The Crimson Moth

My wife and I appreciate your hospitality." I keep my voice so low only the innkeeper hears me as we trudge up the stairs.

My wife.

I wish I could say it slipped out by accident, but I wanted to say the words, just once. See how they felt in my mouth. I bite my tongue, loathing how I loved the taste of them.

Ivy is in front of me, her pale hand on the banister, the hem of her soaked dress trailing behind her.

My wife.

I'm an idiot. Ivy will never be mine. She is barely my friend now and she won't be anything at all to me after tonight. Tomorrow, the sun will rise and we'll face the consequences. Mor will remove her from the competition; she'll move back into her family home and begin a life of disgraced spinsterhood.

Where will I be?

Pacing palace rooms and wasting my life away, left to stew in my failure.

I deserve it.

But she doesn't.

She deserves so much better than me, than all of this.

The innkeeper waves us into our room for the night, then the door closes behind us with a thunk.

Ivy brushes a rain-soaked tendril of hair from her face with one hand and hits me on the shoulder with the other. "Fern?" She looks aghast at the fake name I gave the innkeeper.

"It was the closest I could think to Ivy," I answer flatly.

"Isolde, Isabelle, Imogen?" she offers.

"You make a more believable Fern." I struggle to keep my voice light. What else can I say? That I was tempted to write Emmett and Ivy De Vere just to see how it looked, written out on paper, like some lovesick schoolgirl? I'm pathetic.

I sink into an armchair in front of the fire and drop my head in my hands. I can't bear to look at her, the guilt so acute it's like a physical wound. She says something, but it's nothing but a humming in my ears, drowned out by my self-loathing.

From behind me comes the rhythmic thumping of wet clothes falling to the floor, then a tense silence. I raise my head to find Ivy staring at me, her brown eyes hesitant.

"What?" I ask.

"I-" She stumbles over the words. "It's nothing."

She's got one hand twisted around awkwardly to rest on her corset strings. The other is clutched over her heart. I know what she wants, and of course I will help her, but I've never unlaced a corset platonically before. I take a moment to steel myself.

Her cheeks flush as I cross the room to her. "I know my way around a corset, Ivy."

I fight to keep my voice steady. She hesitates, then nods at me to go on.

I start at the knot tied at the small of her back, then work quickly upward, clinical in my approach, despite my longing to savor the peeks of skin through her translucent chemise.

"You're shivering," I say. Misdirection so she doesn't notice my own shaking hands.

"So, hurry up," she says, and despite everything, I bite back a smile.

"There," I declare as the corset is finally loose enough to fall around her feet. I avert my eyes. I might be pathetic but I'm not a lecher. I arrange her clothing in front of the fire to dry. "Better?" I ask.

"Yes," Ivy answers from behind me.

Now wrapped in nothing but a quilt, she sinks down into a chair next to me. She stares into the fire while I stare at her. The blanket has slipped off her shoulder a bit, revealing a freckle on the juncture of her neck I've never seen before. I want to bite it. I curse under my breath and return my gaze to the flames, burning right along with them.

"Are you trying to ruin me?" she asks with the lilt of a joke.

If she knew the things I've imagined the two of us doing, she'd run from this room screaming. She haunts every one of my dreams. I can't stop imagining her splayed under me, her pale skin blue in the moonlight. In my dreams, we take our time with each other. In real life, I'm nothing but a bumbling idiot.

"You're no use to the cause if you die of hypothermia," she says when I don't respond.

The rain pounds on the windows, mirroring the storm raging inside me. I have ruined her. Just by being in this room, I'm ruining her. If I'd left her alone, she'd be safe and warm back at camp right now, instead of doomed and here with me.

The irony doesn't escape me that if I hadn't intervened, Ivy likely would have won anyway. She's already Bram's favorite. He told me last week over billiards. I missed my shot as he said, "Ivy Benton is particularly lovely, isn't she?"

I could only manage to hum in vague agreement. One of the rings he always wore was missing. I spotted it the next day, encircling Ivy's pale finger. I nearly choked on my jealousy.

"Emmett-" Ivy says and I blink back to myself. "I don't understand why you're angry with me right now."

"Angry? I'm not angry with you. I'm angry with myself," I answer truthfully.

"You can't control the weather," she says gently, tipping her chin, exposing that freckle again.

I take a breath. "No, not that. I should have left you alone, let you be. The most selfish thing I've ever done is let you get involved in this."

"It was my idea to sneak off today," she protests.

Her voice is soft and I can't take it. I want to hit something. I hate myself for it. "But you wouldn't have had to if it weren't for me."

"Stop acting like you're the only one with ideas! I hate her too. I also want to unseat her!"

Perfect. Now I've gone and insulted her intelligence, too. There's nothing I can't muck up. "I didn't mean to suggest you didn't have ideas of your own."

Hurt flashes across her eyes. Gone is the vulnerability, her lips quirked in defense.

"You don't own the market on being a person with radical ambitions. The only reason I'm a competitor is because of your help. I agreed to this, remember?"

It's not that. How do I make her understand?

"I manipulated you. I manipulated Faith. I manipulated my brother. I'm horrible. Your sister was correct in her judgment of me. I'm a horrible person," I confess, tears suddenly hot in my throat. The sensation takes me by surprise. I haven't cried in nearly a decade.

"I don't believe that's true," she says, quieter this time.

It takes all the strength I have not to cross the room and take her in my arms. The only thing that stops me is knowing I don't deserve the kindness in her voice.

"Tm trying-" My voice cracks for the first time since I was thirteen. "I'm trying so hard to do the right thing, but I can't seem to manage it."

"I know," she replies, nearly a whisper.

She may be the only person on earth who does know just how hard I'm trying at all of this. It almost makes it worse, trying this hard and having the one person whose opinion I care about most be the only one to witness the depth of my failure.

"I'll protect you the best I can." I've inherited enough money from my mother that I can keep Ivy and her family in comfort. If London society rejects her, as I suspect they will, I'll build her an estate in the country. For a moment, I picture sitting in some far-off garden with her, together, without prying eyes of the ton.

But Ivy doesn't want that. I know she doesn't because she gracefully ignores my offer.

"Please change out of those wet clothes, it hurts to look at you like this," she says instead.

I'd do anything she asked of me. I strip out of my sodden clothes and wrap myself in the other blanket from the singular, hulking bed looming in the middle of the room.

"I'm sorry about your father," she says as I rejoin her next to the hearth.

"It would be easier if I was mad at him, I think," I say, too honest. "But I'm just sad. It's strange, loving someone you don't know. It's even stranger knowing they live just down the hall. I have these... memories of him. I remember reading books on his lap and him teaching me to skip stones in the pond behind our house." The memories are hazy, bathed in gold. I don't know which are real and which I imagined.

"Did he ever try to contact you beyond the hidden messages in the library?" she asks.

I shake my head. "The terms of her bargain seem to forbid it. No letters. He can't even pass messages using someone else; their voice goes suddenly mute. Nearly gave my old governess a heart attack the first time it happened. It's one of my earliest memories." I nearly smile. Mrs Harrow was a steely woman, unflappable in every way. I miss her deeply.

"Are you still close to your governess?"

Her wrinkled face flashes through my head. "I was. She died a few years ago. I think she would have liked you. You're tough like she was." She didn't even tell me she was sick, then scolded me for looking too sad as I sat by her bedside in her final days, her wrinkled hand clutched in mine.

"I don't think I'm tough," Ivy replies.

I look at Ivy for a beat too long. Her blonde hair has mostly dried now and hangs in a tangle of curls down her back. "Well, she would have seen what I see."

Ivy smiles softly. "I would have liked to have met her."

Something warms in me, picturing the two of them together. Harrow probably would have told Ivy to comb her hair and Ivy would have said something sarcastic in return and Harrow would have laughed and loved her immediately.

She was a walking contradiction. Tougher on me than anyone but the closest I ever got to parental love. I was a lonely child, spent all my time on the floor making up stories with my toy soldiers. She loved the ballet so I loved the ballet, we went every chance we got. It was the only time I ever left palace grounds,"

I say. "That's actually where I met Faith. It was the summer after my governess died and I was sitting in the audience alone. Faith took pity on me."

If it weren't for Faith, that whole summer would have been lost to drinking and gambling. She saved me from myself.

"That sounds just like Faith, so beatific. A saint, really."

My mouth quirks up a smile. "Are you jealous?" Ivy's dislike of Faith is frustrating, but I know it's my own fault. It really is a shame. Under any other circumstance, I think they'd be excellent friends. They're more alike than either of them realizes.

"That's hilarious. You should try comedy more often." Ivy rolls her eyes.

My clothes finally dry enough, I dress and go downstairs to find us dinner. The public house on the ground floor is teeming with people seeking shelter from the storm. I elbow my way up to the warm wood bar at the back of the room to wait for service.

Above the glass bottles of gin and sherry is a gilded portrait of Queen Mor, her black eyes peering down at me in judgment. Next to her is Bram, looking more serious rendered in paint than he ever has in life. The artist painted his gray eyes steely instead of smiling.

I let out a laugh as I notice a third portrait, further down the bar, positioned over the rows of dusty, less popular bottles. I look serious in my high cravat, lapel decorated with a diamond star,the Royal Order of The Family. It's a copy of a portrait that was done two years ago. I remember being annoyed the artist made my hair so tidy.

The barmaid wipes her hands on a towel tucked into her apron as she approaches. "What can I get you, love?" she chirps.

I place an order for a tray of food and wait with my elbows on the bar for it to arrive.

"We go to school together?" I turn to my right to see a ruddy-faced man, his eyes glassy with drink.

"I don't believe so," I answer tersely.

"St. Bosco's?"

"Eton."

The man takes a swig of his ale, undeterred. "You court my sister then?"

"Definitely not," I say.

"Nah, I know you." He leans in closer to get a better look at me.

I turn away, but the man is already snapping his fingers in recognition. "You look like that prince, the human one."

I smile tightly. "I get that all the time. I'm more handsome, though. Better hair."

The man claps me on the shoulder, laughing. "Absolutely. What brings you here?"

"On my honeymoon," I reply. "We're on our way to the seaside."

"What's your bride like? I bet a pretty fella like you landed a pretty dame."

The image of Ivy in a wedding dress flashes through my head. It guts me that it'll never happen. I shake my head. "No. She's much prettier than me."

The barmaid arrives with my tray and I'm grateful for the opportunity to end this conversation.

"You want the stew, too?" she asks as she sets down an array of crusty bread and cold cuts.

"What kind of stew?"

"Squirrel." She pauses and shrugs. "Most likely."

"Oh... No thank you."

I nod farewell and climb the stairs back up to Ivy. She's waiting for me at the card table by the window, her head propped in her hand, staring at the storm raging outside.

Thunder drowns out the squeak of the door opening so for a moment, she doesn't realize I'm there. Like a seasoned thief, I steal the moment to look at her. She's back in her white cotton chemise, the green quilt wrapped around her shoulders. The slope of her nose is silhouetted in firelight. She's breathing slowly, but chewing on her bottom lip so I know something is weighing heavily on her mind. She glows from the inside out, alight like she's been loved and nurtured her whole life, while I exist in shades of gray and shadow.

She jumps as she spots me in the doorway, tray in hand.

"You scared me," she says.

I paste on a grin. "You sure know how to flatter a man."

We eat in tense silence. I don't know how to stop feeling like a raw nerve in her presence. When we're done, I place the tray outside the door and look to the bed looming in the middle of the room.

"We ought to try to get some sleep. I want to be off at first light. We can think of our excuse on our way back to camp." I'll pay off the driver to corroborate whatever weak story I manage to spin.

"Agreed," Ivy says calmly.

"You should take the bed. I'll sleep on the floor."

"You paid for the room, that hardly seems fair."

"I'm a gentleman," I lie.

She arches a brow. "Is that what you tell all the girls you seduce?"

"Are you feeling seduced?" I attempt a joke to hide the way her jabs wound me.

"I wasn't talking about me!" she answers, horrified.

Sensing that it's the end of the conversation, I pull a pillow from the bed and settle on the floor. Ivy blows out the lantern, leaving us bathed in darkness, save for the flickering embers of the weak fire in the hearth.

I can't get comfortable. I'm too aware of Ivy's breathing. The knowledge that she is this close to me but I still cannot touch her really might kill me.

Ivy must hear my tossing and turning because after a few minutes she sighs and says, "Oh, for goodness sake, just come up to the bed. It's big enough for two."

I'm weak. I don't even attempt a half-hearted protest. I just climb into bed beside her. We're close enough that I can feel the heat of her body, see the way her lashes brush her cheekbones.

"I bet you wish I was seducing you right now." I can't help but say it. I have this insatiable need to push her to the point of reaction. I love watching her blush.

Ivy doesn't laugh like I was expecting. Instead, she goes still and quiet. "What would you do, if I were one of those girls you take out into the garden during balls?"

I'd push you up against a hedge and kiss you until you didn't remember Bram's name. "I took you to the garden during a ball," I say lightly.

"You know what I mean." Her voice is low.

As if by its own accord, my hand reaches out and cradles the side of her face. Her soft skin heats under my palm as a flush climbs up her neck.

"Your hands are cold," she whispers.

"The girls I seduce aren't usually this critical of me."

"Am I not one of those girls?"

No, I want to say. Any desire I ever felt for any of those girls is a distant echo of the fire blazing through me right now.

For weeks I've been trying to pinpoint the moment my feelings for Ivy turned from exasperation and annoyance to desperate obsession. I think it must have been that night after the regatta. It wasn't her terrible attempt at flirting; it was the way she lingered at the door to the cottage and muttered softly, "Goodnight, Emmett."

My romantic experiences have historically been a method of distraction, a way to numb myself. But in that moment, I was struck with the distinct feeling that Ivy Benton saw right through me. I wasn't numb at all, every nerve in my body fired at once, and I felt a confusing mix of bruising sadness and sharp longing.

There's a vault of loneliness and sorrow locked inside me and Ivy has come dangerously close to cracking me open. I don't even think she realizes it.

"You belong to my brother," I say.

Before this, I'd never felt anything but love for Bram. This slick, acrid jealousy is new and I hate it. We've never been in direct competition like this. It was Bram who taught me how to talk to girls in the first place. I was fourteen, and after a disastrous attempt to flirt with Lord Fox's daughter at the opera, he took me shooting and lectured me on the art of seduction. Not much older than me, I laughed and asked how he knew so much about girls. "You just have to listen to them," he said. "They want what everyone wants, someone to be nice to them. Oh, and you have to make her think anything you do is her idea." It wasn't terrible advice. Lavinia Fox kissed me in the cloakroom at the next concert. Bram was the only person I told. He clapped me on the shoulder and poured me my first dram of whiskey. I threw it up later, but he was nice enough not to make fun of me for it.

I love my brother. But I want to touch Ivy Benton more than I've ever wanted anything.

"I don't belong to anyone," Ivy says.

"You know what I mean." I echo her statement from earlier.

She leans in just slightly. "What would you do, Emmett?"

"You're being mean, Ivy." It's cruel, the way she doesn't realize she's torturing me. "Have you ever kissed someone before?" I want to catalogue all the people I should be jealous of. Are there any neighbors or friends or spectacularly lucky stable boys I need to be aware of?

She turns away from me and I'm afraid I've pushed too far. "Yes. Bram," she answers tensely.

"You know what I'm asking." Her breathing hitches but she doesn't turn over. "No one is going to want to kiss you if you can't look at them."

I'm not looking at you and you want to kiss me."

So, she does know, then. The knowledge that she has some wareness of how badly I want her and she still invited me into her bed sends a thrill through me. Maybe it's not only me who feels this tug between us.

"I want to kiss everyone," I say, trying to play it off as a joke.

"And everyone wants to kiss you, how lucky."

I nearly laugh. Historically, that has been true. But Ivy isn't everyone. "But not you," I point out.

She hesitates. "No, not me."

For once, I don't believe her.

"Did you kiss him back?" I bring the conversation back to Bram, to the poison garden I can't stop picturing.

"Yes," she answers quietly.

"You looked beautiful that night. I'm not surprised he kissed you. You're doing your job well."

"There's no need for flattery," she replies.

"It's not flattery if it's the truth." Beautiful is too weak a word to describe how she looked that night. She was breathtaking. Stunning. Heartbreaking.

"I'm not so sure about that. I'm pretty sure I froze up. He didn't try to kiss me after that fight at the club, maybe he didn't want to."

I nearly laugh. There's absolutely no way he didn't want to. He must have choked. "You asked what I would do if you were one of those girls I take to the garden at parties," I say. "You want the truth? I wouldn't do anything, not if you don't even know how to kiss." The jealousy coursing through me is making me petty.

"Now you're the one being mean," she says, turning around to face me.

I reach out and cup her face. For a moment we just breathe in unison. And then I say the most reckless thing I can think of. I'm so sick of holding myself back around her. I want her too badly. "I could teach you."

I expect her to say no. Or laugh at me. But she surprises me by saying, "All right."

I nearly lean in, but Ivy pops up and crosses her legs like she's expecting me to pull out a chalkboard and begin lecturing. I pull myself to a seated position across from her and lay my hand on her knee in a gesture that I hope says you don't have to do this if you don't want to.

I lean in to kiss her, my heart hammering in my head, but at the last moment, pull back just slightly. Her eyes drop closed, and in that small expression, I see that she wants this, too. Perhaps even as badly as I do.

Our lips touch and it's not sparks or fire I feel. It's relief. Her lips are still beneath mine, like she's frozen with nerves. She pulls back and laughs softly.

"You're too stiff," I tease.

"I know. So, teach me how to do it better."

My gaze flicks down to her mouth, now slightly swollen. I press my thumb to her plush bottom lip and she opens her mouth to sigh.

I lean in, so close we're nearly touching. My body thrums. "Relax."

I need her closer. I wrap one hand around the small of her waist and weave another through her unbound curls. Her hands scramble up my back and into the hair at the nape of my neck. She tugs hard enough to wrench my mouth from hers. The relief has given way to flames. It feels like I'm being burned alive.

"Easy," I laugh against her mouth. My tongue licks at the seam of her lips. She stills in my arms. "Take it," I instruct. "Let me in."

She relaxes in my arms, the heat of her mouth unrelenting.

It's like a tether within me snaps. I can't help tipping her under me and down on to the mattress. I trail my tongue down the pale column of her neck and take the opportunity to open my eyes and memorize her body. The blue veins tracing her delicate wrists, the curve of her cupid's bow, the pink shell of her ear. I could spend a lifetime just looking at her.

I finally make it to that freckle I saw earlier and close my teeth around it, making her arch against me. She makes this little whimper in the back of her throat and I am undone.

My hands trail ever lower, over her breasts, which makes her gasp. I grab her narrow waist too hard. Now that I've had a taste, I want to possess her.

The thought knocks me off balance.

I want to possess her.

Ivy Benton will never be mine.

I sit up suddenly.

Ivy looks up at me, wide-eyed, and blinks slowly. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No." She did everything right. That's the problem.

"Then why-"

"Ivy." I stop her. I'm not strong enough to say no to her if she asks for more from me. My racing heart pounds in my ears.

"What?" she asks, eyes large and watering.

"You've done perfectly well. I think the kissing lesson is over."

"Perfectly well?" she asks, a little too weak for a joke.

"Top marks in His Royal Highness Prince Emmett De Vere's school of kissing? Will I be awarded valedictorian?"

I force out a laugh. "Don't get ahead of yourself."

Her face falls. "I wouldn't dare."

I wrench myself from bed and step into the attached washroom.

The storm has mostly quieted now, nothing but a gentle tapping on the roof. In the glow of the moonlight, I look at myself in the mirror. My hair stands up from where Ivy ran her hands through it. My lips are as swollen as hers were. But the dark circles under my eyes are all my own fault. I grip the porcelain edges of the sink as the anxiety about what will happen tomorrow rears itself once more.

I could ask her to run away with me.

I'm shocked I didn't think of it earlier.

I meet my own eyes in the mirror. "Run away with me,"

I rehearse saying. "We could be free."

All at once, I can picture her reaction. She'd blush and hide behind her hair and say no. My stomach sinks. She'd say no because she loves her family too much to abandon them. And then there's Bram. She cares about him too; enough that she'd never trade a sure thing with me for even a sliver of a chance with him.

There's a ring of finality in the realization. This is my fate. I will spend the rest of my life trying not to want her. I will probably fail. That's all right. I'm good at failing. I've had lots of practice.

I pull myself together, slip back on the mask I'm used to wearing, and creep back into the room. Ivy is curled up on her side of the bed, breathing slowly, her curls spilled all over the pillow.

Are you trying to ruin me? That's what she asked me earlier.

But she had it all wrong. I'm the one who is ruined.

WHERE ARE WE GOING?" Rune asked as Verity led them away from the Luminaries Dinner and into the palace orchards. It was much quieter here, and the air smelled like apple blossoms.

"While you were giving your speech, I went to the prison entrance." Verity stopped and unlinked her arm from Rune's. All around them, fruit trees were in bloom. "I have an idea."

As Rune eyed the petals on the ground beneath their feet, Verity opened her clutch. Pulling out the pen and small pad of paper she always kept on her, Verity used the trunk of the nearest tree to steady the pad, then pushed up her spectacles and started to draw.

"This is a beguiling spell," she explained, sketching a swirled mark. "It's not coercive, like your truth-telling spell, so it can't force someone to do as you ask. It's more... suggestive. It makes you difficult to resist, though not impossible."

Rune frowned at her friend. "How do you know this?"

"My sisters used it all the time," said Verity, redrawing her lines, making them bolder and more precise. "They rarely left the house without it." She handed the pad to Rune. "Do you think you can manage it?"

From the simplicity of the symbol, Rune could tell it was a Mirage. She nodded, fingers dipping into the hidden pocket of her dress as she reached for the glass vial. Sitting down among the petals, she uncapped the cork, dabbed blood onto her finger, and, using Verity's sketch as a guide, drew the spellmark on her thigh in order to keep it hidden.

Despite the spell's simplicity, Rune had to grit her teeth to get through it. A headache pinged in her temples, and she was sweating by the time she finished the mark.

When the blood mark dried, Rune got to her feet. Her dress fell back to the ground, concealing it.

"Try it on me," said Verity.

Rune pursed her lips and glanced at the flowering trees around them. "Those blossoms are so pretty, Verity. I'd love to wear some in my hair. Will you pick them for me?"

Verity's eyes glazed as she moved to do as Rune requested, reaching toward the flowering white boughs overhead. The moment her fingers brushed the petals, she stopped, catching herself, and shook her head.

"That'll do." Verity's gaze swept down the front of Rune's gown. "And that dress will help, too."

"Wait," said Rune. "What am I doing, exactly?"

"Getting inside the prison," said Verity, shooting her a quizzical look. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

"Tonight?" Rune's eyes widened. "They don't let citizens simply walk into the palace prison." Not to mention she needed to be back in the courtyard before they served dessert.

"No," said Verity. "But a young guard wanting to impress a beautiful girl far above his station? He could be convinced to escort you in." She grinned, her eyes sparkling. "I've planned it all out. Come on."

Rune chewed her lip, worried about how quickly Verity had come up with this plan. Wondering if there were complications she hadn't thought of.

But Rune remembered Gideon's note. He might not show up tonight. If he didn't, if she couldn't extract the answers she needed from him, she'd be going into the prison blind to save Seraphine.

More importantly: Rune remembered the smiling patriots waiting in the courtyard to admire her. She would rather do anything than go back in there.

Literally anything.

So Rune sucked in a breath and followed her friend out of the orchard.

It was a short walk to the prison, and as they approached its marble entrance, Verity glanced at her. "Where did you get that dress, by the way? It must be new. I've never seen you wear it."

"Oh." Rune touched the mint-green silk, almost reverently. "Gideon made it for me. I... forgot to tell you."

More like declined to tell her, after she and Alex had made it clear they didn't approve.

Verity's gaze raked slowly down Rune, taking in the gown from this new perspective. "Well, it fits you perfectly." Her voice sharpened. "You must have let him take very precise measurements."

Rune felt her face heat.

She wanted to point out that waltzing into the palace prison, with its many gates locking behind her, was just as dangerous as courting Gideon-if not more so. But two guards had emerged from the prison entrance and were walking straight toward them.

Verity touched Rune's wrist. "Here's our chance," she whispered, their conversation already forgotten. "I'll deal with the stocky one. You take the tall one?"

Rune nodded and focused on the latter. He looked young. Close to them in age. Maybe younger.

Verity blew out a quick breath. "Wish me luck."

Before Rune could, Verity tripped and fell, her clutch spinning across the ground, stopping right in front of the first guard.

"Ow! Merciful Ancients..."

Rune sank to her knees beside her friend. "Oh dear. Oh no." She touched Verity's shoulder. "Someone please help us!"

"I think it's broken," cried Verity, grabbing hold of her ankle and sending Rune a quick smirk before turning her gaze upon the stalky soldier-who was already coming to her rescue.

Verity was as good an actress as Rune, when she wanted to be.

"Don't put any weight on it," said the soldier, the clutch already in his hands. "If you'll permit me, I'll carry you. There's a physician on hand in the infirmary."

Verity summoned her most pitiful look. "Oh, I hate being a bother..."

"It's no bother."

"We're just getting off our shifts," said the tall one.

Rune eyed him.

Now or never.

Rising to her feet, Rune dropped her shawl, letting it hang from her elbows to better show off the curve of her shoulders, currently adorned in the flattering lace sleeves of the dress Gideon had made.

The soldier-who was about to crouch down and help with Verity-glanced up, did a double take at the sight of Rune, and came to an abrupt halt.

"Hi," she said, hoping this worked.

She turned up the brightness of her smile like the flame in a lamp, studying the blue military sash across his gray uniform as she drew nearer.

He was tall and broad, though not as tall and broad as Gideon, and his light brown hair shone with hints of red when the torch-light hit.

His eyes dropped to the fitted bodice of her dress-a testament to Gideon's skill.

"Where are you coming from?" he asked, tearing his gaze away as he glanced to Verity, who'd already been swept into his comrade's arms and was currently being carried away.

"The Luminaries Dinner. We came inside to warm up and found ourselves here. Do you think my friend will be okay?"

"I can wait with you, if you'd like."

So chivalrous, thought Rune. "I would like that." Glancing past him, toward the iron archway beyond them-like the dark mouth of a cavern-she touched his arm. "Is that the palace prison?"

"Um." He swallowed, staring at her hand. "Yes."

"Has it truly never been breached from the outside?" She stepped closer, keeping her hand on his arm. "Or stormed from within?"

He nodded, standing a little straighter, his eyes wandering openly over her now. "What's your name?"

"Kestrel." Was that too close to the truth? Too late now. "What's yours?"

"Fergus."

Taking his arm in hers, she glanced up at him through her eyelashes. As predicted, his body softened beneath her guiles. "Is it dangerous inside, Fergus?"

"Only if you're a criminal," he said. "You're not a criminal, are you?"

Rune smiled a slow smile.

Grinning at his own joke, Fergus moved to turn her away, but Rune planted her feer, needing to keep him here. "Could you show me inside?"

"Er... We don't bring civilians into the prison. Not unless they're under arrest."

Rune pounced before she lost him. Running a finger along the seam of his military sash, she felt the beguiling spellmark grow warm against her thigh. "You could make an exception, though, couldn't you? For me?"

Fergus watched her movements, entranced.

He swallowed. "If... if I take you in, you must promise to stay right by my side."

"Of course." Rune was so used to playing this part, she could play it in her sleep. "Why would I leave you?" She linked her arm through his. "I need you to keep me safe."

She was already pulling him toward the doorway, her gaze roaming the images of the seven ancients impressed into the arching border overhead. Her attention snagged on Liberty, who stared back, her gun in the air.

"And if there's any trouble, you'll do exactly as I say?"

"Oh, absolutely," said Rune as they stepped inside.

____________________

AN IRON GATE PREVENTED their entry into the first section of the prison. Black bars were forged to look like doves in flight, soaring up to where the engraved words MERCY GATE loomed high overhead.

Artists always depicted Mercy, the first Ancient, with an arc of doves.

Poor, beguiled Fergus approached the gatekeeper, who sat inside an alcove of the wall, separated from them by a thick pane of glass with a small opening in the bottom. Rune watched Fergus pull out a coin from his pocket and slide it through the opening.

"Aren't you done for the night?" said the woman in the alcove. She wore a white sash over her gray uniform. Catching sight of Rune, whose pale green ball gown made her stand out like a sapling in a world of metal and stone, the gatekeeper narrowed her eyes. "Who's the aristo?"

"Oh, uh..." Fergus glanced at Rune. "This is Kestrel. I'm giving her a quick tour."

The woman cocked a brow. "Do you have permission?"

"Come on, Nel." Stepping closer to the glass, he tapped the counter, impatient. "We'll be in and out."

"And you're showing her around out of the goodness of your heart?" The gatekeeper shook her head from behind the glass. As if she knew exactly what Fergus was hoping to get out of this. Nel glanced at Rune, who smiled back at her. The spellmark on her thigh flared again, and the woman softened.

Surely it wouldn't be this easy.

Nel flicked the coin back. Fergus caught it and started flipping it over his knuckles, back and forth, back and forth. "Go on," she said. "But be quick."

The gate clinked slowly open, and they stepped through.

Rune suddenly understood why Verity's sisters never left their house without this spell.

The sour smell hit her first. Sweat, thought Rune. And mold. Decades of it, probably. The dampness within clung to the cold air. Rune pulled her shawl back over her shoulders, snuggling into the warm wool.

"This is the first circle," said Fergus, leading her in. "The prisoners in these cells are here for petty crimes. Minor thefts, break-ins, that sort of thing."

Rune took in her surroundings as they started for the next gate, which lay further ahead. Two wide bays spanned out from this corridor, curving out of sighr. Doors lined each wall of the bay, all of them barely six feet apart, and the guards all wore a white sash diagonally across their uniforms.

"Do you imprison witches in here?" she asked.

"We keep witches in the seventh circle."

Rune wondered if she could convince him to take her that far.

As they approached the second gate, Rune read the inscription overhead: LIBERTY GATE. The bars of this gate twisted into flames.

Fergus approached the glass barricade where the next gate- keeper sat reading a book. The man had a well-trimmed beard so gray it was almost silver.

Gray Beard took Fergus's coin, glanced at Rune, then opened the gate without a fuss. Rune flashed him a quick smile as they went through.

The second circle was much like the first: two bays full of cell doors curved out of sight, and ahead lay the next gate. Instead of white military sashes, though, the guards wore red ones.

"This circle is for minor assaults," said Fergus, tossing his coin lazily into the air. "Drunken brawls. Things like that."

"You said the witches are in the seventh circle?"

"That's right."

"Can we go there?"

He shook his head, pointing to his blue sash. "I'm not authorized to go further than the third circle."

Darn.

"Only guards qualified to work in the seventh circle can access that section. And the witch hunters, of course."

He trailed off as they approached the third gate. The bars of WISDOM GATE mimicked the shape of trees, with owls perched in their branches.

After handing his coin to the gatekeeper, he led Rune into the next circle, where every guard wore the same navy blue sash as the one that hung across the chest of Fergus's uniform.

"And that?" she said, nodding at the coin he was tossing in his hand. "What's it for?"

"The access coins tell the gatekeepers which gates you're allowed through."

"Like keys, then."

"I suppose."

He held it out to her.

Rune took the coin. It was lighter than she expected, and nearly as wide as the length of her thumb. A woman's image was imprinted on the silver. An owl perched on her shoulder as she peered down at the open book in her hands.

"Wisdom," she murmured, touching the Ancient's likeness. "So every guard carries an access coin that corresponds to the circle he works in."

He winked at her. "You're a quick study."

She handed it back. "And witch hunters have coins too?"

He nodded. "All the Blood Guards of a certain rank-usually the captains or their seconds-carry an access coin, allowing them to bring witches straight through to Fortitude Gate."

Fortitude. The seventh Ancient.

And the seventh gate.

If every Blood Guard captain carried an access coin, Gideon surely had one.

Rune wondered where he kept it.

As Fergus explained the crimes that sent someone to the third circle, the cogs of Rune's mind were turning. If she stole Gideon's access coin, and perhaps a Blood Guard uniform-though how she'd do that, she didn't yet know-would she be able to walk straight through the last gate? Maybe armed with this beguiling spell?

It was the beginning of a plan.

"Oh, look. Here comes a witch now."

Rune, who hadn't been paying attention, glanced up to find the fourth gate closing behind someone she recognized.

Someone who'd shot her just a few nights ago.

Laila Creed.

Dressed in her scarlet Blood Guard uniform, Laila caught the coin the gatekeeper tossed with one hand while her other hand gripped the arm of a prisoner. Rune couldn't see the witch's face because a black bag covered her head.

Rune's palms began to sweat. Under no circumstances could Laila see her in here. Her beguiling spell might work on a naive puppy dog like Fergus; she doubted it would get past Laila's steely defenses.

"They brought that one in a few nights ago," said Fergus from beside her.

"Do you know who she is?"

"Some high-profile witch." He shook his head. "Don't remember her name." He started toward the witch hunter and her charge. "We can ask Laila..."

"No!" Rune grabbed his arm, yanking him back.

He stared at her fingers digging into the sleeve of his uniform.

"I mean..." Rune smiled weakly. "... I'm sure she wouldn't want us to bother her."

Fergus waved this off. "It's fine," he said, walking toward Laila. Any moment, she was going to look at Rune and recognize her.

There was nowhere to hide.

"Laila!" Fergus called.

Before the witch hunter's attention homed in on them, Rune turned on her heel and darted into the cell bay.

She heard Fergus say something, and Laila respond.

Rune kept walking, passing cell doors set into the stone wall. Because of the circular nature of the prison, the bay curved out of view. If she continued walking, Rune would remain unseen. But if Laila headed in this direction and found her, she'd catch Rune in her lie. The guards wouldn't even need to arrest her, seeing as she was already inside the prison.

Rune was so busy glancing behind her, she forgot to look ahead, and she walked straight into a guard.

He grunted as she bounced off him. Rune stumbled back, looking up. The man wore a blue sash like Fergus's and appeared to have come out of a door to her right-his hand still held it open.

Before he could stop her, question her, or escort her back to where Laila stood, Rune thought up the most extravagant lie she could manage. "A witch is loose in the prison. They need help restraining her."

He glanced over her shoulder, brow furrowing.

"You should probably hurry."

Letting go of the door, he turned in the direction she'd come from, drawing his gun and setting off at a brisk pace. He'd soon discover she'd lied-or, worse, that the only witch loose in the prison was her-and then what? Rune needed a place to hide and think, so she could get herself out of this mess. Eyeing the door the guard had come through-one that was closing rapidly now-she stopped it with her palm.

Before she could reconsider, Fergus called her name.

"Kestrel?"

He sounded close by.

With mere seconds before Laila found her, Rune slipped inside the room.

The door shut and locked behind her. Plunging her into darkness.

____________________

THE DARKNESS ENCLOSED HER like a tomb.

A cell. She'd locked herself inside a prison cell.

You idiot.

Rune suddenly thought of Nan, who'd awaited her death in a cell like this one. Imprisoned in heavy, suffocating darkness.

Would Rune await her death the same way?

The clink of chains made her freeze.

"What a delightful surprise," said a voice. "I never have guests."

Rune swung in the direction it came from and stepped back. Straight into an icy wall. Its damp stone chilled her skin.

"You're not a guard," said the voice. "But I don't hear any chains, so you're not a prisoner, either."

Rune swallowed, wondering if her beguiling spell would work on him. "I... got lost."

"Lost?" A dry laugh splintered the air. "And you stepped through that door looking for the welcome desk? I don't think so."

Chains clinked in the darkness, and this time, Rune heard a shuffling sound. Whoever was in this cell was moving closer toward her.

What type of criminals did they keep in the third circle? She should have paid more attention when Fergus explained it to her.

"Who are you?" he asked.

Rune pressed her shoulder blades hard into the wall, sliding sideways, away from the voice. She had her knife sheathed at her thigh and would use it if she had to. "I'm... Kestrel."

"Had to think about that, did you?"

Whoever this was, he was certainly sharper than Fergus.

The shuffling came closer. Rune tried to step again to the side, when the prisoner's hand shot out. Before it could lock around her wrist, Rune darted out of reach. Her heart hammered as she followed the walls, putting distance between them.

He sniffed the air. "Why do you smell like magic, Kestrel?"

Rune stiffened. How could he tell? Not even Gideon had deciphered her magic's scent.

She wondered if she could draw the spellmark for Picklock in the dark, using it to open the cell door and then make a run for it.

But the last time she had tried the spell, she had fainted in Verity's dorm room.

No matter how much practicing you do, no matter how perfect your marks are, some spells are going to be impossible or even dangerous to cast without fresh blood.

If Rune tried it and fainted, who knew what this prisoner would do to her.

"Do they know you're in here with me, witch?"

Rune's heart was going to hammer right out of her chest.

"I'm not a witch."

A sharp, barked laugh punctured the silence. Rune crouched down and reached under the hem of her skirt, grabbing the knife sheathed at her thigh.

"Tell me why you're here before I alert the guards."

Rune's hand tightened around the hilt of her knife. Somehow, she needed to get out of this cell. The longer she was missing, the more suspicious her disappearance would look. But if she couldn't use a spell to unlock the door, her only other option was to wait for a guard to unlock it.

How would she explain herself?

And what if this prisoner informed on her?

"Best start ralking, witch. Or I'll raise the alarm."

Rune couldn't think of any lie strong enough to help her, so she told the truth.

"My grandmother's friend is in this prison. I tricked my way inside, hoping to break her out. But there's a witch hunter in this section who will recognize me, and there was nowhere else to hide. So here I am."

Silence answered from the other side of the cell.

Rune held herself still, listening for the rattle of chains or that slow shuffle. She stared through the dark, toward the cell door, where a tiny sliver of light came through the bottom, reconsidering the risk of casting Picklock.

The magic you're capable of is too powerful for the quality of blood you're using. So the spell short-circuits.

A sudden warmth rushed against her cheek. His breath. The prisoner had snuck up on her while she spoke.

Rune tried to lash out with her knife. He seized both her wrists and shoved her against the wall. Her head cracked on the stone, stunning her temporarily and allowing him to pin her to the wall.

"My sister tried to save a witch," his voice said in her ear. "And they executed her."

Surprised by this, Rune stopped struggling.

"They came for us all-me, our parents, our aunts and uncles, everyone related to her by blood-and carved these letters into our skin. Turned us into outcasts."

"You're a penitent?"

Hope sprouted in Rune's chest. Perhaps she'd found an ally.

"I have no penance to make," he hissed. "I did nothing wrong. If I could rewind time, I'd turn my sister in."

That seed of hope shriveled.

Not an ally, then.

"What are you going to do with me?"

"Penitents are saying the witches are rising. Coming to take back what's theirs. That one day soon, we'll all get justice. Real justice. I want to know if it's true."

Rune frowned. "Are you talking about the Crimson Moth?"

The grip on her wrists tightened painfully, making her finch. "This is bigger than the Moth. I'm talking about a witch army. Something formidable enough to bring down the entire regime."

It sounded like a myth to Rune. Something made up by desperate people in need of hope. She could hear it in this prisoner's voice. Feel it in his trembling grasp.

So she lied-and hoped her beguiling spell would nudge him toward believing her.

"It's true." An idea was unraveling in Rune's mind. "And if you help me, when I break my grandmother's friend out of this prison, I'll help you escape, too."

"I need more than easy assurances," he said.

Rune tried to think of what more she could give him. All she had on her was her vial of blood and the knife, which once belonged to Nan.

"Will this suffice?"

She groped in the darkness, taking the prisoner's hand and pressing the blade's hilt into his palm.

"It was my grandmother's. That's the Wintersea crest impressed in the silver. If it falls into the hands of the Blood Guard, they'll trace it back to me. If I don't come for you within the week, give this to the guards and tell them how you came by it. That'll be enough for them to arrest me."

She was taking an enormous risk, bur Rune couldn't see any other way out.

His fingers closed around the hilt, accepting her terms. "You have one week."

"I need something from you first," she said.

"And what's that?"

"Your blood." There was no other option, and she'd already been gone too long. "A small cut should suffice. But you have to give me your permission to use it, and you will bear the casting scar."

She'd detected no signs of corruption since using Gideon's blood without permission at the mine, but she suspected this was because it wasn't her intention when she stabbed him.

This was a different situation: Rune was expressly asking for this prisoner's blood to cast with. If she used his blood against his will, or misled him, the magic would turn corrosive. She needed his explicit permission.

"Fine," said the prisoner. "I agree."

"Then make the cut somewhere they won't see it."

Rune waited in the darkness as chains clinked. She heard a hiss of pain, and then: "It's done."

Reaching for Rune's hand, the prisoner guided her fingers to the back of his skull, where warm, sticky blood matted his hair.

Rune shivered, wondering what Nan would think of her doing this.

But what other choice did she have?

Rune groped her way toward the cell door, bringing the prisoner with her, and drew the spellmark for Picklock against the wood. She'd never drawn one in the pitch dark, and every time her fingers lifted to collect more of his blood, she wasn't sure she was continuing where she'd left off.

But when she finished and stepped back, the symbol flared bright white in the darkness, revealing a messy imitation of the spellmark in her mind, wobbly and misshapen.

If she'd been using the old blood in her vial, it would have failed. But Rune was working with fresh blood this time, and the power of it carried the spell, making up for her sloppily drawn lines.

Salt prickled her tongue. That roaring sea swelled inside her. But this time, Rune wasn't standing in the waves, fighting to stay upright while the magic pummeled her back. This time, the waves were beneath her, and she was sailing swiftly through them on a craft of her own making.

The lock clicked.

It worked!

Rune reached for the door's handle and yanked it open. Her chest expanded with the breath she took. As the light of the cell bay flooded over her, she glanced back to the young man blinking in the light now flooding his cell.

"Don't forget your promise," he growled, holding up Rune's bloody knife.

She couldn't afford to forget.

As the door swung closed, locking him back inside, someone called her namc.

Or rather, Kestrel's name.

Rune wiped off her bloody fingertips on her handkerchief, folding it up and tucking it inside her bodice, before turning to find Fergus jogging toward her, with two other guards behind him. Blessedly, neither was Laila Creed or the guard she'd lied to.

"I was panicking! Where did you go? I turned around, and you were gone!"

His face was white, the freckles standing out like flecks of rust.

Rune wanted to run for the gate. To get out of this prison before the prisoner in the cell behind her changed his mind and shouted for them to arrest her. But the gate was locked. She needed Fergus and his access coin.

Play your role, she told herself. Just a little longer.

"Fergus!" Rune forced herself to stumble toward him, reaching for his arm. "I was so lost. I thought I'd be trapped in here forever."

He caught her, patting her awkwardly as they turned towardthe gate. The other two guards fell into position behind them.

Rune glanced over her shoulder at their stern jaws. "Are we in trouble?"

"I am," said Fergus, staring straight ahead. "I told Laila I brought a citizen in here and she reported me. I have to escort you out immediately."

Rune bit her lip. "Oh." As they exited the cell bay, turning toward the gate, Rune cast her gaze down the hall, looking for Laila. But there was no sign of the witch hunter or the witch she'd had in her custody. Only prison guards.

Fergus led her through each of the gates, herded by the two guards at their back.

"Did you learn the name of the witch in Laila's custody?" asked Rune.

He nodded. "She was the old queen's former advisor. Seraphine Oakes."

Rune suddenly couldn't breathe. Like there wasn't enough air in here and the cell bay around her was spinning.

"Where was she taking her?"

"I didn't ask," said Fergus, distracted by whatever punishment awaited him. "They only ever take a witch out of the prison for one reason: to be purged."