She hoped that small twitch of his lips meant he wouldn't kill Castien on sight. A single poisoned dart, and his task was finished. That was how he operated. Efficient and swift.
Only when he wanted to make a statement did heads roll.
Glaring at them, she nodded, picked up the linens, and moved on. Vern’s soft steps faded to silence. Jerome fell in behind her. Guards occasionally used the servants' corridors. He split off when the halls became busier. They met again at the entrance to the dungeons.
Zara had never been assigned to the dungeons. One of her friends complained about needing to clean the damp, cold cells once a week. This friend had hated the noise and smell, but a guard was always with her, so she felt safe.
Hearing the cells described, knowing how Castien suffered, had felt like invading her lover's privacy. Octavius had kept his patient's confidence, as he should. She would never ask Castien to relive a single moment if he didn’t volunteer the information.
Now she was here, seeing the halls he had walked, the chains that might have bound him, the room he had been kept in.
The empty room.
He wasn’t here.
Yelena’s playroom was a single, lonely cell down a long, narrow hallway on the second level of the dungeons. The stone walls were thick. No windows. Jerome carried a torch from the upper dungeons, lighting sconces along the way. It felt like the echoes of screams filled the suffocating air and flickering dim light.
The heavy metal door had opened silently.
The room was barren. Unused. It had been for some time. Dust collected on a cabinet near the entrance. The single, small cot had no linens, no sheets, no pillow. Even the walls were bare.
There were little holes in the walls. Nails or hooks for tools. Scratches in the stone, made by claws or steel. Or fingernails, with enough effort. She brushed her fingers over a rusty smear on the doorframe.
A surplus of horror had touched her life, and the lives of those she loved.
Her throat was raw when she spun back to the hall. To Jerome, she said, “The throne room, then. Let’s–”
Clanking metal echoed down the hall. She held her breath. They hadn't passed any guards in the dungeons. The one at the entrance had barely glanced at her linens before unlocking the door.
She should have told Jerome to wait at the entrance to the hallway. There was nowhere to hide. She glanced at his torch.They should have brought a lantern. Of course, a guard would follow an unexpected light.
The footsteps halted. At the far end of the hall, a torch waved. A deep voice called out, “You! What are you doing here? No one is allowed in this part of the dungeons.”
Anais walked slowly toward the man, lifting her linens and adjusting her voice to a meek murmur. “Sorry, I must've gotten lost. I'm supposed to change the sheets. I… It's so dark down here. Forgive me – I forgot where I was supposed to go.”
The guard appeared to be around Jerome's age and build – tall, weathered, fit. Hard eyes. No lax castle guard, this one.
The man frowned at her linens, then her face. His stare hardened further at Jerome. “I haven't seen you before. Who's your captain? You should know this area is off limits.”
“Captain Garrick,” Jerome rumbled. The servant girl only knew one captain’s name.
It wasn't the right one.
The guard placed a hand on his sword. He stepped back. “Garrick's squad isn't permitted in the dungeons. I will ask again. What are you doing here?”
Anais smiled shyly. “I'm so sorry, it's my fault. I couldn't find the usual guard, and I–”
“I wasn't talking to you, girl.”
She stiffened. It had been over a decade since anyone dared use that kind of tone on her. The last person to call her ‘girl’ lost an eye. Just an eye; he never failed to address her respectfully these days. The cold disdain in her glare would have made it very clear that she was not a servant. Fortunately, the guard was focused on Jerome.
Her Escort shrugged. “Just doing what I was told. I don't want to be down here. Talk to Garrick.”
The guard frowned, but his grip on the hilt of his sword loosened. His attention slid to her again, and a small smirkcurled his lips. “Or maybe you heard about the Queen’s playroom and wanted to take a look, hmm? She hasn’t used it in a while. Should we fix that?” Grinning, he leaned in. “I know where her toys are locked up.”
Her blood chilled. Had this man touched Castien?
Just then, another guard joined him. “Alfred, why are you– Oh. Who's this? Are you new?”
