Rasmussen eyes me speculatively. It’s a good story, full of lust, betrayal and murder. I can see he’s wondering how much of it is true.
All of it. It’s all true, and it’s the last thing I want to think about for the rest of my goddamn life.
“Look,” I say, resisting the urge to add dickhead, “I have no loyalty to Chairman Varga, alive or dead. I just stabled his horse. If you want to arrest everyone who ever crossed paths with the Party, you’ll have to arrest the whole of Paravel. You’re wasting your time with me. I just stable horses. Maybe you’ll come around to interrogate them next. Or shall I bring them in here? They can shit all over your perfect office.”
I lurch angrily to my feet and head for the door.
Rasmussen calls after me, “If you put one foot out of line, I’ll have you thrown into prison, with no hope of seeing the light of day ever again.”
I nod slowly, my back to him. “It’s wonderful to see how things have changed around here. Have a good day, Comrade. Sorry—Rasmussen.”
I grab my coat from the peg on the wall, give it a shake, so that dust and straw falls all over the scrupulously clean carpet, and slam out of his office.
My horse, Aster, is tied to a traffic sign and is drawing a few stares. Aster, born of Astrid, who was born Astrea, my mother’s mare. Fifteen hands of silvery Arabian horse. I mount up, turn her around, and gallop down the wide street, the palace at my back. The King, Rasmussen, the whole lot of them can go to hell.
Twenty minutes later, I turn off a tree-lined street into the Bellerose Livery Stable and Riding School. I take a shaky breath and run my eyes over the fields. The neat stable buildings. This is all I want. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, and yet, people won’t leave me the hell alone.
As I’m getting down from Aster, Charlotte, the riding instructor, comes out of the office. There’s a tense expression on her usually open and pleasant face.
“Cassian, we’ve got a new—”
“Not now,” I say, leading Aster across the stable yard and into a straw-filled stall. I take off her tack and bury my face in her neck and mane, trying to calm my angry, pounding heart.
“You’re all right, girl,” I say. “It’s all right.”
My chest feels tight, as it always does whenever someone talks about my parents. I should have prepared for the fact that the revolution would mean it all coming out again.
Across the treetops, I can see the pale blue and gold flag of Paravel flying over the palace. I imagine the courtiers all over there in their finery, talking about my parents in ways that they never would have dared under Varga. That piece of shit Rasmussen took all of ten seconds to insinuate himself into a top position, where he could lord it over his fellow citizens. It seems like the monarchy is turning out to be just as paranoid and controlling as the People’s Republic was. I’m disappointed King Anson chose this route. Disappointed, but not surprised.
“They can all go fuck themselves, can’t they, girl?” I murmur, patting Aster’s neck.
Behind me, someone clears their throat.
I turn, expecting to see Charlotte, but instead, find myself looking into the brightest pair of hazel eyes I’ve ever seen, and a beautiful face framed by dark hair. She’s in the opposite stall, dressed in riding clothes and standing next to a glossy palomino horse.
“Hello,” she says with a smile. “I don’t think you saw me when you came in. I’m new here.”
She wears a delicate gold watch on her wrist. Her thick, glossy dark hair is in a ponytail. Expensive tan jodhpurs cling to her shapely hips. Her horse looks like it cost as much as a house. She’s got the stank of the First Families all over her.
When I don’t say anything, her smile fades, and she turns away, giving me a view of her shapely ass and a slender waist. Christ, I don’t think I’ve ever laid eyes on such a beautiful woman.
I should head back into the house and work on my dismal accounts, but I start to brush Aster’s silver coat, instead.
The woman looks up from what she’s doing. “That’s a good-looking animal.”
I can’t resist a compliment for my horse. “Thanks. Yours, too.” The palomino is an elegant, muscular creature with a frosted caramel coat and creamy mane. I recognize the long shoulder and crested neck of the Trakehner breed.
She pats her horse and gives me that dazzling smile again. “I’m very proud of her. And judging by your wonderful horse, you know what you’re talking about.”
I lay my hand against Aster’s withers and watch the woman. “What’s your name?”
“Aubrey. Aubrey Levanter.”