Chapter 18
Amelia had never been scrubbed so thoroughly, not even by her mother’s dictatorial maids in preparation for the balls she’d never wanted to attend.
The Selesee maids didn’t so much attend as manhandle her, shockingly strong despite their willowy frames.
Their slender fingers pinched and jabbed as they herded her into the tub, dunked her under, and scrubbed her hair to the roots with stiff, horsehair brushes.
They buffed her feet and fingertips with pumice stones, plucked stray hairs from her brows, and, when she was clean and prune-fingered, slathered her with fragrant oils and pained her lips and eyelids.
She endured it all with gritted teeth. If she was docile and cooperative now, someone’s guard was bound to slip, and when she seized upon a chance to escape, she planned to do so effectively.
Also, she didn’t want to make a move until she knew where Tessa and Oliver were being kept.
When she was finally laced into a heavy, ornate gown in golds and creams, a whey-faced maid gripped her shoulders and steered her toward the room’s floor-length mirror. “See? Pretty.”
Amelia didn’t recognize herself.
They’d powdered her face so it gleamed an unnatural, chalky white, and painted her lips and eyelids deep purple.
Her hair hung in a solid, oiled sheet down her back, viciously slicked along her crown and hairline, secured with a gilt headband.
The dress was strapless, a tight band cutting across her decolletage.
Below, it hung shapeless and streamlined as a bell, the skirts made heavy by the weight of the bars and beads sewn in floral patterns.
The first maid peered around her arm, rictus grin in place, and met her gaze in the mirror. A second bent to fluff and arrange her skirt; there were so many beads in the hem that it rattled like a chain across the floor.
“You look beautiful, my lady,” the first one said.
Amelia closed her eyes a moment so she wouldn’t burst into hysterical laughter. When she opened them, she was shocked all over again at the sight of herself.
“Are you going to take me to the emperor now?” she asked, and every maid’s face closed up tight.
“No. You’ll wait,” the first one said, no longer pretending to smile.
They withdrew in an efficient hurry: bailing the bathwater out the window with buckets, then toting the tub and their paints, pots, and potions out in wooden hampers. The door shut firmly behind the last, and the lock clicked into place.
That had been at least three hours ago, based on the slow crawl of the shadows across the floor.
There was water and a plate of bread and cheese over on the sideboard, but Amelia didn’t touch it.
She sat, straight-backed, stiff, sore, and fuming, fiddling with the gems sewn into her skirt.
At one point, she got up, crossed the room, and stepped out onto the balcony.
She’d seen the capital in illustrations, and glimpsed it in the detailed stories from her father and brother, but all its glittering wonders, its lush gardens and terraced mansion properties, was lost on her.
She was searching for a staircase, a ladder, a convenient chink in the stone wall, a handhold by which she could swing down to the ground.
But of course, there was nothing, just a sharp, cool spring breeze arcing up over the railing and scraping over her painted face.
The door to the hallway proved impossible to pick, and she could find nothing in the way of secret panels in the bookcases, nor a place to hide.
So she sat. And stewed. And plotted—fruitlessly.
When she heard the click of a key turning in the lock, it took every ounce of self-control not to leap to her feet and whirl to face the intruder. She did turn her head, though, when she heard the door open and shut in a quick flurry, and then soft-footed steps hurried across the room toward her.
It was Cassius.
She did stand, then, flushing hot with anger. She tripped on her skirt, cursed, windmilled her arms, and he caught her by the waist to steady her.
She froze, hand clenched tight in the fabric of his sleeve for balance, their equally shocked gazes locked. She hadn’t realized he was near enough to catch her, and now his hands were firm and large, crushing the thick silk of her dress to her sides.
He exhaled, shakily, and his breath was warm against her face.
“Let go of me,” she hissed, and he snatched his hands from her as though burned.
He lifted them up to shoulder-level, empty palms toward her—but he didn’t retreat. Amelia didn’t either, on principle, not wanting to be seen cowering in front of a Sel, which meant they still stood close enough to stir one another’s hair with their rapid, heated breath.
Too close. Far too close.
“What do you—” she started, and he interrupted.
“I don’t have much time, he’ll be along right after me, so you must listen.”
She’d been fretting for hours, but now she felt the prickles of renewed panic. “Who’ll be along right after you?”
She’d never seen him look less like a slave: panting, frantic, his eyes huge. “The king’s son. His heir. Marcellus.”
Amelia breathed in, and breathed out.
Cassius said, “The emperor means for him to marry you.”
The shock and outrage that flowered inside her were too intense to be voiced. She stood rooted, numb.
“The emperor has said he’ll reward me by allowing me to act as your personal servant, so please—”
The door opened.
Cassius stepped back in a neat pirouette, folded his hands demurely in front of him, and wiped all expression from his face. He was once again the soulless slave, ready for a master’s every order.
Heart beating wildly in her throat, Amelia turned toward the door, and the man who strode through it.
He wasn’t as tall, broad, or formidable as Romanus, but the family resemblance was clear.
The same high brow, sharp cheekbones, and regal nose.
He was dressed in breeches, tall boots, and a padded doublet of the sort men wore beneath armor, and his white hair was matted with dried sweat where it lay against the back of his neck.
He heeled the door shut without looking, slamming it home, and his gaze snapped to Amelia…and then raked up and down her in a thorough scrutiny. His mouth was a cruel slash in his pale face, his pale eyes narrow and cold.
His upper lip curled, and he turned to Cassius. “This is her?”
Cassius bowed his head. “Yes, my lord.”
The son turned back to her, openly sneering, now.
The emperor means for him to marry you, Cassius had said, moments before.
Her stomach turned. “If the dress doesn’t please, my lord,” she said, “then you can blame whoever picked it out for me, because I can promise I don’t normally wear this sort of thing.”
His gaze narrowed. He tipped his head back. “Is that how you address your betters in Drakewell?”
“Yes.”
His expression didn’t change, but he moved with sudden swiftness, closing the distance between them in a few long strides, arm rearing back.
Amelia ducked the slap he aimed at her cheek.
He gripped her arm, a cruel pinch, jerked her upright, and slapped her anyway.
Her head cracked to the side. Something wrenched in her neck, a hot spike of pain that shot down between her shoulder blades. The impact itself felt numb and cold, like she’d fallen face-first into a snow bank.
Her hair fell across her eyes, and she caught her breath a moment, frozen save her breathing, the taste of bile sharp on the back of her tongue.
Lia, you can’t talk your way out of this one, she imagined Malcolm saying. Don’t get yourself killed because of your pride.
He’d never spoken those exact words to her, but he’d cautioned her, gently, about her spitfire tendency to shoot back when offended. No one had ever slapped her before, but she’d watched men’s jaws clench with anger; had seen contempt flash through male gazes.
But she was far, far from the ballrooms of Drakewell. Contempt was the least of her worries.
Her anger swelled and swelled, so thick in her throat she thought she might choke. And she swallowed it, because she was far from home, and friends, and she had no other choice.
Behind the screen of her hair, she blinked until her eyes stopped stinging. The cold numbness in her cheek prickled, and stung, and turned hot, the pain bleeding in as the shock bled out.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
She did.
He gripped her chin, his fingers long, and slim, and cool, their touch cruel and pinching. His head tipped back, so he looked down his nose at her, gaze low-lidded and dismissive.
“My father wants me to breed you,” he said, and sounded disgusted by the idea. “And I’ll do my duty as heir. But I won’t tolerate your vile disrespect.”
Had he not been squeezing her jaw, she thought her teeth would have chattered.
“Do you understand me?” he asked.
His thumb dug into her cheek, and her voice came out muffled when she said, “Yes, my lord.”
He held her a moment longer, staring, hating her, then nodded and withdrew. When his back was turned, as he paced toward the sideboard, Amelia tried to massage some of the feeling back into her face.
She shot a glance toward Cassius, who still stood with hands linked and head bowed. As if sensing her attention, he glanced up through his pale lashes, and his lips compressed in a grim, faint smile of encouragement.
She wanted to hit him.
Wine skirled loudly into a goblet, and a decanter thumped down onto the table. Amelia dropped her hands, straightened her spine, and schooled her features in time as the son turned around to face her from across the room.
He folded one arm across his chest, and sipped his wine with the other. Leaned back to perch on the table edge, which creaked a warning, and trembled on its dainty golden legs.
Cassius said, “My lord—”
“Be silent,” the heir said, and Cassius bowed his head once more. To Amelia, he said, “You’re the eldest Drake?”
She had to swallow, throat dry, before she could answer. “The eldest living, yes.”
He frowned, and swirled the contents of his cup.