Around two in the afternoon, Mum knocks on my door and comes into my room. “Still in your pajamas?”
I look down at my oversized, long-sleeved T-shirt that I’m wearing as a night dress. I got so caught up in reading that I’ve barely moved all day. “Yes, but I’m going to head out for a walk now.” Glancing at my window, I see it’s raining again. It’s always raining. In a month or so it will be snowing.
Mum’s holding a large, plain envelope. “This was left for you on the doorstep, darling. Who’s hand-delivering mail to you?”
“I don’t know. Probably Archduchess Levanter. She’s helping me with some research I’m doing.”
I hold out my hand and Mum passes it over. “Odd that she didn’t ring the doorbell. All right, I’m going out now, but I’ll be home for dinner. Don’t do anything to upset your father.”
“I won’t,” I say automatically, turning the envelope over in my hands. My name has been printed on a label, with no address. It feels like heavy paper and it’s a quarter-inch thick. When Mum leaves the room, I close the door behind her and rip open the package.
A USB drive falls out and tumbles onto my bed. I take it over to my laptop and insert it, and a folder appears with one file. An audio file, and I press play.
I blink when I recognize my own voice, but I’m not sure what I’m saying. I don’t remember saying these sentences. When was this? Perplexed, I go through the photos, flicking through them one after another. I sort quickly, and recognize myself, as well as one or two other people.
I spread all the photos out on my bed and study them carefully as I play the audio. They go together, telling an insidious story.
The audio of me. The pictures of me.
If anyone else sees them, they could ruin me and my whole family.
Forever.
I remember that skittering of stones as Tieman, Louis and I talked in the railway tunnel. Jakob’s man following me. Jakob in the elevator, telling me, I’m going crazy for you. I might even do something crazy if you make me wait too long.
“You bastard,” I whisper, as tears blur my eyes.
I stuff the photographs and the USB back in the envelope, hot tears spilling down my face and my heart pounding in my ears.
Ten minutes later, I arrive at the palace offices with a long jacket on over my pajamas and my feet stuffed into slipper boots. I think the driver asked me three times in the ride over if I’m all right, but I can’t force any words from my throat.
As soon as I reach the palace offices, I run inside and head straight to Jakob’s office, not bothering to knock. He’s sitting at his desk and typing as I hurry in, and his expression changes from surprise to concern as I stand before him, breathing hard and clutching the envelope.
He stands up and comes around the desk toward me. “Sachelle, what’s wrong? Has something happened?”
Tears fill my eyes and I’m shaking so hard my hands are trembling. I should be angry and scornful, not weak and pitiful. “How could you do this?”
“Do what?”
I can barely see Jakob’s face through my blurred eyes, but I’m sure he must be gloating over what he’s done. “You know what.”
He moves past me to close his office door, and then tries to take me in his arms.
I push him away. “Don’t touch me. Don’t ever touch me again. I hate myself for ever letting you lay a finger on me.”
He points to a chair. “Sit. Calm down, and when you’re calm, tell me what has happened.”
I push the envelope into his hands. I can’t stand to touch it anymore. “I’m so sick of your lies and the way you pretend to care about me and about Paravel when all you care about is yourself. I’m not going to let you get away with this. Do what you want with those pictures. They’re the only way you’ll ever see me again.”
Without waiting for him to reply, I turn and run blindly from the office. I walk all the way home, wiping tears from my face. Every intimate moment with Jakob flashes through my mind, and the tears just keep falling.
As I walk up the front steps of Balzac Mansion, I wonder if I’m going to be thrown out of the family, just like Briar.
Inside, Dad’s in the living room, sitting in his chair with the newspaper. It trembles slightly in his grip and the veins on the back of his hands are a deep, unhealthy purple.
“Dad?” I call, my voice quavering.
He lowers the paper and looks at me, his skin a papery gray, his eyes dull. As sick as he is, he manages to smile. “Sachelle. Hello, sweetheart.”