The Midnight Star (The Young Elites #3)(22)

This snaps the men out of their terrified stupor. They jump backward in unison and bend down in low bows. “Your Majesty, I—” one of them says, voice trembling. This is the one who had spoken about me with sarcastic disgust. “I—I—I—hope you had a lovely bath. I—”

His words fade into an incoherent jumble as Magiano comes up behind me, shaking water from his hair. If he weren’t here, I might indulge myself in punishing this messenger for speaking about me so carelessly. The whispers stir, delighted at the fear emanating from the man. But I shake them off. He’s lucky this time.

“You mentioned an urgent letter,” I finally say, interrupting the messenger’s distracted train of thought. “What is it?”

The second man, smaller and slighter, approaches the water. He presents a rolled parchment to me. I wade toward him and lift one hand out of the water to take it.

The letter’s crimson wax seal bears the royal crest of Tamoura. I crack it open, unfurl the parchment . . . and freeze.

I know this handwriting. No one else can write in such an elegant script, with such careful flourish. Behind me, Magiano approaches and looks over my shoulder at the message. He whispers the first thought on my mind. “It’s a trap,” he says.

But I cannot speak. I only read the message again and again, wondering what it really means.

To Her Majesty of Kenettra,

Your sister is dying. You must come to Tamoura at once.

Raffaele Laurent Bessette





Where will you go, when the clock strikes twelve?

What will you do, when you face yourself?

How will you live, knowing what you’ve done?

How will you die, if your soul’s already gone?

—Excerpt of monologue from Compasia & Eratosthenes, as performed by Willem Denbury





Adelina Amouteru




Tomorrow, we set sail for the shores of Tamoura. So, tonight, the entire palace is alight with festivities in celebration of our upcoming invasion.

Long tables piled high with food sit in every hall of the palace, while the courtyards are bright with lanterns and dancing. I sit with Sergio in one of the gardens. In my hands is the strip of parchment from Raffaele, which I’ve played with so much now, I can hardly read the letters anymore. My stomach feels hollow and sick. I couldn’t even finish my herbal drink, and now, with nothing to keep them at bay, the whispers have started murmuring incessantly in the back of my mind again.

Violetta is with the Daggers after all. Your enemies. What a traitor.

Why do you still care for her? Have you forgotten how she abandoned you?

Yes, she tried to wrench us away from you.

She’s better off dead.

Beside me, Magiano’s chair is empty. He has taken up his lute and is now sitting in the arched entranceway to the garden, playing a song he’s composed just today. Below him, a crowd has gathered. Everyone is already drunk—they sway in their dances, stumbling all over, laughing uproariously. At the edges of my vision, an illusion of Violetta unfurls. I see her dying on the floor, blood spilling in a pool all around, while the other partygoers step over her body. I force my attention back to Magiano, hoping he can distract me.

Magiano is a sight to behold tonight. His silks are gold and white, and trinkets glimmer amongst his long braids, all of them pulled over one shoulder. He leans forward and flashes a brilliant smile down at the cheering people listening to his music; every now and then, he pauses in his playing to call for challenges. People shout the names of old folk songs at him, then cheer and clap when he takes them on. I blush as I remember the bathwater beading on his braids, his bare skin against mine in our secret pool, illuminated by the dim blue glow of faery moss. Perhaps he is thinking about it too.

Ignoring us won’t change anything, Adelina. Your sister will still die. And you’ll be happy about it, won’t you?

The whispers push at my mind until I grimace, clutching my head.

“Your Majesty?”

Sergio’s voice beside me sends the voices skittering to the recesses of my mind again. I relax a little in my seat and look over at him. He returns my look with obvious concern. “It’s nothing,” I say. “I’m thinking of Raffaele’s letter.” I hold it up to show Sergio.

He lets out a grunt of approval as he tears into a leg of roast hare. “Perhaps he’s heard rumors of your split from her and wants to use it against you. Violetta might not even be with him.”

A part of me still stirs at the thought of Raffaele—and instantly, I imagine him on the deck of Queen Maeve’s ship, surrounded by flames, his forehead pressed against Enzo’s, calming the prince, looking back at me with tragic, tear-filled eyes, shaking his head in despair. If justice is what you seek, Adelina . . . you will not find it like this.

“They are in Tamoura,” I say a little too loudly, in an attempt to drown out the whispers. “No doubt working with the Golden Triad there. Their rulers must think using my sister against me will make me act carelessly.”

“They’re trying to trick you into a meeting,” Sergio replies, although he casts me a careful glance that doesn’t match his bold words. “To get you alone in a room. But what they’ll get instead is an army.” He throws back the rest of the drink in his cup, visibly reacting to how strong it is, and then clears some space on the table before us. He pulls out a wrinkled parchment and spreads it out. He has been carrying this with him everywhere lately, so I’m already familiar with it. It is his battle plan for Tamoura. “I’ve been digging up all the maps I can find of the landscape around Alamour. Look: The city itself is surrounded by high walls, but if we can get up here”—he points to a strange outcropping of cliffs that meander along the eastern side of the city—“we can find a way to get over the walls.”