Heart of Iron (Heart of Iron #1)(76)

“Ana . . .”

“In fact, I’m sure it is, so take it. I don’t remember how I got it, but I think your father saved me—from the fire. Or whatever really happened in the tower. And I think he’d want you to have it.”

His throat constricted as he looked at his father’s brooch. How many years had he wanted to hold it, dreamed of finding it? And here it was, so close he could take it. But . . .

“No,” he said, and closed her fingers over the pendant again, “my father gave it to you. There are only four in the kingdom. As traditions go, Valerios pass them down to whoever is important to us, and you’re half Valerio, after all. He gave it to you, so I want you to keep it.”

Her brow furrowed. “But Robb—”

“Please.”

She kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” she said, before someone called her name and she turned toward the voice.

He took the moment to slip away, out of a side door guarded by a statue-still Messier, and away from the heady perfumes and romantic waltzes. The hallways were almost deserted, employees of the crown rushing from one room to the next so that the gala went perfectly. No one noticed him leave, and no one stopped him to ask where he was going—the East Tower, where he hoped Jax was being kept.

And suddenly he was so very tired of all these games. Of murder and deceit and extravagant parties. What would life have been like, he wondered, if he had been a normal boy on Eros? With a normal boyfriend and a loving family?

He had never wondered that before—who he would be if he was not a Valerio.

It might’ve been nice—

A shadow down the hallway caught his eye. Red eyes. A Metal body.

He blinked, and it was gone.

Breathe. He needed to breathe. He was seeing things.

First, he needed to get that voxcollar off Jax’s neck before his mother or Erik did something truly horrible—and after what Robb had done at the gala, he needed to do it soon.





Ana


“Your Grace!” a young man in a navy ascot called as she latched the pendant back around her neck. It felt like a familiar weight, and secretly, she was glad that Robb had told her to keep it. It felt like safety.

The young man in question bowed. His hair was long and braided with threads of gold, making her deeply aware of her own shaved head. He had familiar arrowhead-shaped markings under his eyes. “Would you care to dance, Your Grace?”

She narrowed her eyes. “And you are . . . ?”

“Vermion Carnelian—”

“Ah.” She glanced back to Robb, but he was gone.

“First in line to the Carnelian succession—”

“Viera’s brother, yeah?”

He looked stricken by the question. “I—we don’t—she’s a guard, Your Grace. I’m first in line—”

“Good for you,” she replied, patting him on the shoulder, and made her way over to a banquet table on the other end of the ballroom. A few Ironbloods mingled around the food, tasting the fruits and soft pastries. She ate a beignet. The rich pastry melted in her mouth and she sighed. She missed Talle. The way she hummed love ballads as she cooked. Ana stuffed another into her mouth to keep the sadness at bay.

There were so many people, it reminded her of the packed markets on Nevaeh, brushing elbow to elbow. Except everyone here looked like dainty pastries and wore dresses with crinoline that went on for days.

A group of girls twittered with laughter, cutting their eyes over to her. She looked down the length of herself—and realized the pastry had sprinkled powdered sugar down her front. Mortified, she quickly turned away, brushing off the sugar, and hurried to the other end of the table to get away from the girls. She could gut them from stomach to spleen right there, didn’t they know?

But that is not proper comportment for an Empress, she thought, mocking Machivalle’s tutoring.

The gala was marvelous, framed by statues of the Goddess, purple tapestries fluttering against the marble walls. They told of all the stories in the Cantos. The kingdom of shadows and the girl of light. The vanquishing of the Darkness. The marriage to the sun.

There were even more gossiping Ironbloods at the other end of the table, sadly. All whispering behind their hands, their eyes raking across her scars.

This party was definitely going down as one of the worst ever.

A young woman stepped up beside her and speared a piece of pineapple with an expert flourish. She twirled it around in her fingers. “Good evening, Your Grace.”

“Good evening,” Ana replied nervously, eyeing the freckled girl.

“Lord Machivalle told me you’d probably need some company here,” said the Ironblood, pushing a curl of strawberry hair behind her ear. Ana didn’t need to see her insignia to know she was a Wysteria. The Dossier had raided one of their vineyards once.

“You know Machivalle?”

“He tutors me as well. He sends his regrets for not coming to your lessons today.”

“Is he sick?”

“Oh, no,” she replied, watching the pineapple piece she twirled on its toothpick.

“Then Rasovant dismissed him,” Ana guessed, and when the young woman pursed her lips, she knew she’d guessed right. “Because of course he did.”

“Machivalle told me to give you this.” She took a small folded piece of paper out of her dress pocket and slipped it into Ana’s hand. “He said it was ‘an answer to your question’—he’s vague like that sometimes.”