I glance out the window. The purple horizon has taken on the faintest hint of pink.
I glance at the door, as if that will make Wes appear.
It doesn’t. The kettle whistles. I divide the water into tiny measured cups and add half an ounce of ground petals to each, along with two drops of roseseed oil for the cough, which I measure out almost as carefully as the Moonflower petals themselves. I try not to steal what I can come by honestly, but roseseed nearly costs me a week’s wages, so I don’t even let Wes measure it.
Once the petals and roseseed have dissolved, I weigh in a bit of turmeric, which can bring down a fever enough to let the medicine work better, but I have to add a sprig of mint and a pinch of sugar, too. Adults don’t usually need much convincing to swallow the tincture, but we can’t risk wasting it on children who might spit it out.
From the Royal Sector, horns blast and shouts cry out, and I jump so hard that I overturn a cup. They’ve caught someone.
Wes.
I should run and see. No, I should run and hide.
My muscles refuse to do either.
Mind your mettle, Tessa.
I need to move. I need to finish. When the Moonflower is combined with the other ingredients, the elixir works better—but then they’re only good for a few hours after brewing. I need to finish our rounds, even if I have to do it alone.
The horns continue to blow. Shouting echoes in the distance. They’re going to wake half the sector. My breath has become a low keening from my throat. I imagine Prince Corrick being called down to deal with the traitor. The sentries aren’t gentle. Weston’s easy smile will be a grimace of pain. I’ll hear his screams from here. They’ll tear him apart with the tiniest knives imaginable. They’ll stuff his mouth with burning coals. They’ll feed him alive to the royal lions. They’ll burn each limb, one by one, until he loses consciousness from the—
“Lord, Tessa, you hardly need me anymore.”
I shriek and overturn another cup. There he is, in the doorway, his blue eyes bright behind the mask, his smile easy.
Weston sees the mess I’ve made and rolls his eyes. “Or maybe you do.” He moves forward and sets the cup upright. “Did you already put the powder in that one?”
I don’t know if I want to hug him or hit him. Maybe both. “You’re late. I heard the horns. I thought—I thought they caught you.”
“Not today.” He pulls the sleeves of petals from his pack, then follows them with three apples, along with a twist of sugared dough that’s still warm from an oven. “Here. The baker was out back scolding his daughter, so I swiped you some food.”
He was late because he brought me breakfast. Not just any breakfast either. Food from the Royal Sector will be the finest imaginable. The apples will be injected with honey, the twists of dough made with real butter and laced with cream and sugar.
My mouth opens. Closes. I frown and turn away. My throat is tight for an entirely new reason. “That’s very kind of you, Weston.”
“ ‘That’s very kind of you’?” he scoffs. “My, aren’t we feeling proper this morning.”
“I need to finish the elixirs.”
“I’ll finish. You eat.”
“I’ll eat in a minute.” The horns continue on the other side of the wall, but now I can ignore them. Probably another smuggler. We’ll likely see his skin suspended beside the gates tomorrow, after the king and his brother are done with the body.
“Fine.” Weston takes an apple, kicks back in the only chair, and props his booted feet up on the worktable. He wears a wide-brimmed black hat above the mask that stretches over his eyes, but he tips the hat back now that we’re in the workshop. I only ever see him by firelight, so I can’t tell exactly what color his hair is, but he usually needs a shave by now, and the faint beard growth always seems reddish brown when he sits near a candle, matching the dusting of freckles near the edge of his mask. The skin around his eyes is smudged with kohl or soot, making the blue brighter than any eyes I’ve ever seen. My own eyes are hazel green, my brown hair in a tight braid under my cap. Wes always says I look like a cat in my mask and my black jacket. Once, when I was feeling brave and cocky, I told him he should see me without the disguise so he knows what a proper young woman looks like, but his face went grave.
“Never,” he said. “It’s too dangerous. If we know what the other looks like, the information can be gained under torture. I won’t do that to you.” He paused. “And I sure don’t want you to do it to me.”
That was the first time I realized that Weston Lark probably isn’t his real name. He likely assumes Tessa Cade is fake, too, but it’s not. When we met two years ago, my parents had just been killed in front of me, and I was too racked with grief to come up with another name.
“You’re quiet,” says Wes. He loudly crunches the apple, and I want to smack it out of his hand. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I bottle the elixir I’ve already made—usually his job—and pour new cups of water to begin the process again.
Behind me, I hear him shift out of the chair and stand. He comes close enough for me to catch his scent, like the woods and the cinnamon from the bakery—but also something heavier underneath, something unmistakably Wes. “Tessa.”
I jab an elbow into his midsection, and I have the satisfaction of hearing him grunt.
“What was that for?” he demands.
“You made me worry.”
“But I brought you breakfast.” His voice is rich and deep behind me.
I ignore him.
He leans in until his breath brushes against the sliver of skin between my hair and the high neck of my jacket. The other apple appears in front of me, wrapped up in his long fingers. “It’s a really good breakfast,” he taunts.
I take the apple. Sugar dusts the skin. It’s warm to the touch, and I wonder if the honey inside is warm, too.
Despite myself, I take a bite. The honey is warm. “I hate you,” I say with my mouth full.
“That’ll probably work out for the best.” He flicks my hat up a few inches and grins. “Now eat quick,” he says. “We have rounds to make.”
CHAPTER TWO
Corrick
I’ve been listening to my brother’s breathing for hours. There’s a new sound each time he inhales, a faint stuttering in his lungs. In the Wilds, they call it the death rattle, because it means the end is near.
Here in his chambers, I’m unwilling to use the word death at all. I’m unwilling to even think it.
He doesn’t have a fever. There’s no cause to worry.
I can’t even convince myself.
Sunlight blazes through the open window, and birds trill in the trees. Harristan shouldn’t be sleeping this late, but I hate to wake him. To everyone outside the doors to his rooms, we’ve been deliberating over paperwork all morning. I’ve called for food twice, enough to feed a dozen people, but most of it sits untouched. Flies have begun gathering on the sliced fruit, and a bee drones over the pastries.
Harristan coughs faintly, and his breathing eases. Maybe that’s all it was, a tickle in his throat. A tightness in my own chest loosens, and I run a hand across the back of my neck, finding it damp.