The courtyard below my window, empty all winter long, flourishes in a suddenly warm and green spring. Nobles walk through the magnolia trees at a lazy pace, some arm in arm. Always whispering, always scheming or gossiping. I wish I could read lips. I might learn something other than which houses seem to congregate together, their colors brighter in the sunlight. Maven would have to be a fool to think they aren’t plotting against him or his bride. And he is many things, but not that.

The old routine I used to pass my first month of isolation—wake, eat, sit, scream, repeat—doesn’t serve anymore. I have more useful ways to pass the time. There are no pens and paper, and I don’t bother to ask. No use leaving scraps. Instead, I stare at Julian’s books, idly turning pages. Sometimes I latch on to jotted notes, annotations scrawled in Julian’s handwriting. Interesting; curious; corroborate with volume IV. Idle words with little meaning. I brush my fingers along the letters anyway, feeling dry ink and the press of a long-gone pen. Enough of Julian to keep me thinking, reading between lines on the page and words spoken aloud.

He ruminates on one volume in particular, thinner than the histories but densely packed with text. Its spine is badly broken, the pages cluttered with Julian’s writing. I can almost feel the warmth of his hands as they smoothed the tattered pages.

On Origins, the cover says in embossed black lettering, followed by the names of a dozen Silver scholars who wrote the many essays and arguments within the small book. Most of it is too complex for my understanding, but I sift through it anyway. If only for Julian.

He marked one passage in particular, dog-earing the page and underlining a few sentences. Something about mutations, changes. The result of ancient weaponry we no longer possess and can no longer create. One of the scholars believes it made Silvers. Others disagree. A few mention gods instead, perhaps the ones that Iris follows.

Julian makes his own position clear in notes at the bottom of the page.

Strange that so many thought themselves gods, or a god’s chosen, he wrote. Blessed by something greater. Elevated to what we are. When all evidence points to the opposite. Our abilities came from corruption, from a scourge that killed most. We were not a god’s chosen, but a god’s cursed.

I blink at the words and wonder. If Silvers are cursed, then what are newbloods? Worse?

Or is Julian wrong? Are we chosen too? And for what?

Men and women much smarter than me have no answers, and neither do I. Not to mention, I have more pressing things to think about.

I plan while I eat breakfast, chewing slowly as I run through what I know. A royal wedding will be organized chaos. Extra security, more guards than I can count, but still a good enough chance. Servants everywhere, drunk nobles, a foreign princess to distract the people usually focused on me. I’d be stupid not to try something. Cal would be stupid not to try something.

I glare at the pages in hand, at white paper and black ink. Nanny tried to save me and Nanny ended up dead. A waste of life. And I selfishly want them to try again. Because if I stay here much longer, if I have to live the rest of my life a few steps behind Maven, with his haunting eyes and his missing pieces and his hatred for everyone in this world—

Hatred for everyone but—

“Stop,” I hiss to myself, fighting the urge to let in the silk monster knocking at the walls of my mind. “Stop it.”

Memorization of the layout of Whitefire is a good distraction, the one I usually rely on. Two lefts from my door, through a gallery of statues, left again down a spiraling stair . . . I trace the way to the throne room, the entrance hall, the banquet hall, different studies and council chambers, Evangeline’s quarters, Maven’s old bedroom. Every step I’ve taken here I memorize. The better I know the palace, the better chance I have of escaping when the opportunity arises. Certainly Maven will marry Iris in the Royal Court, if not in Caesar’s Square itself. Nowhere else can hold so many guests and guards. I can’t see the court from my window, and I’ve never been inside, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

Maven hasn’t dragged me to his side since we returned. Good, I tell myself. An empty room and days of silence are better than his cloying words. Still, I feel a tug of disappointment every night when I shut my eyes. I’m lonely; I’m afraid; I’m selfish. I feel emptied out by the Silent Stone and the months I’ve spent here, walking the edge of another razor. It would be so easy to let the broken pieces of me fall apart. It would be so easy to let him put me back together however he wishes. Maybe, in a few years, it won’t even feel like a prison.

No.

For the first time in a while, I smash my breakfast plate against the wall, screaming as I do it. The water glass next. It explodes in crystal shards. Broken things make me feel a bit better.

My door bursts open in half a second as the Arvens enter. Egg is the first to my side, holding me back in my chair. His grip is firm, preventing me from getting up. Now they know better than to let me anywhere near the wreckage as they clean.

“Maybe you should start giving me plastic,” I scoff to no one. “Seems like a better idea.”

Egg wants to hit me. His fingers dig into my shoulders, probably leaving bruises. The Silent Stone makes the hurt bite bone-deep. My stomach twists as I realize I can barely remember what it’s like not to be in constant, smothering pain and anguish.

The other guards sweep away the debris, unflinching as glass drags over their gloved hands. Only when they disappear, their throbbing presence melting away, do I once again have the strength to stand. Annoyed, I slam shut the book I wasn’t reading. Genealogy of Nortan Nobility, Volume IX, the cover says. Useless.