Chapter Eleven
It’s the third day. Another thorn will disappear at sundown, and we’re running out of time.
I must have slept, but it doesn’t feel like it.
After hours of tossing and turning in bed, my limbs tangled in sheets as much as my mind is tangled in questions, I finally accept defeat and dress for the day.
Over my uniform, I pull on my sweater with the Vandenberghe patch sewn over the breast and then go on the hunt for my shoes under the bed. Instead, my hand finds the worn wool of my slippers, and I groan.
“What’s this?” I say, waving the slobbery, shredded slipper in Waffles’s face where he’s sprawled upside down in my vacated spot on the bed. He has the nerve to look back at me with big, sad eyes, and I glare at him. “I should change your name to Demon Waffles.”
He nuzzles my hand, and I relent, scratching his ears. “You little hell beast.”
I slip on my thankfully unmutilated school shoes, vaguely wondering if I can talk Roze into including new slippers in his offer of clothing worthy of his fiancée. If I have to tolerate spending this much time with him, I might as well enjoy the perks.
Although I have to admit, he was … less deplorable last night. Positively tolerable, in fact. Only vaguely irritating. I remember how he held my hair while I vomited my dinner into an urn. It was almost gentlemanly. If I was feeling generous, I would call it kind.
I shake my head on my way to the common room. I have enough on my mind without analyzing Roze’s change in behavior.
I thought the common room would be empty at this early hour, but it isn’t.
Kole is hunched over a table, various metal springs, nuts, and bolts spread over it on a leather cloth.
I’m surprised to see him. For once, I wasn’t looking for him.
He’s always been an early bird, and we often meet in my much cozier common room to do homework together in the quiet morning hours.
“Morning,” he says brightly. He kicks a chair out with his foot. “Come sit.”
I fall into a seat and Waffles jumps up and settles onto my lap.
The common room is awash in pink haze—the morning sun straining to pierce the Mists.
I find the Mists almost lovely at this time of day.
The whole scene is eerily ordinary, as though the last few days of my life haven’t felt like a slow march to the gallows.
“So,” Kole says, using a tool to wind one piece of metal around another. “Any progress on the project for Professor Borges?”
“Oh,” I say, almost forgetting that I’d shared the book with him the day before. Lunch yesterday seems like forever ago. “Um, not really. Although I did find out that your dad was right about the armistice. The war almost ended peacefully.”
Kole’s shoulders sink a little. “Yeah. It’s a shame.”
He bows his head toward his work again, and I notice how the morning sun lights up the amber in his hair. I pull one of my books from Roze’s family library out of my bag and open it on my lap.
“What else does your father remember about it?” I ask casually.
Kole shrugs, his eyes narrowed on the little tools in his hands. “He said there was strong support for a treaty even when he was at Vandenberghe. He was in some sort of student organization that fought for peace.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Can’t remember which one. But he said even the King was in it with him when he was a student. You know, before he was King and all that.”
My head pops up from my book. A young Prince Alexandre Roquelart was in a student organization that fought for peace? But Roze’s grandfather was waging the war with Castelle. If Alexandre was fighting for peace, wouldn’t he have had to keep that information secret?
I glance up at the wall of books below the windows.
On the topmost shelf there are dozens of leather-bound yearbooks, recording the members of each class of Berlaise House going back ages.
Every house has its own set. I know that Alexandre Roquelart was a member of Berlaise—houses tend to get competitive about their famous past members, especially royals.
I’m suddenly very curious to lay eyes on teenage Alexandre.
Alexandre the Prince, Alexandre the secret peace fighter.
I cross to the shelf and climb the stepladder in front of it, and … I’m still too short to reach.
“What are you looking for?” Kole asks, following.
“I’m just curious about something,” I mutter, stretching.
I’m too far up to grip the ladder with my hand now, so I lean my elbow against the bookshelf to steady myself while I search, running my fingers along the golden dates on the books.
I find the one containing the records from the years around the end of the war and reach high, trying to slide the volume loose with the tips of my fingers.
The weight of the book tips forward, and it starts to fall toward me. My foot slips—
“Vi!”
I tumble from the ladder. The book collides painfully with my shoulder as two arms wrap around my middle.
There’s a loud oof as Kole collides with the floor, and I collide with him, landing right on top of him.
“Saints, I’m so sorry,” I say, turning and lifting myself on all fours.
“’S’all right,” Kole says, wincing as he lifts himself onto his elbows. His glasses have fallen from his face on the way down, and his unfocused eyes meet mine.
This is the closest our faces have ever been to one another, and suddenly I’m frozen. The sun and the fire warm the green in his eyes to a mossy color. I wonder—are they the same shade as grass was before the Mists came? Are they greener?
My gaze falls to his lips, and for a moment, almost out of habit, I wonder what it would be like to kiss him.
Kole blinks and clears his throat, pushing himself into a sitting position. I hand him his glasses, and he adjusts them on his face.
I smile. “Thanks for breaking my fall.”
“I would say anytime, but I think you might’ve bruised a rib.”
I huff a laugh, and my eyes fall to the book. I pull it into my lap and quickly turn to the class pictures toward the years at the end of the war.
“When was your father at Vandenberghe?”
Kole tells me his class year. I turn the page, and my eyes immediately snag on an old photograph that I know is what I’m looking for.
Four lines of Berlaise students, nearly triple the number we have now.
Their expressions are serious, but I can tell that their clothes are newer, and they have the shape and brightness of health in their bodies.
And then there are the sharp shadows behind them—the sort that can only be created by actual unfiltered sunlight.
The photograph was taken outside, where there must have been fresh air and grass beneath their feet. It’s enough to make my heart squeeze.
But my eyes are almost instantly drawn to one particular boy in the front row.
I don’t need to read the list of names below the photograph to know this is Prince Alexandre.
His face is familiar to everyone in the Kingdom, distinguishable even at this young age.
Another handsome boy stands beside him, their stances suggesting they’re in close confidence.
Their heads are held high, their expressions confident, even cocky.
And beside them is a line of writing in scrawled, faded ink.
Bone. Blood. Breath. Bite. Fiat tenebrae. —L
I stop breathing. I rush to my feet, heaving the heavy book with me.
“Viola?” Kole asks, standing.
“I’ve—I’ve got to go,” I say, not bothering to come up with a better excuse. “I’ll see you later,” I call over my shoulder as I race down the hall, leaving Kole standing by the bookcase with a confounded expression on his face.
Roze isn’t answering his door. I pound on it louder, not caring if it’s too early for his spoiled—
“Sinclair?”
I spin around, and Roze is standing inches behind me.
I nearly jump out of my skin. He’s dressed and looks like he’s been up for hours, that ice-white hair perfectly coiffed as always so that a single lock falls over his forehead, one dark eyebrow raised at me.
Seeing him face-to-face forces me to confront what I’ve been ignoring since last night—that even if we survive this, I’ll have to marry him.
The thought shortens my breath, and the Roquelart ring weighs heavily on my finger.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Sneak up on a girl.”
“You’re standing in front of my room.”
I huff and look past him down the hall. “Where were you, anyway? I didn’t see you in the common room.”
He shrugs. “I was out.”
I lift a brow. “Out?”
“Yes.”
I pause.
“Are you going to provide me with further details, or—”
“It’s private, Sinclair, fucking Saints.”
I purse my lips and look away. Something occurs to me that hadn’t before—that Roze might have a lover. Maybe he slips off at night to see them. The thought turns my stomach sour, and I quickly distract myself.
“Have you seen this?” I ask, pushing the book into Roze’s chest.
“A dusty old yearbook? I can’t say I have.”
“Not that,” I say impatiently. “This.” I open it to the page with Prince Alexandre and point to the note scrawled on the edge of the photograph. “Next to your father.”
Roze takes the book from me and turns it to look at it properly. His gaze is on the photo, but mine is set squarely on him. I watch the blood drain from his face.
I can’t contain my smile. “Fiat tenebrae. It’s what Ed said to you in the dining hall yesterday morning. Roze, this secret organization that you and your friends are in … was your father also a member?”
He sighs. “Shit.”
Victory.
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
He groans and massages his brow. “It’s too early for an inquisition, Sinclair.”
“Kole said his father was a part of a student organization fighting for peace.” I know my next conclusion is a leap, but I have a hunch. “Was that your club? Was your father fighting for peace before he was King?”
“Stop calling it a club.”
“Aha! So it does exist.”
“Could you try to be marginally less chipper about this?”
“Not a chance.”
“Sinclair—”