Antonetta
had discovered the tunnel when she was fifteen. In her misery and loneliness after she had been abandoned by her friends, she’d taken to wandering the manor at night. Like most houses on the Hill, it had been built upon ancient foundations. In the cellar she discovered—hidden behind a painted panel—a tunnel hewn into stone. When she raised her lantern, she could see that it seemed to stretch on for miles, branching out into smaller corridors like coral growing under the sea.
She’d nearly gotten herself lost in the winding network of underground hallways before she’d learned to bring chalk with her when she went down there. She’d discovered that many of the other corridors led to doors that were now sealed, but the main corridor brought her eventually to an abandoned building in the Maze. She was never sure who had created the tunnels, although she had some guesses: an ancestor who wished to be able to flee the Hill in case of attack, perhaps, or one who’d been engaged in smuggling illegal goods. It was a delightful secret—one she once would have shared with Kel and the others. Now she keeps it to herself, and has used the tunnel often in the years since she discovered it. Neither her mother nor any of the servants has ever noticed.
In the months since she’s been promised to Artal, she’s taken to anxiously visiting the door to the tunnel, as if to reassure herself she still has a means of escape if needed. The concept of sexual activity with Artal repulses her, and the added insult of First Night—slobbering nobles like Esteve and Uzec and that weaselly Ciprian Cabrol looking on—even more.
She still recalls Artal standing over her, his breath stinking of brandewine as he winked and told her: “Don’t say I haven’t given you a choice. If you’d stop being so stubborn and set up a meeting for me with your friend Prosper Beck, we could make our nuptial night as private as you like.”
has told him over and over again that what he is asking for is impossible, but he hasn’t believed her. She has not yet ascertained exactly who is pulling his strings, but she knows someone is. He enjoys dropping hints that he has powerful friends, for one thing. For another, he is too stupid to have come up with such a devious plan on his own. When Artal likes what he sees, he takes it, and that seems as complicated as his plans ever get.
But who could it be who stands behind Artal? What puppeteer directs him? , sitting on the edge of an old cistern, gazes moodily at the door that hides the tunnel below. And most important, how had they gotten hold of that name, Prosper Beck? The name of the man who’d first taught her sword-fighting when she was just a teenager?
Her thoughts turn to Kel, to the look on his face when she’d told him about Artal’s First Night plan. Shock mixed with horror and disgust. She would have liked to take it as evidence that he cared, but it was Kel. He might well have felt the same at the fate of a stranger. Empathy is a lovely quality, she thinks, swinging her booted feet in annoyance, but it does make it hard to know what he is thinking.
How well does he even know me? she wonders. He certainly could not imagine the depths of rage and hatred she was capable of; she did not think anyone could. She has trained herself over all these years to keep those feelings hidden, never to let them show on her face, to always be smiling like a good girl should. She would smile her way through the wedding ceremony with Artal, and afterward, after the horror of First Night was done, she would smile her way through her revenge.