“I’ll make you a dress for the Kings Festival.”
Oh. That wasn’t as bad as I thought, considering her first offer had been setting me up with an attractive male whore. I hadn’t known they existed until that moment. I declined, of course . . . after giving it a thorough thought. You’re supposed to think everything through, right?
A frown pulled on my lips at the idea of the festival. “They are still having that?”
She nodded, her burnt-orange curls bouncing—hence the nickname. “Mm hmm. Maxim is allowing it. He thinks the annual Kings Festival will keep the hostility down. It’ll bring in plenty business here, and maybe Henry will stop thinking he needs to bring coin home.”
Maximus and his Untouchable regime had taken over the city two months ago. It’d happened so fast, that nobody even had the chance to fight back; especially because the king and his men weren’t in the city but at another of his territories.
Being the main port, whoever held control of it had a sway of the entire country. Maxim and his men were holding it, and the Queen and Princess, ransom until the Kings’ Council gifted Maxim the power to undo the curse on their people.
It was treason taking his father’s, the King’s, men and going against orders, but I didn’t take Maxim as someone who twiddled his thumbs when he didn’t like something.
I tried to keep my head down any time he strolled through the city. And he did, often, walking the streets like a commoner. He wasn’t one to sit on a throne and be fed grapes by his harem—as much as I liked to imagine so.
It was a surprise the weeklong festival would go on, but it was probably a good move not to anger the people who were already restless with the idea of Untouchables in control of their beloved city.
“You really don’t need to, Sunny. I’ve plenty to wear.”
I wasn’t sure who she thought I was that I could rescue her son from the magistrate’s house; apparently she sensed something from me walking him home each day I’d see him out, or having saved him from some mess or another. Not that I would even tell her, but I appreciated that she never asked. My home on the southern docks told her all she needed to know about me.
“Oh, I know that, darlin’. But I’ve the perfect dress already in mind.”
I glanced down at her dress uneasily; at the low white bodice, and the tight leather girdle squeezing her from hips to waist. I forced a smile. “Can’t wait.” Because who needs to breathe?
Darn you, Henry. Next time you’ll hang.
She began to prattle about something, but my gaze caught on a poster on the wall across the room. Patrons took turns throwing knives at the makeshift target drawn on the girl’s forehead.
The girl was me.
Well, she looked different than me. She had blond hair, but they got the nose all wrong, and the lips were a little too thin—but there I was, gracing most corners and tavern walls . . . as a convenient face to throw knives at when someone was angered.
At first, it’d been odd seeing my face—well, what they thought I looked like—with the words below:
‘Believe the innocence, support the dissidence.’
I was the face of Alyria’s downfall as the ‘girl who could open the seal.’
I’d feel special . . . a little, if there wasn’t often a poster next to mine, representing the one and only . . . Prince Weston of Wolfson. The artist who drew him must have seen him in the flesh because the likeness was uncanny.
His poster said:
‘Love the prince, love our land.’
His didn’t rhyme . . . but still, it was clear who they thought had been the bad one in the situation, and they had it hilariously wrong. They thought Weston had killed me to save the land; when in reality, he wanted the seal open.
The posters were at least ten months old, and with them all believing I was dead, you’d think they would give it up by now. But no, I was still a perfect target for blades.
Ever since I’d learned the truth—that they called Weston a hero for my death even though it’d truly been his brother—I often had to talk the burning spark in my stomach down. It made me want to do stupid things, like go to Titan and punch him as hard as I could. With a knife. Or be mature about it and just hand him my list of all the reasons I hated him. Just to get it off my chest.
But the thing was, it was
much better he thought I was well and truly dead.
I wouldn’t be dragged on a goose chase by him ever again. Not that I thought he could succeed like he had before. In fact, I knew he couldn’t, but it was at a price I didn’t want to pay.
Waking on the beach six months ago, the first thing I’d felt was the sun on my back, the waves lapping at my feet, and a presence standing beside me. I’d had no choice but to go with someone whom I had no inkling of trust in. But I was naked . . . and my options were nonexistent. So, when they gave me their hand—I took it.