Chapter Twenty-Three
The Grimmstones protect their own. Sculler and Spinner lead Roze and me through the castle, watching for guards at every turn.
The halls of Vandenberghe are silent and empty of the usual bustle. At the glass bridge, Ed is waiting for us, and for once, his expression is serious.
“You have a clear path to the passage,” he says. “I’ve taken care of the guards in that wing. You shouldn’t have any trouble.” His eyes soften as he looks at me. “Godspeed, Scrivener.”
As Roze and I cross the bridge, I mutter to him, “Why is everyone treating me like I’m a hero for having my life threatened?”
“Don’t underestimate the importance of symbols, darling,” he says, keeping his hand on my elbow.
Roze and I creep silently through the doorway to the main castle.
He carries my bag, laden with a few clothes and more than a few books, on his shoulder while I carry Saint Waffles under my arm.
More than once on our way through the castle, we have to hide behind a tapestry or shut ourselves in a closet when we think we hear footsteps, but Ed has done his work well. They don’t come near us.
Belladonna has shut down the entire Kingdom to find me, and I still don’t understand her level of hatred for me. I can’t be the only meiga in the Kingdom whom the Queen missed when she executed the rest, the only baby with power hiding in her veins.
No one ever reveals their powers, of course, but there are always suspects—the kitchen maid whose pies are too delicious to be natural, the schoolyard boy whose aim with rocks always manages to meet his enemies, the old man with the wizened eyes and a knack for taking the winnings during card games.
Those whose talents are too suspicious tend to disappear.
But the refrain that’s been playing in my mind for days now is why me? Why was I singled out to take the fall for the death of the King? The only clue I possess is the blank book weighing down my sweater pocket.
Roze leads us into a gallery. Every inch of the walls is covered in works by the masters—dark, romantic landscapes, portraits of kings and nobles, a few baroque works with their macabre depictions of gruesome murders.
I can’t believe Roze grew up with unhindered access to such pieces, like they’re just part of the furniture.
He approaches a portrait on the far end of the room of a woman standing on the moors, her black mourning dress whirling around her.
He runs his gloved hand along the edge of the gold frame until it catches.
He does something with his fingers that I can’t see, and a moment later, I hear a soft click.
The portrait swings open, and a dark hall appears beyond it. He stands back and grins at me.
“After you,” he says.
I stare at him. “What is this?”
“Did you think I became an accomplished assassin without having a few secrets?”
I lower my lids. “You’re nothing but secrets.”
He smiles charmingly, and I look away, trying to ignore the way my belly flips and the memory of his thumb on my lip as he told me he wanted to kiss me.
It’s reckless to think about it. It’ll come to nothing. His very skin is poison … but that doesn’t seem to be enough to stop my imagination.
I take a step into the tunnel, and when Roze closes the portrait behind us, we are enveloped in darkness.
I feel his hand on my elbow. “Follow me,” he says, his lips close to my ear.
His fingers trail down my arm until he clasps my hand in his. He leads on, pulling me behind him, though there is no light to speak of. Saint Waffles, the cowardly thing, whimpers softly in my arms.
“It’s all right, Waffles,” I whisper to him, but I’m not sure if it is. The hair is raised on my arms.
I stumble, and Roze catches me by the arm. “We need to be quiet in here, Sinclair,” he whispers. “Take care that you’re not heard through the walls.”
“You haven’t told me where you’re leading me,” I say testily.
His grip on my hand tightens. “Somewhere safe,” he says. “Now, no more questions. And keep up.”
His tone is cutting, but he keeps his hand in mine, helping me navigate the darkness.
We walk in silence, his hand occasionally trailing up my arm, and what’s meant as a comforting caress sets my blood on fire.
And before I can help it, I imagine him making those same motions without gloves, with nothing separating his skin from mine.
With those long, elegant fingers trailing everywhere, running over every area of sensitive skin, light as feathers, until I’m burning.
I want to stop him right here. I want to beg him to push me up against the wall the way he did outside his bedroom, to hold my jaw in his grip like he did after killing the Queen. I want him to do dangerous things to me in the dark, where we can pretend that it’s possible.
Saints, what’s wrong with me?
We walk for what feels like hours, and I completely lose track of the turns he’s taken, helplessly lost in my own imagination. There’s no way I’ll be able to find my way back after this. We begin climbing stairs curved into a spiral—we must be in a tower.
The steps seem endless. My ribs are aching and I’m sweating through my shirt when a light finally appears around the bend, a flicker that illuminates the darkness, and I almost cry with relief.
Roze’s tall silhouette is now visible as we reach a landing at the top, and I realize the light is coming from under a door.
He retrieves a small silver key from his pocket and opens the door, glancing back over his shoulder at me before pulling me through—he hasn’t let go of my hand for a moment.
The room is octagonal, its ceiling hatched with wooden rafters as though its builders forgot to finish this part of the castle.
The rest of it is plain, unornamented stone, which is a sharp contrast to the collection of dark, stately furniture strewn about the room.
A large bed rests against one wall, draped in a thick coverlet of deep green with black and silver embroidery threading through it.
It looks so comfortable that I immediately want to sink into it, to fall asleep and forget all my waking nightmares.
A black, lacquered desk is against another wall, bottles of ink neatly organized atop it.
There is a sizable bookshelf, filled with thick volumes, and on a bench beside it are more books in neat stacks, as though the shelf had run out of room.
Before a hearth filled with ashes of a recent fire, an overstuffed chair and ostentatious chaise rest atop a rug that I’m sure is precious enough that it should be on display in some other part of the castle, not squirreled away at the top of a tower.
Almost like it was stolen. I don’t even have to ask whom this room belongs to.
And before the only window rests a pianoforte, sheets of music spread on its stand. It’s a beautiful instrument, dark and gleaming, exactly like its owner.
“Welcome,” the Prince says, strolling into the room and throwing himself down on the chaise. The fabric is a dark green threaded with black roses—like his name. He looks like a painting draped atop it, and I have to look away.
I don’t dare step farther into this room. The whole place leaves me dizzy, as though Roze’s poison has seeped through every inch of it.
“What is this?” I ask.
“This is my room. I rarely use the one in Berlaise. For one thing, it can’t fit a piano.”
“We’re nowhere near the royal residences.”
“No. I have my own rooms there as well. I’m occasionally required to visit to keep up appearances, but this is where I spend most of my time, away from meddlesome courtiers—not to mention my sisters.”
Roze feels so separate from his family that he cannot bring himself to live near them. But he doesn’t live in the school with the rest of us either.
An outcast. Belonging nowhere. Alone. Like me.
No, not like you. No one is like you, a small voice whispers in my mind.
I stare down at my hand, letting my shadows blacken my fingertips. “Who knows about this place?”
“No one.”
“Not even Fletcher or Ed?”
He snorts. “Like I would trust Ed with this knowledge.”
Waffles, tired of being carried, has started squirming in my arms. I release him, and he immediately flaps over to the nearest piece of furniture and begins a sniff inspection of the entire room.
“You want me to hide here?” I ask Roze as he watches Waffles probe his belongings for any sign of danger … or perhaps snacks.
“What I want has very little to do with anything lately. Right now, this is the safest place for you.”
Silence hangs between us. The air feels charged now that we’re holed in here together. I frown. “But how will we investigate the book if I’m confined to this tower?”
“Make a list of anything you need. I’ll bring you whatever I can—from the Crypt, from the Roquelart library—anything.”
“I can’t know what might be useful unless I can see what’s there.”
“Not an option.”
“But—”
“You’re in too much danger to leave this room.”
“I’ll wear a disguise.”
“No.”
I make a frustrated noise in the back of my throat. Roze is not a researcher. If he does this without me, he’ll use those knives he keeps strapped to his chest to find answers, not books. He’ll reach the wrong conclusions.
He snorts. “Please, Sinclair. You’re as conspicuous as a peacock in a petticoat. Tell me what you need, and I’ll bring you what I can.”
I huff in annoyance. “If there’s anything in the Crypt with runes or with the dragon of Castelle, I need to see it. And perhaps some books on magic. I don’t even know how to start parsing the enchantment on the book.”
Roze nods.
I take a deep breath. “Well … where am I supposed to sleep?” I ask, and immediately realize that there are few things worse that I could have said.
He quirks an eyebrow at me, and the heat in my cheeks worsens. I curl a loose band of hair around my finger to occupy my hands.
“You may sleep where you like. Take the bed—I don’t sleep much, and I don’t mind the chaise.” He backs away, crossing to the pianoforte. “Make yourself comfortable. You’re welcome to the bookshelf. I’m sure you’re itching to peruse it.”
Without looking at me again, he sits at the piano and lifts the lid over the keys.
And then he does something entirely unexpected—he takes off his gloves.
He tugs the leather off slowly, revealing long, pale fingers.
I note again how elegant and lovely they are, like the hands of an artist. My visions from the journey up here return with a vengeance as I think about those hands fisted in my hair, sliding down my chest, gliding up my thighs till they’re gripping my hips.
I realize I’m staring and shake myself. I’ve never felt like this before, this burning. Not for Kole. Not for anyone. And my stomach sours at the thought that it’s all a waste, because nothing is possible with him. I need to accept that and move on, or the pain will be unbearable.
I cross to the bookshelf and nearly stumble as he starts to play. I turn to watch over his shoulder. The song …
It’s soft and haunting. His face as he plays is reverent, peaceful—the first I’ve seen of this expression from him.
His eyes are closed, like he’s praying. My gaze falls to his fingers as they kiss the keys.
I wonder if the poison from his hands is leaving its mark on the piano.
It’s a wonder that skin so dangerous can create something so beautiful.
His body moves with the music while he plays, rocking forward and backward. I, on the other hand, am frozen. Entranced. I could die to the sound of his melody washing over me.
And gazing at those elegant fingers that kill with their touch, I realize what I should have known days ago … Something has begun in me that I can’t stop.