Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
My hands suction clammily onto the uneven wall behind me. “But you were half naked. You usually toss me off the bed!”
“I couldn’t summon the strength. And tossing you out of my bed? Takes all my strength.”
A zap of more electricity. “Y-you were upset this morning. I thought—”
“Why would I be upset at you kissing me?”
I fluster. “I was drunk.” I close my eyes to the image of his open and rumpled shirt, the flute askew against his bare chest. “I acted without thought. I snuck out in the morning, afterwards. Mostly, I thought you were hurt that . . . I don’t remember.”
Quin is quiet. Still a warm weight against me.
I swallow, whisper, “Why are you upset?”
A soft sound scuttles down the tunnel, shattering our fragile moment. Quin’s gaze snaps towards the noise, while mine stays stuck on him—on the way his chest rises and falls as if he’s been using magic for hours. His lips are still slightly parted, and I wonder—
Reality slaps into me with a chilly breeze and I shove Quin away and straighten my cloak, growling. Trembling. “This—” my voice cracks and I force it steady “—this is the last conversation we should be having.”
“It’d better not be,” he mutters, and follows alongside me.
Our footsteps are quiet shuffles as we head deeper underground. The air begins to thicken with the scent of herbs, a rich concoction that has all my senses on alert. Caelumradix, sylvestrisa, auroraroot . . . someone is seriously hurt, possibly near death.
My steps quicken. Quin stops using winds to support his leg—it might give our presence away—and hobbles, using the wall for support. My nape, my entire body, is a web of shivers from his touch and I’m afraid to pluck the web again, but he’s put too much pressure on his leg lately. His pain will worsen.
I hook a supporting hand around his elbow and try to ignore his gaze on my profile as we follow the scents.
We’re led to a hidden chamber, glowing with lantern light and vitalian spells. In the corner of the room is a bed, and on it rests a figure in red. His breathing is shallow, laboured, and it’s only the spells swirling around him that keep his blood pumping, keep him tethered to this life.
“Paxos,” Quin murmurs.
Our missing redcloak.
Who, the night before his abrupt disappearance, attacked Nicostratus near the canal.
Across the room, through an arched doorway, I glimpse an apothecary-like space. Shelves line a wall with jars of fungi and herbs, and there’s the distinct sound of something bubbling. A place to craft healing spells? Or to test poisons?
Before we can move nearer, a swish of white lace precedes the figure of Eparchess Juliana emerging from the room—without a mask. Her hands are aglow with a life-prolonging spell, and it lights up her flawless, youthful face. She halts briefly when she sees us and calmly continues towards the body. “I wondered when we’d meet,” she murmurs.
I’m a myriad of half-formed questions and I want to start asking, but pause. Eparchess Juliana is not looking at me at all, but at Quin. Quin, who she has been avoiding since we’ve been here. Because he was a constable, I’d thought, but . . .
I frown, and glance between the two of them. Quin’s expression flickers, and he barks out a short laugh. “It’s been a while, cousin.”
“Cousin?”
They glance at me.
Quin says, “This is Princessa Liana, the high duke’s daughter.”
Eparchess Juliana—Princessa Liana—stiffens at the mention of her father, and my mind pulls at a few threads and puts them together.
“You’re the one Lucius taught? The reason he was sent to that island?”
“The reason I was cast away myself,” she says, briefly shutting her eyes. When they reopen, she settles her gaze on me. “You’ve seen him? How is he?”
“Trapped. Helping others as best he can.”
She lets out a heavy breath.
I steer Quin to a stool, which he reluctantly lowers himself onto, and I catch the dawning understanding in his eye. His sharp wit is already piecing things together. But I still have questions. “May I ask?”
He inclines his head and I step towards the princessa. “You knew King Constantinos was here, acting a constable. You purposely avoided him.”
“I glimpsed him the first time you visited the outpost. I was behind the commander’s door. I admit, I was shocked at the time.”
My mind races, and I nod. “You were at the refugee camp—”
“I wanted to hear their story, to help build a picture of him.”
“They were sick that day. You couldn’t be sure what kind of man your cousin is. So at the dance house, aware Quin—Constantinos had followed, you left him to the commander to feel out.”
“Blood is thick with betrayal in my experience. I’m unsure who in the royal court I can trust. Including the king.” She eyes me sharply. “You were at the dance house?”