Incendiary (Hollow Crown #1)(69)

“On the contrary,” I say. I need the freedom to roam the palace. “It’s just—the courtiers and the maids. They’re repulsed by me.”

“You must understand, Renata. Your powers are a sickness. But your guards are there for your protection.”

How can he call my magics a sickness and still use them at his will? Am I a sickness or a weapon? Does it matter as long as I can be controlled?

“I’ll get to work right away,” I say.

Illan’s informant may be long gone. But if they’re still in the palace, perhaps I’ll have at least one ally. I brush back my hair and let Justice Méndez slip the necklace over my head. The alman stone is cold on my skin. I envy the empty bit of rock. It is the only clean slate I will ever get.

He faces me, his sharp features made all the more jagged by the pulsing white light in the room. “I know I can count on you, my sweet.”

And despite my dry tongue and racing heart, I say, “I won’t disappoint you.”

On the way out, he notices my bleeding hand. I have a lie ready if he asks how my stitch reopened, but he doesn’t ask. “I shall have Leo add two stitches here. That boy’s work is seamless.”

Méndez takes my hands in his. I feel a small weight on the center of my gloved palm. A glittering gold stellita. On my way out, I devour it.



When I get back to my room, my thighs ache and my breath is short from ascending the five flights of the tower. Sula returns for me and walks with downcast eyes and folded hands the entire time. I find myself missing Leo’s ramblings. His presence offers something like the peace Dez instilled in me. Thinking of him makes my entire body feel heavy as a ton of lead. I want to let that weight drag me down into the earth. It’s even worse when I remember that Dez will never have a burial. He will never be anything other than gone.

I press on the wound in my hand and the dark thoughts release me. I remind myself that Leo is not my friend and he is nothing like Dez. Leo is loyal to the crown first. As Sula lights the lamps of my dark room, I sit and massage my hand.

Restlessness digs beneath my skin and makes me scratch. Where could Castian have gone with the weapon? I play out different scenarios in my head. Asking Méndez directly would reveal what he knows through his reaction, but it would give me away completely. With every lamp that ignites, I think of the one clear connection I have to the prince: the courtiers. But how to get close to them?

“What are you doing?” I ask Sula.

“It’s laundry day, ma’am,” Sula says.

The girl is stripping my bedsheets. Do they think I’m that dirty, or is this customary? That part I can’t remember from my time here. It’s either in the Gray or I wasn’t paying attention to the maids who took care of me. No one notices the maids, despite their backbreaking work. I bet Castian has never looked twice at his staff. They will know more about the prince than anyone, even his father and the court.

Sula massages her shoulder for a moment. I sympathize with her pain. “Majordoma Frederica asked me to bring these down earlier, but I was sent to clear out the southwest guest rooms.”

I try to cut off her rambling, but there’s no gentle way for me to do it. She’s afraid of me waving my hands. I shouldn’t blame her.

“I’ll do it.”

She sucks in a breath, like I’ve punched her. “Oh, no, ma’am. I can’t. I mustn’t let you do that.”

“Why? I am not a highborn lady. I am just like you.”

“You’re not.” Her scared face goes mean. Of course the worst thing I could tell her was that we are one and the same. Blood and sinew and bone. Magics or no.

If I keep biting my tongue, I’ll snap the tip off completely. “What I meant is, I don’t need you fussing over me and changing my sheets. Get out. I can do it myself.”

She doesn’t move. “Y-you’re not allowed to walk the palace alone.”

Justice Méndez doesn’t want me to reveal myself. Until I see the guards assigned to protect me, I am on my own.

“I won’t be alone. I’ll be with you.”

With a start, Sula relents and lets me help her strip the bed and pillows. Floral. Dainty. Maybe I can ask the laundress not to perfume them. I think of Leo’s words. About how easy it is for me to give orders.



In the gray-and-blue stone courtyard behind the kitchens, a dozen lavanderas are preparing the wash. Cauldrons large enough to boil a full-grown man are strung over firepits. Servants of all ages carry logs, pushcarts full of bedsheets and robes. There’s a station of wooden vats where girls stir hot lye soapy water and use paddles to beat the stains out. Shady verdina trees sway in the early evening breeze.

The sun is getting low in the sky. My stomach growls, but I don’t dare ask for a meal. Sula introduces me to Majordoma Frederica, who is in charge of the palace’s cleaning servants. An imposing woman with freckled white skin and ash-brown hair tied back in a winding braid. A beauty mark dots one of her many chins. When she looks me up and down her gaze lands on my injured hand wrapped in gauze. Her grimace is noticeable.

“You’ll do yourself lasting injury if you don’t take care,” she says, her rough accent from the southeast provincias.

I was expecting her to react to me the way Sula did moments before. The girl ducks her head and joins the line of lavanderas and other servants.