My mouth closes, muscles cramping so all I see, feel, think is a pulsing, reverberating panic that starts in my gut and spreads through my body. The magic rises up into a swirling, threatening gale, pushing higher and higher for the surface.
I swallow, choking. No, not now—
Before I can add more proof to Noam’s crusade of my weakness, I rush off the dais, hand against my chest, trying and failing and begging the magic to compress back inside of me.
I did this. Of course Noam would figure out my plan—it was stupid to think he wouldn’t. And we have a deadline now.
Should I have let him bleed my kingdom dry? Should I have not fought back? No, of course not. But not like this. Not like . . . me.
The magic sputters inside me, knocking the air from my lungs. I stagger through the door and dump myself back into the hall, the noise of the celebration muffling in the high, narrow walls. Someone says something to me, distant and fogged, and my knees crack as I drop to the ground. But I will not use my magic—I am not weak, I am not afraid, I am the queen.
“My queen!” Sir kneels in front of me.
I brace myself against the floor, gritting my teeth. “I . . . I did that. . . .”
Sir’s face softens. Softens. “You tried, my queen. You understand now, though.”
I blink at him. His words sink into my mind like stones plummeting into a pool.
He let me do this. And he isn’t angry—he’s expectant. Like he allowed me this one flash of who I used to be as a test of my growth. Hannah would have done the same—let me plunge ahead, knowing I’d realize my folly and come limping back to what was right.
I do understand. I always understood, but I thought—I hoped—that I could handle this as me.
But only a queen can handle running a kingdom, not an orphaned soldier-girl. No one else can deal with their past; why did I think mine would help us?
Around me, Nessa, Conall, and Garrigan hover, faces twisted with concern.
Sir remains kneeling beside me, expressionless. “Are you all right, my queen?”
“No,” I growl. I hate him for not believing in me; I hate myself for believing in me. “But I swear, I will be.”
Mather
WHEN MEIRA HAD appeared next to the dais, cheeks tinged the most enticing shade of pink, the fabric of her gown pulling against her legs—Mather understood more violently than he ever had the meaning of the word perfection.
And he would have hated himself for thinking that, if not for their lingering conversation from hours before. The one where they had felt like themselves again—him, capable of helping her, and her, an untamed girl with deadly ideas in her eyes.
Now, he couldn’t look away as she stood over the crowd, spewing niceties about gratitude and owing much to Cordell and Autumn. She was in there, somewhere. The girl he’d grown up with. She was in there, and he was still here too, and maybe, just maybe—
Reality crashed back over him.
They weren’t themselves. He was a lord and she was a queen and Theron was . . . hers. Theron, who smiled at her now. Mather wished he could find even a flicker of dishonesty in that smile—but it was pure and true, and Mather hated him for it.
This was why he’d avoided Meira for so long. So he didn’t have to see Theron too, and be reminded of how she had found someone better than himself.
Mather swung to his left, diving away from Alysson and into the crowd that remained transfixed by Meira’s speech. He had just formed a plan to sneak out of the ballroom when a boy from the army training burst into his path.
“Lord Mather?”
Mather drew back, thoughts scattering. Applause and lyre music rose up—Meira must have finished her speech.
“Just Mather,” he corrected. “Philip, right?”
“Just Phil,” Phil returned with a grin, and motioned toward the city. “Some friends traded with the Cordellans for ale. You look like you could use a glass.”
A laugh scratched its way out of Mather’s throat. “Is it that obvious?”
Phil bobbed his head noncommittally. “Well, I figure there are two kinds of people here tonight.” He glanced behind Mather, surveying the now dancing and chatting crowd. “Most are celebrating. The rest are trying to forget that Jannuari hasn’t had such a celebration in sixteen years.” His eyes drifted back to Mather. “And you’re definitely in the latter camp.”
Mather shrugged. “I don’t want to forget,” he admitted, and glanced over his shoulder, all the way across the room, to Meira, still standing on the dais and talking with Noam, William, and Theron. Even from this distance, he could tell that her confidence had sputtered into anxiety—her hands clenched against her stomach, her bottom lip occasionally caught between her teeth in a wince that made him want to slide an arm around her waist, press his lips to her ear, and promise that everything would be okay.
“Ah,” Phil murmured.
Mather turned back to him. “Ah, what?”
“Ah, you’re no different from all the other Winterian boys.” Phil motioned to Meira. “You’re sweet on the girl who saved us. It’s natural, I guess, to flip upside down over the person who made our lives less horrible. Don’t worry, ale cures that too.”
Mather blinked. Of course he wasn’t alone in his love for Meira. But realizing that made him feel even more pathetic.
“Lead the way to this ale that cures so much,” he said, and Phil chuckled.
Leaving the ballroom wasn’t as difficult as Mather had thought—no one spared them a glance as they shot out of the doors and into the night. The palace walls muted the cheering and music, making the transition from the packed ballroom to the open night one of instant peace. Mather breathed in the dancing snowflakes, but Phil was already halfway down the courtyard, striding quickly into the dark city.