Incendiary (Hollow Crown #1)(78)

It is a dream, and I hate myself for feeling at peace in here.

I go to the bookshelf filled with leather-and cloth-bound books. I’ve heard of hidden doors unlocked by pulling a lever disguised as a book. This bookcase is certainly big enough, so I pull nearly every book. Nothing.

I set the lamp on the large dresser in the adjoining closet where Jacinta gathered the prince’s marriage clothing. I rummage through the drawers, but there are only clothes and belts and sashes and caps and tassels.

“Where are you?” I whisper to the room, begging it to speak its secrets back.

I continue to a study with a large wooden desk littered with letters, still-rolled scrolls, pots of sepia ink, and a large conch shell, most common in Citadela Salinas. I make to grab it, but my senses fill with leather and salt, and I can picture Castian sitting here and listening to the sound of waves. Anger bubbles in my throat because he doesn’t deserve this peace he’s engineered.

I move the stacks of parchment to reveal the surface of the painted desk. Solid black with gold lines and stars etched into it—constellations. I can make out the hexagon that marks the Leones constellation, said to have been put there by the Lord of Worlds to mark the new age of the Fajardos’ conquest of Puerto Leones.

I always thought it looked more like a cat than a lion.

When I return the parchment stack to its place, I realize that it’s a map of Puerto Leones. There are two iron winged lions stamped with ink on Sól y Perla, a coastal town in the east, and home to the most barbaric and dreaded prison in our country. Soledad.

Why would Castian mark a prison he’s been to probably dozens of times?

I freeze at the warped creak of a floorboard. The sky is starting to pinken at the edges, and my heart spikes with the distant crow of a rooster. I hold my breath, but no one comes through the doors to discover me. I cut across the room to the wall of painted portraits. There’s none of Castian as a child or even him as a grown man, but there are several of seascapes and ships. I never would have guessed the prince was such a nautical admirer, though he is named after the bluest sea in the world. The one painting that strikes me the most is that of a woman.

If I step back, I can see that all the other paintings surround her, as if she is adrift at sea. I pick up the lamp again and hold it closer. She’s breathtaking, with long blond hair that curls over her shoulders in perfect rings. There’s a golden crown over her head studded with brilliant rubies, fat as blood drops. Something inside me squeezes painfully when I look into the calming blue-green of her eyes, the color of the Castinian Sea. The prince’s eyes.

This must have been Castian’s mother, King Fernando’s second queen of Puerto Leones. Queen Penelope.

I’m mesmerized by the portrait, as much for the beauty as for the questions that now plague my mind. What must she have thought of him? Her oldest son, the heir to the throne, the murderer of her only other child? How far can one mother’s love truly stretch?

It is obvious that he revered her, though, to have given the portrait such prominence in the room. It’s so arresting that for a moment, my whole body tingles with something—some longing I cannot name. Perhaps it is the longing of all orphans. There is nothing like the sweet love of a mother, the safety of a mother, even if that safety is only an illusion.

And that’s when something occurs to me.

Without wasting any more time, I hurriedly dig my fingers along the edges of the frame. At first, I feel foolish, silly, desperate. It’s strangely intimate to run my hands along this beautiful portrait.

But then—I find what I’m looking for.

The vulnerable spot.

A hinge.

Moments later, I hear a satisfying click as I lift a latch that releases the portrait’s clasp, revealing a hidden vault.

Thank you, Mother of All.

And thank you, Queen Penelope.

I breathe in the dust inside this vault, large enough to fit a crouched body. I set the lamp at the center and go through its contents.

My heart races when I grab the black box in the hidden compartment. I rip open the lid, electricity coursing through my veins, but this is not the box I saw in Lozar’s memory. This is ornate and not the right size.

I rummage through the trinkets in the velvet lining—iron toy soldiers with drawn swords, dozens of marbles in all sorts of colored glass, and a small wooden sword a child might have trained with. There’re a dozen letters, the wax seals opened and scented with a thick perfume of roses.

I slam the box closed. This is not the weapon!

I rub the sweat from my upper lip and shut the portrait.

Then I can feel the magics before I see the pulse of light. In a decorative bowl full of sea glass, there’s a bit of alman stone. It’s a jagged rectangle, like it was chipped out of a bigger piece. Justice Méndez keeps the stones under lock and key. Could he have placed this here to spy on the prince? The glow within the crystal is strong, which means the memories are still recent.

I pocket it to read in my rooms. The sky is too bright, but if I run, I can make it back before anyone can see me leave this place.

I quickly whirl around, but I bump into the desk, knocking the conch shell off the table. I dive for it and catch it just before it falls and shatters.

“Careful,” a voice says. “Those are quite the collector’s items.”

Sweat pools between my shoulder blades, and I blink several times to make sure I’m not imagining him.