“Then another servant in another province would shell it,” Liam says, his voice clipped. “Do you think the paste can be plucked from trees? If it doesn’t happen in front of your eyes, does it matter at all?”

Roan frowns and ignores Liam. He takes me in, my stained apron, my flushed face. “Jules, is this why you missed our appointment this morning?”

Liam’s eyes flash so noticeably that I swear they change color. I’ve read about sea creatures whose whole bodies do the same, just before they’re consumed by a predator.

He looks from me to his brother, finally opens his mouth—and says nothing.

Roan continues. “Have you been down here all day?”

“Your concern for servant welfare is touching,” Liam bites out, suddenly himself again. “But you’re an expert at that, aren’t you?”

“It’s none of your business.” Roan’s tone has gone cold, so cold that it’s hard to tell the boys’ voices apart.

Liam steps closer to his brother. He’s slightly taller than Roan, but the difference seems to grow in the dark; the torchlight washes out Roan’s blue eyes and deepens Liam’s black ones, sharpening the angles of his face. “Then you help her shell the mava, if you care so deeply.” He shoulders past Roan and strides from the cellar, letting the door slam heavily behind him.

My ears ring with the new silence, which is broken when I hear Roan utter a string of soft curses—those the servants use. I almost laugh. Instead, I let out a shaky breath, and he turns toward me, his brow creased with concern.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he says, his voice soft and warm again. “My brother is . . . well, you know, you’ve seen.” He steps closer and puts a gentle hand on my arm. “Come on. I’m overriding Liam’s orders. We’ll get you out of here.”

I follow Roan gratefully and wordlessly from the cellar. The anxiety in my chest eases the farther we get from the cellar and the overpowering scent of mava, as we see the bright light of the kitchen growing ahead of us.

I brace myself to receive strange looks from the other servants, but Roan unexpectedly stops at the base of the stairs, turning to face me.

I stop too, my body seeming naturally to echo his. “I’m sorry for causing trouble between you and your brother,” I say.

“I’m sorry Liam bothered you. That’s why I came.” Roan says quickly.

I blink, hoping he can’t see me blush in the dark. I can feel sweat prickling at my palms.

“Ina still wants to meet you,” Roan adds. “But it seems you’ll need to get freshened up first. If you hurry, you won’t miss her fitting.”

I nod quickly, in time with my pulse. Possibilities bloom in my thoughts. This might be my best chance to get close to the Queen before she returns to the palace. I can’t fail today.

But then I pause. “Wait. Fitting?”

“Lady Gold is having her wedding gown fitted today.”

Her wedding gown. For her wedding to Roan, the man standing in front of me right now. The man who holds my gaze for a moment longer, a slight smile curving his lips.

Despite the stains on my clothes and the fight with Liam and my awful, cramped fingers, I feel seen in a way I scarcely have since arriving at Everless. A strange feeling flowers in me, like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff, looking out to the green-and-blue sea, which I’ve only ever seen drawn in books, its waves sloshing and beautiful and endless—and from this height, deadly.





14




It takes almost an hour of scrubbing with Lora’s harsh soap before the mava even starts to come off me, leaving my skin and face tender and still stained a dull purple in spots. I draw curious looks from the other servants when I emerge into the kitchen.

Waiting there with Lora is the Queen’s handmaiden, the one who helped me with the Queen’s jewels when they spilled over the floor. But she is so out of place here in the kitchen that it takes me a beat to recognize her. Pretty, dark-haired, with constellations freckled across her skin, she’s maybe a few years older than me. She’s dressed more elegantly than the rest of us, in a simple but well-made dress of velvet so dark red it’s almost black, so long it brushes the floor, though she’s marked as a servant by the white cap pinned to her hair. She smiles shyly at me.

“Jules, this is Caro,” Lora says, then adds pointedly, “the Queen’s handmaiden.”

It’s an unsubtle reminder to show respect for someone who outranks me. My heart hardens a little even as I hastily drop into a curtsy. “I’m sorry, miss.”

“No matter,” Caro says softly—whispers, really. Somehow I still hear her over the din of the kitchen, as if I’m hearing the sea’s echo inside a large shell. She gestures airily for me to stand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Jules. Roan told me you were interested in the handmaiden position to Her Majesty and Lady Gold. You can sew, can’t you?”

“A . . . a little, I suppose,” I say, looking between her and Lora. “I did some mending back”—the word Crofton dies on my lips—“in my hometown. But nothing near as fine as Lady Gold’s wardrobe.” A pang goes through me at the thought of Ina Gold’s wedding gown.

“You’ll do fine, I’m sure. We only help tack it for the seamstresses in any case.” Caro reaches out and takes my hand, startling me, and turns to Lora.

“Take as long as you need,” Lora says, eyeing me shrewdly. “Lord Liam had assigned her to a task, but—”

“I’m sure the Queen’s wishes override Liam Gerling’s,” Caro says simply. I try not to smile at Caro’s clear disdain for the elder Gerling brother. A hush falls over the kitchen, and Lora’s head bobs, quick to agree.

Then, the Queen’s handmaiden is tugging me away.

In the hall, she links arms with me, and we stroll side by side like old friends as she explains that the Queen distrusts strangers, so most of my time in this position would be spent attending to Lady Gold. She tells me three of Lady Gold’s ladies-in-waiting fell ill on the journey to Everless. The lie falls so easily from her, that I wonder if I misheard Roan and Ina at the whispering wall. But Bea, too, said that people had been killed.

“No other girls will be helping us? I expected more—”

Caro slows down her walk almost imperceptibly, quarter-turning to look at me. Her eyes are a light, washed-out green, and something sparkles in them.

“More . . . ?” She asks, but I have no answer. I avert my eyes, fearful I’ve pressed too far. But she smiles widely again and picks up her gait. “You have no competition, if that’s what you’re wondering. People are intimidated by real power, Jules. You mustn’t forget that.”

As Caro tugs me along, I have to focus to maintain a smile whenever she looks at me. I’m not used to being so close to another person; surprisingly, Caro’s closeness and cheer warms me.

“You know the estate well,” Caro says, the third time I lead her in a turn toward the royal quarters. “Have you been here very long?”