Heart of Iron (Heart of Iron #1)(74)
“Something happened before the fire that we’re missing. And the fire destroyed the evidence. Metals wouldn’t just burn down the Tower for nothing—”
“That’s the thing,” he interrupted. “The logs didn’t report any new Metals in or out of the palace. There was only one stationed in the North Tower during the fire, the Armorovs’ personal Metal, and it wasn’t accounted for after the Rebellion.”
“What was its number?”
He shook his head, “Someone had stricken it out—”
The doors yawned open into the ballroom.
“We’ll finish this later,” he said between his teeth, as he and Ana gave the awaiting crowd a smile.
From the entrance, a grand staircase curved down into the ballroom. A canopy of ribbons fluttered above them, shimmering silver and gold. Bright lanterns bobbed underneath them, swaying to the tune of the thirty-piece orchestra in the far corner. Ironbloods clad in rich satins and laces and silks danced together in hypnotic swirls, but they stopped as soon as the steward signaled the orchestra into silence, and every guest turned to look at her.
Ana’s heart jumped into her throat as Ironblood gazes pinned her like a moth to a corkboard. They stared at her face. Her scars. She raised her head a little higher so they could get a better look, unashamed of them.
They meant she had survived something no one else had.
Robb leaned over to whisper, “At least you don’t have to sneak into this party.”
She nudged her elbow into his, because he was about to make her lose her composure.
The steward trumpeted as loudly as his nasal voice could carry: “Our Princess Ananke Nicholii Armorov, heir to the Iron Kingdom, and Robbert Mercer Valerio, nephew to the late Selena Demitrios Valerio Armorov.”
Robb laced his fingers into hers, olive skin blending with her bronze, and squeezed tightly—and at first it felt like he was reassuring her. But his hands were shaking against hers, his grip too tight. She squeezed back reassuringly, and they descended the stairs together.
The walk across the ballroom was the longest she’d ever had to endure. It wasn’t because of the heels that pinched her feet, or the way her dress still wrapped around her legs, but because of the eyes that watched them. Waiting for her to trip, to mess up, so that they could validate their suspicions that she was not one of them.
Well, she wasn’t.
So she raised her chin and stared them in the face.
At the other end of the ballroom, the Grand Duchess sat in an ornate silver chair. Lord Rasovant stood like an ever-present vulture beside her, his beard neatly braided, the multitude of medals pinned to his chest polished. Her skin crawled when his dark eyes fell upon her.
“My Ananke!” The Grand Duchess greeted her with a smile. She was dressed in yellow and orange like the sun, with diamonds sewn into swirls. “You look radiant tonight. Welcome home.”
Home.
The word was like salt on her tongue.
To the girl with space in her blood and a gun on her hip, home was Captain Siege, smoking the last bit of a cigar while looking over a battered star chart. Home was Di patiently braiding her hair when she didn’t want to. Home was Jax in his pilot chair. Home was late-night Wicked Luck games with the crew between jobs. Poker nights in the frigid cities of Cerces, half drunk on cheap ale, listening to Wick’s rousing ballads and Riggs’s soft lullabies.
Home wasn’t always warm, and wasn’t always safe, but home was hers. And it was not this prison.
Wordlessly, Ana unraveled her fingers from Robb’s. She felt the Adviser’s cruel gaze follow her as she stepped forward, fanned out her dress, and bowed deeply as Lord Machivalle had taught her.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, and tried to forget that once upon a time she’d sat in a rusty, cramped cockpit, watching as the stars danced around the Dossier’s black solar sails, and she had been happy there.
Happy and at home.
But home no longer existed.
IV
Iron Will
Robb
Once Ana took her place at the Grand Duchess’s side, the steward trumpeted, “Introducing Lady Cynthia Malachite Valerio, married to the late Lord Mercer Valerio, escorted by her eldest, Erik Malachite Valerio.”
Their names were like cold fingers racing up Robb’s spine. Please don’t let Jax be with them, he prayed as he slowly turned toward the staircase. Please.
Erik, charming and poised as ever, escorted their mother down the stairs and across the ballroom to the Grand Duchess, looking like a pair in matching black with silver accents. His mother’s dress trailed behind like a long shadow, as though she was taller than she appeared. He must have missed the silver-and-black memo.
At least, to Robb’s relief, the Solani was nowhere to be seen.
Erik and his mother bowed to Ana and the Grand Duchess. “Your Graces.”
The look Ana gave them was so sharp, it could cut steel.
“Lady Valerio, Lord Valerio,” the Grand Duchess greeted. “What an honor that you could join us.”
“Of course, Your Grace. We only wish to serve the kingdom as best we can in whatever capacity we can.”
“But in what capacity can I now serve you? We have given up much, Your Grace,” Erik said, earning a sharp look from his mother.