Chapter Eleven #2
“Don’t you see? This is the connection. Your father did something shady, something I’m sure would have been kept secret—” I’ve discovered a feasible explanation for the King’s death, one I cling to.
“Sinclair.”
“I don’t know what that has to do with this book that Professor Borges gave me yet, but whatever he was involved in might have given the older nobles reason to have a vendetta against him, especially if he was working against his own fa—”
His leather-clad hand claps over my mouth, just the way it did in the cathedral two nights ago.
He drops the book and backs me into the wall until he has me pinned with his hip, one hand holding my mouth and the other gripping my arm.
I can feel every hard line of his body, the heat of him seeping through his clothing.
He brings his face close to mine, our lips separated just by the gloved hand between us. His eyes bore into me like knives.
“You might find this amusing, some fun little mystery to solve,” he breathes.
“But I promise you, there is nothing pleasant about the risks our organization takes. If the nobility, or the royal guard, or worse, my mother, were to catch wind of our existence, you have no idea how hard the sky would fall. So while I know that I’m asking the impossible of you, I’m going to have to insist that you hold—your—tongue. ”
I don’t breathe. I don’t blink. I stare widely up at his silver eyes, both captive and captivated. Every time I become too familiar with Roze, every time I start treating him like just another Vandenberghe boy, he reminds me that he is something completely other—the Huntsman. Assassin and Prince.
Slowly, he releases his grip on me and backs away, giving me back my space. His expression is cold and controlled—I imagine he thinks he’s won some sort of battle. But I’m just getting started.
I glare at him. “Let me be clear about something,” I whisper. “If you want me to hold my tongue, then stop dodging my questions. You asked for my help.”
“Which was not a license to put your nose in every aspect of my personal life.”
“If I think it’s relevant to what happened to your father, I’m going to investigate it.”
“This isn’t.”
“I disagree. And you need my help or you certainly wouldn’t have asked for it.
You don’t strike me as someone who asks for help easily, Roze Roquelart.
So I’ll repeat myself—stop hiding things, and for the love of the Saints, stop threatening me.
” I take a deep breath, calming my thundering pulse.
“If you think you can do that, then you can trust me to keep whatever secrets you and your friends have.”
He looks me over, thinking. I can almost feel him about to relent, but then—
“No,” he drawls. “Sorry, darling. This is off-limits.” He turns on his heel and struts down the hall.
“Wait—where are you going?” I call after him.
“After this discussion, I find myself in desperate need of a cup of tea. You’re giving me a headache.”
“Me?”
I allow him five minutes in the dining hall. Five minutes of silence so he can drink his precious tea. I think I’m being rather generous considering what a complete ass he’s been.
And then I’m pursuing the yearbook lead again. “You need to tell me about this—”
“Don’t call it a club.”
“This organization of yours. Don’t you see? It’s the missing piece. Your father’s death, the war, the armistice—it has to be the reason he was killed.”
“No.”
“You don’t think this is why someone would want him dead?”
“He was the sovereign, Sinclair. Half the Kingdom wanted him dead.”
I throw my hands up in the air. “Well, if you won’t be helpful, I’m out of ideas.”
“We should go back to the mirror.”
“Absolutely not.”
Trying to coax helpful answers from him is like negotiating with a toddler. Actually, he reminds me of Waffles when he’s like this. Those two would get along wonderfully if they would stop growling at each other.
“What was your relationship like with your father?”
He hesitates a moment, swirling his tea in his cup. I think he’s going to snub me again, but then I watch his guard lower just a smidge. “It’s an odd thing, being the son of a king. When your parent is the sovereign, you’re nothing like a normal family.”
Something familiar twinges in my heart. I understand what it’s like to long for the embrace of a loving parent, what it’s like to give up on that hope.
“But regardless, my father and I—” I watch him struggle with the words while brushing imaginary dust off the leg of his pants. “We had a bond. We were separate from whatever my mother and sisters were.”
I think of those six nearly identical faces. Six sets of piercing eyes. Six cruel smiles. In a family like that, I can imagine Roze and his father clinging to each other for sanity.
“My mother has a habit of treating me like her own personal henchman. But my father … he actually talked to me like a son.”
“What did you talk about?”
Roze shrugs, a distant look in his eyes. “Art. Music. Great works of literature. He loved the opera—patronized the opera house before the Mists. I suppose that’s why I decided to study music. That and because Mother thought it was a ridiculous pursuit for a prince.” He smiles mischievously.
“Roze,” I say, not sure how I’m going to finish the sentence. There is no proper way to phrase what I want to ask. “Your parents—”
He cuts me off with a warning glare.
I know I’m not the first person to wonder about his parents’ relationship.
There had always been a tangible coldness between the King and his Queen Consort.
And yet … seven children, all born within a few short years of each other.
And there was that seemingly happy portrait in the Queen’s room.
Whether it’s impolite to ask or not, I need insight into his father, what might have been on his mind the night of his death.
I clear my throat. “Your father … did he love your mother?”
There’s a growl in Roze’s voice as he says, “Careful, Sinclair.”
“I need to know more about them.”
“The relationship between your King and Queen is none of your business.”
“We’ve exhausted our leads. We know your father was a part of something, but you won’t tell me what. We know that your mother killed the meigas. Are you sure it wasn’t her who killed him?”
He bristles. “I told you—I was with her.”
“But how do you know exactly when he died? It could have been any time between when he left the party to when he was found, right? Were you with your mother that entire time?”
“You’re reaching, Sinclair. I told you it wasn’t my mother.”
“I don’t understand why you’re dismissing the possibility. You don’t seem to have any real love for her, and we know what she’s capable of. Plus, now that we have this new information about your father, there’s possible motivation—”
“I know because my mother loved my father. To an insane, illogical degree.”
I blink. “That just doesn’t seem possible—”
“What would you know about it? About love or family or any of it? Your parents abandoned you.”
Ice slides down my throat. How did he find out about that? “Have … have you been researching me?”
His expression is arrogant and cold. “And why not? You’re my fiancée.” He cocks his head. “Why did they toss you out, I wonder?”
“Don’t—” I say. I try to make my voice sound commanding. Instead, I just sound as angry as I feel.
“Is it because you’re a meiga? Did they find out? Or did you get on their nerves as well with all your incessant questions?”
I glare at him, hatred stinging my throat. He’s deflecting, I know, drawing my attention away from my questions, trying to get a rise out of me. But it’s working.
“Martin and Elise Sinclair are doing well, in case you were wondering,” he says, swirling his tea. “I know you haven’t been to see them in years. They seem happy without either of their children. What happened to their son, by the way? You must have been, what, four when he died?”
I want to hit him again. I want to burn him alive. But my throat is raw, and I don’t want him to see me cry.
I shove away from the table and snarl at him, “I don’t need to ask why your family hates you. You’re as lovable as a plague.”
I storm away, hearing him chuckle behind me. “Darling, I am a plague.”
I don’t know where I’m going as I storm from the dining hall, feeling my shadows leak from the tips of my fingers. I curl my hands inside my sweater to hide them as I bow my head. I’m nearly through the doors when I collide with something solid.
“Viola,” Kole says, grabbing hold of my shoulders to steady me. I’m taking deep breaths, keeping my eyes on the floor, but I’m frozen. I want to hold on to him, someone familiar enough and, for goodness’ sake, normal enough, to ground me.
“Are you okay?” he asks. “Viola … are you crying?”
I bite my lip. “I’m fine.”
I try to move past him, but he stops me, holding my arm. “What happened?”
He looks around, turning in the direction I came from, where Roze is likely still sitting at the table drinking his tea like the arrogant ass he is.
“Oh,” Kole says. His body tenses, and then he backs away from me. “Tell me what he did.”
“Kole—”
“Did he hurt you?”
I almost say no. But he did hurt me.
It’s petty. It’s wrong. But I pause long enough to let Kole draw his own conclusions.
His lips form a hard frown. “I’m going to take care of this.”
“What? No, Kole, don’t—”
He crosses the room, not paying attention to my protests. My stomach clenches as I follow him.
“What did you do to her?” Kole demands, standing over Roze where he lounges at the table. His legs are still crossed lazily, and he doesn’t even look up at Kole.
“Your Royal Highness,” Roze corrects.
“Excuse me?”
“What did you do to her, Your Royal Highness?”
I have never seen such a look as what passes over Kole’s face. He looks like he might impale Roze.
“I don’t care who you are. You can’t go around torturing everyone in this school. Stay away from her,” Kole says.