I freeze when my hand slides over paper amid the silk.

The note is short and small, written in tight, looping script. Nothing like Elane’s elegant, ostentatious cursive. I don’t recognize the penmanship, but I don’t have to. Very few people would leave me secret notes, and even fewer could actually get access to my bed. My heartbeat quickens in my chest, breath catching.

We’re right to call the Scarlet Guard rats. I think they might actually live in the walls.

I apologize I could not give you this invitation in person, but the circumstances allow little else. Leave Norta. Leave the Rift. Come to Montfort. Allowances will be made for you, and for Lady Elane. You will be welcome in the mountains, free to be as you wish. Abandon this empty shell of a life. Don’t subject yourself to that fate. The choice is in your own hands, and no one else’s. We ask nothing in return.

I almost crumple Davidson’s note at such naked dishonesty. Nothing in return. My simple presence is a gift in itself. Without me, Cal’s alliance to the Rift will be in jeopardy. His only remaining ally might waver. It’s a way for Davidson and the Scarlet Guard to pull him back into their grasp.

If you agree, order a cup of tea to your room. We’ll take care of the rest.

—D

The words burn, branding themselves into my mind. I stare at them for what feels like hours, but only a few minutes pass.

The choice is in your own hands. Nothing could be further from the truth. Father will chase me to the ends of the earth, no matter who stands in his way. I’m his investment, part of his legacy.

“What will you do?” a familiar voice asks, sweeter than a song.

Elane blooms into existence across the room, silhouetted against a window. Still beautiful, but with none of her glow. The sight makes me ache.

I glance at the note in hand. “There’s nothing I can do,” I mutter. “If . . .” I can’t even say the words aloud, even to her. “It will only make things worse. For me, and for you.”

She doesn’t move, no matter how much I want her to cross the room. Her eyes remain far away, fixed on the city and the ocean. “You really think things aren’t already worse for me?”

Her whisper, fragile and soft, breaks my heart.

“My father would kill you, Elane. He would kill you if he thought—if he knew how tempted we are by this,” I say, tightening my grip on the note.

And what about Tolly? I can’t leave him alone, the only heir to the throne of a small and precariously positioned kingdom. The letters of the note seem to blur and swirl.

I’m crying, I realize with a sick jolt.

Fat tears land on the paper, one by one. The ink bleeds, blue and wet.

“Evangeline, I don’t know how much longer I can live like this.” The admission is small, matter-of-fact. Her face crumples and I have to turn away. Slowly, I rise from the bed and walk past her. Red hair flashes at the edge of my vision. She doesn’t follow me into the bathroom, leaving me to think.

Hands shaking, tears endless, I do as I told my mother I would. I draw myself a bath and sink the note in the water. Letting the words, the offer, and our future drown.

As I lie back into the warmth, I feel sick with myself, with my cowardice, with everything in my rotted life. I dip my head back and submerge myself, letting the bathwater replace any tears still fresh on my cheeks. Underwater, I open my eyes to the strange, rippling world beneath the surface. I exhale slowly, watching the bubbles drift and burst. I decide I can do one thing, and one thing alone, about all of this.

I can keep my mouth shut.

And let Julian and Anabel play their games.

My hair is still wet at dinner, coiled into a neat spiral at the base of my neck. My face is bare too. No makeup, no war paint. No use for any of my usual trappings among family, though Mother doesn’t seem to realize that. She’s dressed for a state dinner, even though it’s just the five of us dining in the grand salon of my father’s chambers. Mother glitters as always, poured into a long-sleeved and high-necked gown of black material that glistens purple and green like oil. Her crown is still there too, woven into her braided hair. Father has no use for a crown of his own right now. He’s intimidating no matter what he does or doesn’t wear. Like Ptolemus, he is simple in unadorned clothing, our silver and black. Elane looks serene next to him, her eyes dry and empty.

I pick at my food, silent as I have been through the last two courses. My parents speak enough for all of us, though Ptolemus edges words in now and then. As before, I still feel sick, my belly roiling with unease. Because of my parents and what they want from me, because of how much I’m hurting Elane, and because of what I’ve done as well. I could be dooming my own father with my silence. His kingdom too. But I just can’t say the words aloud.

“I think Ocean Hill’s kitchens are taking the brunt of the young king’s new proclamations,” Mother observes, pushing the food around on her plate. Usually delicious courses have been replaced with bland, simple fare. Plain chicken, lightly seasoned, with greens, boiled potatoes, and some kind of watery sauce. An easy meal for anyone to prepare. Even me. I suppose the Red cooks of the palace have taken their leave.

Father slices a piece of chicken in two, the motion vicious and cutthroat. “It won’t last” is all he says, the words carefully chosen.

“What makes you think that?” Tolly, the treasured heir, gets the rare privilege of questioning Father without any threat of consequence.

That doesn’t mean Father will answer. He says nothing, continuing to chew the tasteless meat with a grimace.

I respond instead, trying to make my brother see what I do. “He’ll force Cal however he can.” I gesture at our father. “Prove that the country needs Red labor somehow.”

Dear Tolly furrows his brow, thoughtful. “It will still have Red labor. Reds need to eat too. With fair wages—”

“And who pays those wages?” Mother snaps, looking at Tolly like he’s some kind of imbecile. Odd for her. She dotes on him most of the time, more than she does on me. “Certainly not us.” She goes on and on, spearing her dinner with tight, jerking motions. The twitchy speed of a rabbit, maybe. “It isn’t right. It isn’t natural.”

I run the meager proclamations over in my head. Announced and effective immediately. Fair wages, freedom of movement, equal punishment and protection under Silver law, and— “What about conscription?” I ask aloud.

Our mother slaps her hand on the table. “Another folly. Conscription is a good incentive. Work or serve. Without the latter, why would anyone choose the former?”

It’s a circular conversation, and I breathe heavily through my nose. Across the table, Elane shoots me a warning glance. Obviously I don’t care for our lack of servants either, and the new world Cal wants to build will result in great upheaval, mostly for Silvers accustomed to our traditional place. It won’t last. It can’t last. Silvers won’t allow it. But they do in Montfort. Just like Davidson said. Their country was built from one like ours.

I remember something else he said, only to me, back in the mountains. He stood too close, whispered too quickly. But the shock of his words hit home. You are denied what you want because of what you are. A choice you never made, a piece of yourself you cannot change—and do not want to change.

I’ve never thought myself akin to Reds in any way. I’m a Silver-born lady, a princess made by the accomplishments of a powerful father. I was meant to be a queen. And but for the longing in my heart, the odd changes to my nature I’ve only begun to understand, I would be one. Davidson was right in Montfort. Like Reds, I am different from what my world demands I be. And I am not worse for it.

Under the table, Ptolemus grabs my hand, his touch kind but fleeting. I feel a burst of love for my brother, as well as another burst of shame.

One last chance, then.

“I assume Elane will come with us to Archeon,” I say aloud, looking between my parents. They exchange a pointed glance, one I know well and do not like. Elane drops her gaze, staring at her hands beneath the table. “She’ll have to stand with the rest of her house, pledge loyalty with Haven,” I explain coolly, my reasoning sound enough.

But not for Mother, apparently. She puts down her fork with a clang of metal on porcelain. “Princess Elane is your brother’s wife,” she says, emphasizing the words. They sound like nails on glass. She speaks like Elane isn’t even here. It sets my teeth on edge. “And your brother, as well as our family, has already proven himself loyal to King Tiberias. There’s no need for her to make the journey. She will return home to Ridge House.”