Chapter Twenty-Seven
Immediately upon lacing back to Illusion, I find Briar in the kitchens, apple in hand. Tugging her into the pantry for privacy, I pass over the small purse, swallowing the lump in my throat, steeling myself against my own emotions. She crinkles her brow, untying the cord.
“What’s this?” she asks.
“What you should’ve won,” I say, but the words stick in my mouth, for no one truly deserves to lose or win.
“Where’d you get this?” she hisses, face blanching at the gold coin.
I point to my throat. My oath.
“No.” She shakes her head. “I can’t take this.”
“In a few days, exchange it for silvers. Start adding a coin to each deposit for your debt. The record will say Illusion has increased your salary with tips. But wait until I get confirmation from Kassandra. Either way, on the record, you’ll be safe.”
Only three rings tattooed on each wrist. After centuries, she is so close.
“I don’t understand.” Her voice cracks.
“It can’t free you completely, but it will set you on that path quickly, within a year or so,” I say.
“And your debt?”
“With the Reign Crest salary, I will find my freedom soon enough.”
Briar looks up. “Avery, I…”
“For that family you have been waiting to start.”
“I can’t accept this,” she rasps.
“You and your descendants can be free. Your family could even build wealth one day. Please take it. Please.”
Tears roll down her cheeks. Then her face cracks, and she weeps desperate, broken sobs.
Reaching forward, I cradle the older faerie as if she were a child once more.
It is so simple to care for her as she has cared for me, for Kassandra, for countless others.
It is so simple, and yet her cries stamp themselves forever on my soul.
—
In the early hours before dawn, I am exhausted, but sleep eludes me.
Kassandra was not in her apartments when I stopped by earlier.
I do not know where else to go. So I scrape together the last of my energy to lace to a familiar sight, even if just an echo of a life I once shared with my mother. I walk to the empty training halls.
In the dim light provided by the stars above, I take in the racks of axes and crossbows and swords and clubs. Why must the High Fae craft beautiful weapons for such horrible acts?
Walking across the cushioned fighting mat, I reach its center, lowering and crossing my legs. My fingers trail along the seams of the mat, cleaned by some faerie—perhaps Carter—in the day since I was here last.
Why? Why him, Mama?
It was a question I asked her many times as an adolescent, in the years when my rage poisoned every interaction we had, a delayed fury I felt on behalf of the child I was, and because my father was not there to take it, my mother did.
Why him? I would scream. Why did you not leave him sooner?
She chose to love a monster and I did not, and yet he consumed us both.
Because I loved him, my mother would say, crying. Because it was hard to leave.
Every time she reached for me, I would shove away her hand. Don’t touch me.
Okay, I won’t.
We did not touch for years, and then for years after that as our shames and secrets drove us apart.
Only her dying brought us back together again.
Only when her skin was paper-thin did I feel how easily it could bruise.
Only when she soiled herself did I bathe her and understand it as a simple, reverent act, to keep a loved one clean.
Only when she shivered did we share a cot once more, her bony body sheltered in mine.
Only in those final days did she whisper childhood dreams and childish hopes, and I dared not beg her to stay, not as she moaned in pain and struggled for every breath.
All I did was listen and cling to her essence as if I could keep her from death itself.
But sitting on that fighting mat in the middle of the royal quarters, I reach clarity. After hearing the king’s weak protestations before ultimately conceding to comfort, I understand. In a kingdom of killers, my mother chose a fighter in the hopes that he would fight for us.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” I say, tears pouring down my face. “Please forgive me.”
Something shifts in the air around me, an enveloping and a letting go, an old guilt finally laid to rest, and I draw a deep breath. And although it may be foolish, I believe, once more, in my mother: that she has come to listen to the words that only now I have the humility to share.
The plane stills, almost reverent. On silent feet, the executioner circles before me. “You grieve for many. May they wander well.”
I wipe my face. “Why are you here?”
“Why are you here?”
“I’m too tired to return to Illusion.”
“You do not have a room in Reign?”
“I don’t.”
A pause. Then, “Do you want me to take you?”
I could go to the Mouth, to the singing and drinking and laughing, and ask either Lila or Carter to take me. But it would cut their evening short, and my dark mood may dampen their lighter ones.
“Maybe,” I venture. “How do I know you will…bring me back to life?”
“Your time is not now, and I do not believe in early deaths.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“If any harm were to come to you, I would make enemies of the king and possible future queen. I do not wish to do that.”
I had planned to rest here until I was strong enough to return on my own. But perhaps Kassandra is back in her room. It must be tonight, as I’ve already given Briar the coin.
“Okay,” I say. “Please.”
When Death extends a gloved hand, I once again side with the monsters around me in hopes of preventing those jaws from finding my own neck.
When Death folds me into him, shadows drawing around us like a cooling curtain, I clench my teeth and let him. We dissolve, and it is peaceful and quiet. We emerge into the earthly plane again, in the hallway outside Illusion.
I twist from his grip. “Thanks.”
“Of course.” He nods, smoke curling around his feet.
“Why help?”
The executioner shrugs. “I am from the House of Death. We welcome anyone who wanders to our doors.”
Then, in a plume of smoke, he’s gone.
—
I find Kassandra on her balcony, overlooking the moonlit Illusion courtyards, a discarded novel next to her. The curtains of the doorway flutter in the soft breeze of spring dawn, and she stares across the shifting maze to the northern building, to the darkened room of her brother.
“For a Reign Crest, you have spent much of your time in my apartments these past few weeks,” she says.
I lower myself onto the cool stone bench opposite hers on the balcony.
“I have a secret,” I say. “An important one.”
She quirks a brow. “Already?”
“My price, first.”
She sighs, then gestures for me to continue.
“Briar’s deposits will grow under the assumption that you are tipping her extra. The difference is being covered by someone else, so it will not show up on the Illusion accounts and Dominik won’t see it. But I need you to write a note to the tellers that the tips are coming from you.”
“Did it come from my account involuntarily?”
“No. It didn’t come from Illusion at all.”
Kassandra tilts her head. “The tip is coming from your pocket.”
I should deny this, but it is better she knows the source than dig up unwanted information. Besides, we have a pact now and this will just have to be my leap of faith.
“I’m passing it along.”
Kassandra reaches for the novel. “Still, someone may pick up on the discrepancy—that she is getting extra coin while extra coin isn’t being taken from my account. The Illusion advisor, Lord Tomas, is keen. He’s one to notice, even if Dominik doesn’t.”
“With this secret, things will change.”
We cannot beg a kingdom of killers to kill us softly. We have to act as they do: nefariously.
“Whose is it?”
I bite my lip. “The eagle wears the crown but listens to the older pig.”
She laughs. “Hector.”
“The pig rolls in the mud with another from a different pen.”
“Disgusting but not surprising. So, the old bastard is sleeping with a wife—just not his own?”
“She’s from the farm that…does tricks.”
“She’s House of Illusion.”
My eyes cut to the building diagonal from us. “The pig has green skin and dark hair. Her pen is with the blue pig.”
My mistress jerks back. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
She retreats between the billowing curtains. I follow as Kassandra waves a hand and various candles throughout her chamber—on her vanity, on her bedside table, by her looking glass—come to life.
“Hector is sleeping with Clara Roche,” she declares. “He’s sleeping with the Illusion advisor’s wife! Do you know what this means?”
“We have leverage.” I shut the balcony doors while Kassandra fumbles through the drawers of her bedside table.
“Where’s parchment?” she asks.
“Bottom shelf.”
Her silver braid falls over her shoulder as she bends down to scratch a quill against the paper. “This means that I need to invite Clara to tea.”
“You never invite anyone to tea.”
She scowls. “I do.”
“When?”
“Avery, I simply cannot keep track of every obligation and event I have! There are so many.”
I roll my eyes. “So tea?”
“Yes, tea. Clara helps her husband keep the books. Our books—which means I can grant Briar her raise, set aside a safety net for myself, and start giving out more tips. If Clara doesn’t want to give me what I want, that’s fine, too.
I’ll just send this note about the affair to her husband. We’re in the game now, Avery.”
It should feel bad, manipulating another female like this, but the repercussions mean so much more. Kassandra straightens. “I’ll let Briar know when she can deposit the extra coin.”
“Thank you.” I nod, falling into silence.
We stare at each other in the candlelight, and my mistress opens her mouth, then closes it. As we come down off this high, knowing our plan is working, we are left with the distance between us once more.
“Is there anything else, mistress?”
Kassandra clears her throat, looking away. “I was wondering…I’m trying to learn how to do my own hair. The way you used to. I suppose gaining some agency over my life has sparked the need for more.”