King's Cage
Page 20
His hand grips my chin hard, shocking me into silence. The force of it makes me bend, lean backward, almost lose balance. I wish I would. I wish I could fall out of his hands, hit the floor, and splinter into a thousand pieces.
Back at the Notch, in the warmth of the cot I shared with Cal, deep in the night, I thought of moments like this. Being alone with Maven again. Getting the chance to see what he truly was beneath the mask I remembered and the person his mother forced him to be. In that strange place between sleep and waking, his eyes followed me. Always the same color, but somehow changing. His eyes, her eyes, eyes I knew and eyes I could never know. They look the same now, burning with a cold fire, threatening to consume me.
Knowing it’s what he wants to see, I let the tears of frustration overwhelm me and fall. He tracks their paths with hunger.
Then he shoves me away. I stagger to a knee.
“I am what she made me,” he whispers, leaving me behind.
Before the door shuts behind him, I notice guards on either side. Clover and Egg this time. So the Arvens are not far away, even if I somehow manage to free myself.
I sink slowly to the floor and sit back on my heels. I put one hand over my face, hiding the fact that my eyes are suddenly dry. As much as I wished Elara’s death would change him, I knew it would not. I’m not that stupid. I cannot trust anything where Maven is concerned.
The smallest of his ceremonial badges bites in my other hand, hidden by my curling fingers. Even Silent Stone cannot take away a thief’s instincts. The badge’s metal pin digs into skin. I’m tempted to let it break through, to bleed crimson and scarlet, to remind myself and anyone watching what I am, and what I am capable of.
Under the guise of straightening up, I slip the badge under my mattress. Along with the rest of my plunder: hairpins, broken fork tines, shards of shattered glass and porcelain plates. My arsenal, humble as it is, will have to do.
I glare at the dress in the corner, as if the dress is somehow at fault for this.
Tomorrow, he said.
I return to my sit-ups.
SIX
Mare
The cards are carefully typed, outlining what I must say. I can’t even look at them, and leave them lying on my bedside table.
I very much doubt I’ll get the benefit of maids to make me up into whatever Maven imagines presenting to the court. It looks like an arduous task, buttoning and zipping myself into the scarlet gown. It has a high collar, trailing hem, and long sleeves to hide not just Maven’s brand on my collarbone but the manacles still attached to my wrists and ankles.
No matter how many times I escape this elegant pageantry, I seem doomed to play a role in it. The dress will be too big when I finally get it on, loose around the arms and waist. I’m thinner here, no matter how much I force myself to eat. Based on what I can glean from my reflection in the window, my hair and skin have also suffered under the weight of silence. My face is yellowed and sunken, sickly-looking, while red rims my eyes. And my dark brown hair, still tinged by the slow creep of gray at the ends, is rattier than ever, tangled to the root. I braid it back hastily, working the knotted strands.
No amount of silk can change what I look like beneath Maven’s costume. But it’s no matter. I’ll never wear it, if all goes to plan.
The next step in my preparation makes my heart pound. I do my best to look calm, for the cameras in my bedroom at least. They cannot know what I’m about to do, not if it’s going to work. And even if I manage to fool my guards, there’s another rather large obstacle.
This could kill me.
Maven did not put cameras in my bathroom. Not to protect my privacy, but to placate his own jealousy. I know enough of him to realize he won’t let another person see my body. The added weight of Silent Stone, the slabs set into walls, is confirmation. Maven made sure guards would never have a reason to escort me in here. My heart beats sluggishly in my chest, but I push through it. I have to.
The shower hisses and steams, scalding hot as soon as I turn it on to full blast. If not for the bathroom Stone, I would have spent many days enjoying the singular comfort of a hot wash. I must work quickly, or let myself be smothered.
Back at the Notch we were lucky to bathe in cold rivers, while on Tuck the showers were timed and lukewarm. I laugh at the thought of what passed for bathing at home. A tub filled from the kitchen faucet, warm in the summer, cold in the winter, with stolen soap to clean with. I still don’t envy my mother’s job of helping my father wash.
With any luck—lots of luck—I’ll see them again soon.
I push the showerhead, angling it away from the basin and onto the floor of the bathroom. The water pelts against white tile, drenching it. The spray hits my bare feet, and the heat shivers my skin, gentle and inviting as a warm blanket.
As water seeps out beneath the bathroom door, I work quickly. First I put the long shard of glass on the counter, well within arm’s length. Then I reach for the true weapon.
Whitefire Palace is a marvel in every inch, and my bathroom is no exception. It’s lit by a modest chandelier, if there is such a thing: worked in silver, with curling arms like tree branches giving bud to a dozen lightbulbs. I have to stand on the sink, precariously balanced, to get at it. A few forceful but focused tugs pull the dangling fixture forward, its wiring peeling through the ceiling. Once I have enough slack, I crouch, the still-lit chandelier in hand. I brace it on the sink to wait.
The pounding starts a few minutes later. Whoever is watching my room has noticed the water spilling out from underneath my bathroom door. Ten seconds later, two sets of feet troop into my bedroom. Which Arvens, I’m not sure, but it doesn’t really matter.
Back at the Notch, in the warmth of the cot I shared with Cal, deep in the night, I thought of moments like this. Being alone with Maven again. Getting the chance to see what he truly was beneath the mask I remembered and the person his mother forced him to be. In that strange place between sleep and waking, his eyes followed me. Always the same color, but somehow changing. His eyes, her eyes, eyes I knew and eyes I could never know. They look the same now, burning with a cold fire, threatening to consume me.
Knowing it’s what he wants to see, I let the tears of frustration overwhelm me and fall. He tracks their paths with hunger.
Then he shoves me away. I stagger to a knee.
“I am what she made me,” he whispers, leaving me behind.
Before the door shuts behind him, I notice guards on either side. Clover and Egg this time. So the Arvens are not far away, even if I somehow manage to free myself.
I sink slowly to the floor and sit back on my heels. I put one hand over my face, hiding the fact that my eyes are suddenly dry. As much as I wished Elara’s death would change him, I knew it would not. I’m not that stupid. I cannot trust anything where Maven is concerned.
The smallest of his ceremonial badges bites in my other hand, hidden by my curling fingers. Even Silent Stone cannot take away a thief’s instincts. The badge’s metal pin digs into skin. I’m tempted to let it break through, to bleed crimson and scarlet, to remind myself and anyone watching what I am, and what I am capable of.
Under the guise of straightening up, I slip the badge under my mattress. Along with the rest of my plunder: hairpins, broken fork tines, shards of shattered glass and porcelain plates. My arsenal, humble as it is, will have to do.
I glare at the dress in the corner, as if the dress is somehow at fault for this.
Tomorrow, he said.
I return to my sit-ups.
SIX
Mare
The cards are carefully typed, outlining what I must say. I can’t even look at them, and leave them lying on my bedside table.
I very much doubt I’ll get the benefit of maids to make me up into whatever Maven imagines presenting to the court. It looks like an arduous task, buttoning and zipping myself into the scarlet gown. It has a high collar, trailing hem, and long sleeves to hide not just Maven’s brand on my collarbone but the manacles still attached to my wrists and ankles.
No matter how many times I escape this elegant pageantry, I seem doomed to play a role in it. The dress will be too big when I finally get it on, loose around the arms and waist. I’m thinner here, no matter how much I force myself to eat. Based on what I can glean from my reflection in the window, my hair and skin have also suffered under the weight of silence. My face is yellowed and sunken, sickly-looking, while red rims my eyes. And my dark brown hair, still tinged by the slow creep of gray at the ends, is rattier than ever, tangled to the root. I braid it back hastily, working the knotted strands.
No amount of silk can change what I look like beneath Maven’s costume. But it’s no matter. I’ll never wear it, if all goes to plan.
The next step in my preparation makes my heart pound. I do my best to look calm, for the cameras in my bedroom at least. They cannot know what I’m about to do, not if it’s going to work. And even if I manage to fool my guards, there’s another rather large obstacle.
This could kill me.
Maven did not put cameras in my bathroom. Not to protect my privacy, but to placate his own jealousy. I know enough of him to realize he won’t let another person see my body. The added weight of Silent Stone, the slabs set into walls, is confirmation. Maven made sure guards would never have a reason to escort me in here. My heart beats sluggishly in my chest, but I push through it. I have to.
The shower hisses and steams, scalding hot as soon as I turn it on to full blast. If not for the bathroom Stone, I would have spent many days enjoying the singular comfort of a hot wash. I must work quickly, or let myself be smothered.
Back at the Notch we were lucky to bathe in cold rivers, while on Tuck the showers were timed and lukewarm. I laugh at the thought of what passed for bathing at home. A tub filled from the kitchen faucet, warm in the summer, cold in the winter, with stolen soap to clean with. I still don’t envy my mother’s job of helping my father wash.
With any luck—lots of luck—I’ll see them again soon.
I push the showerhead, angling it away from the basin and onto the floor of the bathroom. The water pelts against white tile, drenching it. The spray hits my bare feet, and the heat shivers my skin, gentle and inviting as a warm blanket.
As water seeps out beneath the bathroom door, I work quickly. First I put the long shard of glass on the counter, well within arm’s length. Then I reach for the true weapon.
Whitefire Palace is a marvel in every inch, and my bathroom is no exception. It’s lit by a modest chandelier, if there is such a thing: worked in silver, with curling arms like tree branches giving bud to a dozen lightbulbs. I have to stand on the sink, precariously balanced, to get at it. A few forceful but focused tugs pull the dangling fixture forward, its wiring peeling through the ceiling. Once I have enough slack, I crouch, the still-lit chandelier in hand. I brace it on the sink to wait.
The pounding starts a few minutes later. Whoever is watching my room has noticed the water spilling out from underneath my bathroom door. Ten seconds later, two sets of feet troop into my bedroom. Which Arvens, I’m not sure, but it doesn’t really matter.
