Chapter 52
Chapter fifty-two
Olivia
The barricaded sitting room door boomed again, hard enough that Seraphina’s bedroom wall rattled. Olivia’s pulse jumped with each strike, keeping time with the Pain flaring down her ruined leg.
“Olivia, Percy,” Duchess Edith whispered from within the wardrobe, one hand on Rogue’s scruff. The varhound growled, his teeth bared toward the locked bedroom door in a rare, threatening show. “We must go.”
“One moment,” Duke Percy promised, a weak smile quivering across his lips. “Go on, love. I will be just a moment.”
Just a moment.
She needed a moment. A moment not to think about Tristan sprinting alone into a dying city for the Shepherd. A moment not to think about whether he’d already been cut down by Coreto’s men. A moment not to wonder why she wasn’t already sprinting into the darkness after Seraphina.
Her flask weighed like a stone against her hip. Tempting her. Lady, she wanted a sip—just enough to stop all this thinking. All this worrying.
But right now, she needed to think. She needed her wits. At least until she knew Seraphina was safe.
After all that, she could drink herself stupid on dream petal and sleep for a week.
Duchess Edith thinned her lips at the two of them and ducked into the darkness of the secret passage.
In the near distance, men shouted. Wood groaned.
The barricade gave way inch by inch.
Stepping into the wardrobe, Olivia thrust out a hand and helped the duke up into its tight confines as well. The wretched cold of the hidden corridor wrapped around her, making her shiver. “Spit it out, Percy. We don’t have all day.”
“Olivia.” The Lord Chancellor’s voice—low, strained—cut through everything. The shouts. Her Pain. The cold. Reluctantly now, she met his gaze. But she already knew, both from his tone and from that look shining in his eyes…
That he was about to do something supremely stupid.
“Don’t,” she hissed. “Whatever you’re thinking, just… don’t.”
Percy’s smile turned sad. “I need you to listen to me, Olivia.”
“I’m too sober to listen to idiotic ideas—”
His hand reached out and wrapped around hers. “I must stay behind,” he whispered, his voice so soft she almost didn’t hear him.
For the span of a single moment, Olivia could only stare at him, this man who had been the only true father her best friend had ever known. That she had ever known.
Duchess Edith would murder her if she left him behind. Seraphina would never forgive her. Besides, what was Elmoria without its Lord Chancellor? He had been the blasted Lord Chancellor longer than she had been alive.
She shook her head, refusing to listen. “No—”
“I cannot run, Olivia,” he reasoned, so gentle, so calm. He raised his cane as if she needed an illustration, as if she weren’t as crippled as he was. But he didn’t know that. She had kept it so carefully hidden all these years.
Now she wished she hadn’t.
“I will slow you down,” he whispered. “I will get Sera killed.”
Olivia’s throat tightened. Her eyes stung. No. She refused to cry. “Then we’ll drag you. I’ll carry you if I have to—”
“Percy? Olivia?” Duchess Edith called from the darkness of the passage, tense. Edged with just a hint of fear. “What is taking so long?”
On the other side of the wall, a piece of furniture cracked as the barricade finally gave way. A man cursed. Another shouted orders.
They were out of time.
Percy shifted his grip on her hand, trying to gently pry the ring of keys from her grasp. “Get Edith out of here. Take care of her. Take care of Sera. They need someone sharp and ferocious like you now.”
She tightened her grip on her keys.
The duke frowned. “Give me the keys, Olivia. I will seal the passage once you are through.”
“This is the stupidest plan I have ever heard,” she mumbled, her throat thickening.
“But it will buy you time,” he corrected. “And the Lord willing…” He exhaled shakily. “I will die well.”
Her breath hitched. Her mind whirled. Everything in her rebelled against this foolish idea. No. Percy was wrong. This was all wrong. It wasn’t her that Seraphina needed right now.
It was him.
Booted feet thundered through the sitting room, drawing nearer.
Crack.
The bedroom door splintered. A blade tip punched through the wood, stabbing blindly.
“Olivia.” Percy’s voice gentled into something fragile, aching. “Let me do this.”
But she shook her head, prying her hand from his grip.
He frowned at her.
“Percy!” Duchess Edith screamed.
“You know,” Olivia drawled, “out of the two of us, you’re the one better suited to all this political nonsense. The strategy. The alliances. The speeches. You’re the one Sera needs right now.”
The duke’s face fell. “No—”
A single wet laugh escaped her. Shaky. Broken. “Not me. I’m a mess. I keep—” She cut herself off before the word medicating could leave her mouth. “I’m losing my edge. We all know I am.”
He shook his head, a protest clearly forming on his lips.
She cracked a smile, not bothering to let him get it out. “Sorry about this,” she whispered.
Her hand shot out, catching him in the chest, shoving hard.
Percy’s eyes flew wide as he stumbled backward into the passageway, swallowed by the darkness. His cane clattered against the stone. Duchess Edith gasped. Rogue barked.
Olivia lunged forward, slamming the false panel shut.
“Olivia!” Duke Percy roared, pounding the other side of the wall.
Her fingers trembled, shaking the keys in her grip as she hunted for the right one. Her heart screamed. Her leg screamed. Every part of her screamed. But this was how it had to be.
If anyone stayed behind, it had to be her.
Finally, she found the right key. Without another thought, she slammed it in the lock and twisted. It clicked shut, locking the Umberlys in.
From the other side of the wall came the muffled sound of the duke pounding on the hidden door. Once. Twice. A scrape as he tried to open it. Duchess Edith’s muffled voice. Then…
Nothing.
Olivia pressed her forehead to the cool wood, breath trembling past her lips. Goodbye, Sera. Goodbye, Edith. Goodbye, Tristan.
…Goodbye, Percy.
Her vision blurred as hot rivulets trailed down her cheeks. Tears at last.
The sound of cracking wood ripped through the air, drawing her back before she could wallow in her self-pity for more than a moment.
Sucking in a deep breath, Olivia pushed herself away from the wall, wiping her face with a shaking hand. At the moisture now streaking her gloves, she gave a disgusted tch.
Her fingers found the flask at her hip. She unhooked it, tipped back her head, and drained every last drop. Warmth burned down her throat, spreading out in a hazy bloom that dulled the edges of everything except the hollow in her chest.
“Come on, old girl,” she muttered to herself as she leapt from the wardrobe and landed wrong on her ruined leg; her knee buckled, nearly pitching her to the floor.
Gritting her teeth, she straightened and twitched all of Seraphina’s fine gowns back into place within the wardrobe before gently easing the doors closed. “Just a little more.”
She worked quickly, hobbling toward the balcony doors next and flinging them open.
A bitter wind rushed in, seeking to slice straight through her clothing.
She snatched up the queen’s fine sheets, knotting them together with clumsy, shaking fingers, and hauled the makeshift rope over the balcony rail.
By the time Coreto’s men finished breaking down the door, she was already lounging on Seraphina’s bed, staring up at the silk canopy arching overhead. Her now empty flask lay on the bare mattress beside her. The world around her shimmered, softening into that rosy glow.
Movement whirled around her. Heavy footsteps against plush carpet. Glass shattering underfoot. “They are not here,” someone growled. “It is just the Spymaster.”
“Just the Spymaster,” she softly repeated, chuckling at the words. “Yes!” she added, punching a hand in the air and fluttering her fingers at the traitors she couldn’t be bothered to even sit up and look at. “It is I! The Spymaster!”
The slow, careful tread of measured steps approached her. A face swam into view. Lord Threston, the Duke of Coreto himself. She would know that silver hair and icy stare anywhere.
“Oh, hello,” she greeted him.
His frown deepened, etching itself into his features. “Where are they?”
She widened her eyes up at him and asked, “Where are who?”
As fast as a striking snake, the duke’s hand shot out and gripped her by the collar of her shirt. Another laugh spilled from her lips as the man hauled her upward into a sitting position and drew his face close to hers. “Do not play coy with me.”
Over his shoulder, she saw men on the balcony, craning their heads to peer over the railing. The sheets she had tied to it swung uselessly in the wind, taunting them, surely making them question.
Had the Queen of Elmoria actually climbed down from such a great height?
She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek to keep from giggling again. “Or what?” she asked Coreto aside, flashing him another brilliant smile. “We both know you’re not going to hurt me.”
At those words, the duke grew quite still. Within that nearness, his eyes searched hers. “And what makes you so sure of that?”
Her amusement welled up inside her, bubbling over before she could stop it. It was all so funny—so terribly, terribly funny—that she couldn’t help but laugh again. Coreto’s eyes narrowed further in an expression she knew all too well.
The expression of someone wondering just what was wrong with her.
But how could she not laugh? Not when she knew the Duke of Coreto’s great secret.
“Because,” she sing-songed, fighting to keep her voice low, “you are faaaar too proud to kill a member of your own flesh and blood.” Lifting her hand, she gently booped the usurper on the nose and named him, “Father.”
All her life, everyone had thought she was a woman with no name. No father. No family. The mere bastard of a kitchen wench. But the reality was so, so much worse. And somehow, that made her want to laugh, because she did have a name.
She was a Threston. Olivia Threston—the bastard daughter of her best friend’s greatest enemy.