Chapter 13
Islide my fingers along my collar and fail to loosen the fabric chafing my throat.
In front of me, Kressa shrugs her hair over her shoulder. Judging by her unbound strands cascading in waves down her back, she must have denied help from the staff to get ready for the ceremony.
Delicate white piping sweeps down her sleeves, matching mine and every other competitor’s court-issued uniform. But unlike everyone else, she doesn’t tug at her cuffs or strain against the neckline of her shirt.
Simon shuffles and glances over his shoulder at her. “How long is he going to keep us waiting?”
I scan the hallway. Nobles flooded the great hall nearly an hour ago, and since then, we’ve been waiting behind the closed doors, listening to the garbled conversations coming from the other side.
I wind my finger into the hair at my temple and pull a lock of hair from my updo, letting it rest in my periphery. If they begin to darken from blonde to brown, I’ll have to make a run for it.
A guard strides around the corner and whispers to the one stationed at the door. He eyes us and nods, grabbing hold of the door handle.
I roll back my shoulders and tip my chin, calming my racing heart. As the doors swing open, the air takes on a charge. Our two lines filter into the room, and I lean to the side, peering around the bodies and scanning the head table perched at the dais.
Isolde takes up her seat, her head adorned with a crown of inverted icicles—her eyes just as cold. But the chair beside her is empty. Vacant.
Caelus isn’t here.
My stomach sinks.
A hand shoves me in the back. “Are you going?”
I swallow and force myself forward, crossing the threshold into the great hall.
The announcer’s voice booms in my ears. “King Caelus is pleased to introduce the participants of The Gales.”
“All hail the king,” the guests recite.
I seal my lips tight and palm the dagger hidden at my thigh. Tables cram the space—a sea of nobles and governors gawking as we pass. I squirm under their gazes and their scrutiny, wondering which of us will live and which will die.
Money exchanges hands under the table.
Kressa glances at Simon, her lip curled. “They’re betting on us.”
A sour taste fills my mouth. This is what we are to them—not lives, not people, but entertainment. They’d think different if they knew the power of their court hinged on their king holding this competition.
Our lines split at a long table parallel to the dais, and I keep my head low, noting the way Isolde’s hand tightens on her cup. I can’t imagine her with us—marching in a line, risking her life.
I wouldn’t let her.
I sink into the seat across from Kressa, and she catches my gaze. She lifts a brow, reading something on my face, but shakes her head and turns her attention to Simon.
Servants bustle from the kitchens and lower glasses of red wine in front of us. I take a long sip and search the ballroom.
Clouds blot out the moon, and rain pelts the windowpanes. In the decade I’ve been here, Caelus has never not controlled the weather when guests are dining with us. There’s an uneasiness in the air, as if everyone is just as curious where the king is.
I pull my gaze from the window and find Gemma and Marianne at the back of the room.
Gemma nods, and my skin tightens, the glamour reinforcing.
The competitor beside me leans his elbows on the table, and to no one in particular, says, “Why would he keep everyone waiting?”
I shrug. “He’s not usually this late.”
Kressa’s glass pauses halfway to her mouth. “And precisely how many of the King’s dinners have you attended, Harriet? I didn’t think pirates were particularly welcome.”
My chest tightens as she studies me, parsing out the background of the person I’m pretending to be yet know nothing about.
“From what I’ve heard, I mean.” I drown my words with a long sip of wine.
She hums. “From who?”
“Thea.”
“Ah.” She sets down her glass with a clink and drags her thumb over her bottom lip, wiping away a drop of wine. “The courtesan who walked into your room, huh? Pretty, that one.”
My fingers curl around the stem of my glass. She straightens and twists her head over her shoulder. I follow her gaze to the table of courtesans in the back corner, each dressed in shades of cobalt and sapphire.
Thea rubs the back of her neck, watching the door.
“Someone else is missing,” Kressa says.
“Who?”
She takes a drag from her glass. “His favorite courtesan.”
The wine sours in my stomach, and I let out a low hum. “Not familiar.”
“What’s her name again?” Simon whispers.
Kressa sets down her glass. “Briar.”
My pulse quickens as my name rolls off her tongue, the way she tastes the letters, possessing it like a mark on her list.
“What do you want with her?” I say, too eager.
“Wouldn’t you love to know?” She smiles, but there’s no kindness behind the gesture—no camaraderie. It’s an oily toxin as she eyes me. “Don’t worry yourself with it. Come the first trial, you’ll be gone anyway.”
I clamp my mouth shut and bite back a retort. If she wanted a reward for turning me—Briar—in as the thief, she would have by now. Unless she’s waiting for Caelus and I to arrive to the ceremony, where she can announce it publicly.
Valuable.
Simon watches me over the rim of his glass, but I don’t dare look away. I’ve already calculated his weak left side and noted the way he leans too far back when he throws a punch. It’s not him I have to watch out for.
It’s Kressa, and the lightness on her feet—how her attacks can’t be anticipated.
What she wants with me.
The competitor beside me bumps my shoulder. “What will you wish for if you—”
The doors burst open on a violent gust of wind. It whips down the aisle, clawing at tablecloths, yet Isolde only scans the open doorway, her fingertips clenched against the table.
She’s wondering where I am, too.
Caelus strides in, every muscle taut, a vein protruding in his neck.
Shit.
“Maybe I was wrong about Briar holding him up.” Kressa smiles against the rim of her glass. “Perhaps she’s the reason he’s so angry.”
Caelus halts at the courtesans’ table and wraps a hand around Thea’s arm, jerking her upright. I jolt to my feet, but behind me, Isolde clears her throat. A warning.
I sink back down, nails digging at the wooden arms of my chair.
Teeth bared, Caelus squeezes Thea’s arm and whispers in her ear.
She flinches back and nods, her eyes wide.
He throws her toward the doors, and she stumbles over her feet, getting tangled in her dress.
She balances herself against a crowded table and glances over her shoulder.
Our gazes meet for only a heartbeat, but long enough to send a message.
He’s looking for me.
My heart trips over itself as lightning flashes outside the windows, silencing the whispers. A clap of thunder follows and rattles the room, but within the length of a breath, the storm clears.
Caelus adjusts his collar, and the wind calms to a warm, mild breeze.
Tucked along the wall behind the dais, the kitchen door beckons me. I hold my breath and ease out my chair, careful not to scrape it over the stone. Ever so slowly, I grip my hands on the armrests and push myself up.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
I freeze. Caelus looms over me and tilts his head, planting his palms on the wooden table. I glance at them—each fleshy finger. All I can see is the way he gripped Thea’s arm so hard her skin puckered.
If I was within arm’s reach when he grabbed her, he’d be walking out of the room with one less hand.
My nostrils flare as I lean over the table, meeting him eye to eye. “Apologies, Your Highness, but I must use the restroom.”
“You’ll leave when I allow it,” he snarls.
Every noble in the room watches, waiting to see how the king will react, or how I might disobey. Ladies cover their mouths with their fans, whispering.
But I don’t waver—this act of disobedience a luxury. As Briar, I don’t have a choice. But as Harriet, he needs me as a willing sacrifice. He won’t, can’t, hurt me.
His hands curl into fists, and he inches closer. “I could make you wish you were dead.”
I swallow.
Behind me, a chair scrapes against the floor.
“Let her go,” Isolde says.
I don’t react, not as Caelus’s gaze narrows on her and my heart climbs into my throat.
He can’t hurt me, but he can hurt her.
Silence stretches out. A muscle works in Caelus’s jaw, and seconds tick by—ones where Briar goes unaccounted for.
He grits his teeth, his voice as sharp as the tip of a blade. “Get out of my sight, pirate.”
I sweep an arm behind my back and dip my head. “It’d be an honor.”
A blast of wind knocks me back. I stumble, gripping the back of a chair for balance. Caelus sneers, and I circle the table in controlled, even strides down the carpeted aisle.
Gemma stands like wallpaper in the back of the room, and I give her a faint nod. She returns it and slips through a passageway.
My heart races as I walk under the curved archway and through the open doors.
Rounding a turn in the hall, I run.