Incendiary (Hollow Crown #1)(93)

I turn down a hedge-lined path. The farther I go, the fewer partygoers surround me, so I continue, reveling in my moment of solitude. I press my hands to either side of the leaves that flank me, the gravel crunching beneath my heels.

It feels too familiar. Like I’ve walked it before, when I know I haven’t. It is a sensation that jumps out from my memories. I pick up the heavy layers of my pale pink skirts that Leo chose to match to the queen’s court, and follow this feeling. Several times I nearly trip, but with my heart at my throat, I follow the winding turns until I’m at a dead end. A breeze parts a curtain of ivy. Within the hedges is an enclosed garden with overgrown manzanilla and weeds. It looks forgotten compared to the rest of the meticulously trimmed and manicured grounds. That’s when I spot something that doesn’t belong. A white statue.

Kicking off my heels, I dig my feet into the grass and kneel down. I move the limp green grass and discover the statue is an angel. It isn’t one of the kneeling angels that usually ornament sculptures of the Father of Worlds. It’s the standing guardian that protects the Moria with the sword in her hand. What is it doing here? Is it by accident? Do they just not know? Or did someone meticulously plan this, hiding their rebellion in plain sight?

I press my hands to the grass in front of the angel’s feet. A cord of magics strikes the bare fingertips of my right hand. The scars and whorls come alight. I look from my hand to the angel’s. There’s a crack beneath the stone that wasn’t there before, a soft white glow emitting from the fissures.

Alman stone.

I glance over my shoulder. The music from the garden party is in full swing. Sweet laughter and chatter fill the air. Who knows when I’ll be able to come back to this garden, especially after whatever happens at the festival. I grab hold of the statue’s hand.



Illan’s beard has patches of black in it still. His pale blue eyes are stark against skin burnished bronze by the sun. Red bleeds where the sun kisses the horizon.

“You must be calm, Penelope,” the old Ventári says. His hands are slender, reaching for the young queen’s shoulders.

There, in the enclosed garden, she sinks to her knees. The heavy embroidered silk of her skirt pools around her like rose petals. Her golden hair has come undone at her temples, escaping the tight braid around her head. She clutches a slender gold diadem in her left hand.

“How can I be calm after what you’ve asked me to do to my children?”

Illan kneels beside her, his face a rigid mask of honor and duty. “It is far better than what the king will do to them. You know this is the only way we can save both their lives.”

She shakes her head. She’s small, slender as a wilting flower, but there is still strength behind her grip. She takes Illan’s shirt into her fist. “Find another way. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

Illan places a gentle hand over hers. “How? Tell me, Your Highness, because we have tried other ways to stop the crown. Take them both and the king will hunt you forever. If Castian stays, if we give the king a reason to trust him, if he sees himself in his son, Castian will be secured as the next heir. The only heir.” He taps her chin, but the young queen won’t look up. “It is up to you, Penelope.”

She slaps him, her hand a sharp sting on his skin. “You give me an impossible choice.”

“I give you a choice to save both your children.”

The queen looks away, her face fading like a portrait left out in the sun. Streaks of tears carve rivers down her face.

“Please forgive me for what I am about to do,” she whispers to no one and everyone all at once. “Forgive me.”

She faces the setting sun, staring until it is gone and her world is dark.



I wrench my hand free as though I’ve been burned, the sight of a young Illan etched like a brand into my mind.

My skin prickles into gooseflesh, the angel’s eyes demanding something from me. Secrecy. I know, beyond everything else, that this is the most dangerous memory I could ever possess. Queen Penelope met with Illan.

And whatever happened to Castian’s younger brother, it was clearly not all Castian’s own doing. The Whispers had something to do with it. Illan had something to do with it. He had wanted—had offered—to help save the boys’ lives. Both of them.

Why would he have done such a thing? Why would he have ever wanted to help the last queen?

It makes no sense. Too many thoughts race through my head, too many memories. I have to get out of here.

I grab my shoes and run back out the way I came. At least, I believe I do. The hedges appear to line solid paths but have clever narrow entryways, secret passages that allow you to cut across into other gardens. I could be lost in here for days.

A warm alto voice drifts from the end of this path. I need to see a familiar face.

“Leo!” I cry, turning the corner. He’s leaning against a pillar, his face nearly touching someone else I can’t see. When he hears me, he snaps in my direction, eyes wide.

“Miss Renata! What are you doing here?”

The other person behind the column slinks away into the shadows. My mind goes to Alessandro, and I back away a few paces.

“My apologies,” I say. “Who was that?”

Leo’s initial shock fades. “Well, you know me. I always find my own entertainment.” He winks, but I’m certain this wasn’t a dalliance.