silent.

Two months ago, she told me not to wait. Her voice broke when she said it, broke like my heart when I heard it. I wouldn’t have minded her leaving if she’d done it without telling me that. Don’t wait. The implication was clear. Move on, if you want. To someone else, if you want. It stung then as it stings now. I could never fathom saying such a thing to a person I loved and needed. Not to her.

The balustrade warms beneath my hands, now clenched tightly and flooding with heat.

Before I can do something foolish, I spin and wrench open the door, only to close it softly behind me, making no noise at all.

I leave her to the stars.





THREE

Mare

Before I open my eyes, I forget myself for a moment. Where we are, what we’re doing here. But it comes back to me. The people around us—and the person who wouldn’t speak to me last night. He saw me; I know he did. He was out on the balcony just like me, looking at the stars and the mountains.

And he didn’t say a word.

The ache hits me like a hammer to the chest. So many possibilities blur through my head, too fast for my waking mind to fathom. And they all come back to his silhouette, a shadow against the night sky as he walked away. He didn’t say a word.

And neither did I.

I force my eyes open, yawning and stretching for show. My sister worries about me enough. She doesn’t need my heartache added to her list of concerns. We still share a room, at my request. I haven’t tried sleeping alone in months and don’t intend to start now.

For once, she’s not fussing over me. Instead Gisa is standing over her sewing supplies, contemplating them with a stern glare.

“Has the thread offended you somehow?” I say around a true yawn.

She turns the glare on me. It scares the worry right out of me.

“I’m getting a head start,” she says. “The gala will take up most of my time, what with Bree and Tramy and Kilorn and you and Farley and half the people I’ve ever met begging for something to wear.”

In spite of myself, I grin. I knew she wouldn’t really leave Bree out in the cold. Gisa is all bark, no bite.

“Fine, tell me how to help,” I say, swinging my feet out of bed. The wood floor is cold beneath my toes, and I immediately set to hunting down the socks buried in my blankets.

We aren’t moving to our permanent home for another week or so, but Gisa already insists on packing. Or rather, on rearranging the meager amount of what’s already packed.

Gisa hums as she shakes her head. “You’re not exactly known for your skills in organization.”

I sputter, but Gisa doesn’t bother to argue. She simply points to my mismatched socks. One is green and threadbare; the other is thick black wool. My mouth shuts with a click of teeth.

“Besides,” she says, still smirking at my feet. I wiggle a toe in her direction. “You have your own things to worry about, and a much busier schedule than I do. I don’t envy you your meetings,” she adds, nodding to the messy pile of papers at my bedside.

I fell asleep reading the overview of the delegation arrangements and agenda, my head spinning with details on Montfort trade, Scarlet Guard movements, the Nortan reconstruction, and the inner workings of the alliance. I try not to think about it now. I don’t need a headache this early in the day, though I’ll certainly have one by the end of the first meeting this morning.

“Leave the clothing and moving arrangements to the rest of us.” Gisa gestures to the apartment at large. Her message is clear. The Barrows will take care of everything they can here and give me the space I need to get through the next few days unscathed.

Little does she know the worst has already begun.

With a sweater half over my head, I pull my sister into a tight hug. She fights it weakly, grinning.

“Can we trade?” I whine. “I’ll make shirts and you suffer through hours of debate?”

“Absolutely not,” she snaps, pushing away from me. “Now try and dress yourself properly. Farley’s waiting for you out in the sitting room, by the way. She’s got a uniform on and everything.”

“Fat chance of that.” I pull on a pair of dark pants instead, not even bothering to hunt for whatever uniform might be buried in our closet. My memories of tight, stiff red fabric are punishment enough. Not to mention, I think I looked downright stupid in it. Hardly what I want to be wearing when I come face to face with Cal again. If he even wants to see me at all.

Gisa isn’t a mind reader, but my thoughts aren’t difficult to discern. She looks me over with an eyebrow raised, then waves me forward. “No, no, no. The premier left you some clothes precisely so you wouldn’t go back to looking like a river rat.”