“Of course not. We came down here—” I choke on the lie. “To see Summer’s vast collection of wine.”
Theron shifts and I look at him, still driven by my instinct to keep him safe.
Which is why I don’t realize until now, too late, much too late, that he can see the key dangling from the chain in my hand.
Theron glances down, hardening when he sees it. He doesn’t need to utter a word for me to understand everything he’s feeling. It’s written plainly on his face.
Eyes wide, lips leaping up in a half smile—surprisedjoy when I don’t say anything to deter him from his assumptions.
Then, face relaxing, mouth parting in confused hurt that I went searching without him, that I’m doing nothing to confirm or deny the importance of what is in my hand.
Simon swaggers toward me. “I would have been happy to give you a tour!” His focus drops to my hand for a beat, though he clearly can’t figure out why it holds Theron’s attention. “Prince Theron and I were having the most interesting discussion before we realized you had left. Something about unifying the world? A lofty goal for a Season.”
I squint at Theron. I thought he was waiting for the trip to Summer’s vineyards to tell Simon about his treaty? Why did he tell him tonight?
Theron gives me no hint about why his plans might have changed—he just continues to stare at the key.
I arrange my fingers around the chain, the metal links digging into my palm as I try and fail to hide it now. “Someone should . . .” I motion to the body, not sure what I mean. Cover him? Take him to be prepared for burial or burning or whatever they do with bodies in Summer? Would they do that for him, though, if he’s a slave? Acidic repulsion eats at me. I hate that I even have to wonder such things in this kingdom.
Simon’s reaction emphasizes my worries. He flips his hand as if the dead man is nothing more than a blotch ofdust on the floor. “What were you saying, Prince Theron? There’s a treaty to be signed?”
I glower at Simon as Theron blinks, nods, shaken out of his staring by the mention of the body and Simon’s business talk so near a murder victim. “We . . .” He clears his throat. “We continue on to Yakim and Ventralli next. And eventually, Paisly and Spring. I have a—” His eyes dip to the body but instantly jerk back up and he angles himself so he can’t see it. “I drafted a treaty, outlining the requirements of a united world. Support during times of strife; a council to be convened when war threatens—”
Simon applauds, cutting him off. He smiles, a giddy beam that catches like the spark of a flame, and soon all his courtiers are smiling too.
Dononeof them care about the dead body?
Simon lifts his goblet in some sort of toast. His conduit emits hazy red light, dimmer than the vibrant violet of Noam’s.
Anger flares anew. Simon is using his conduit to feed his courtiers’ revelry. The only thing they feel, the only thing they willeverfeel, even here, even with blood staining the floor.
“Such ambitions indeed,” Simon chuckles. “I’ve never been one to turn down a Rhythm invitation. The parties, you see. And you’ll be most interested in joining us, especially in Ventralli, won’t you, sister?”
I flinch with panic. We weren’t inviting him along—
But Theron doesn’t correct him.
Ceridwen, still with her back to us, glares over her shoulder, her hard gaze biting into Simon. She ducks away, vanishing into the darkness of the cellar.
Simon grins again like her reaction was exactly what he wanted. “Excellent,” he says, pulling up a conspiratorial smile. “You’ll love Yakim, Queen Meira—they make the best whiskey! For now, though—there is wine to be drunk!” And with that, he saunters back into his group of courtiers, probably expecting us to follow him as he ascends the staircase.
The moment the Summerians leave the cellar, I turn to Theron’s guards, the only others here I can give any sort of command to.
“Can you take care of him?” I ask, voice soft, eyes flashing once to the body.
The soldiers nod without scoffing or refusing the lowly Winter queen. At least they care. That compounds my hatred of this kingdom—Summer is making me like Cordell a little more in comparison.
While his men busy themselves with fetching someone to clean up the body, I pull Theron toward the stairwell, putting a row of shelves between the man and us.
“You’re letting them come with us?” I ask, my voice tipping low enough for only Theron to hear. “We don’t need—”
He grabs my arm and lifts my hand. “Where did you get this?”
The key bounces against me, Theron’s fingers tight around my wrist. The moment the key touches my skin, a scene flashes over my eyes.
I’m in the cell again. Angra crouches before Theron, his staff leaking black shadows that suffocate the room. Theron rocks forward, sucking in airy breaths and releasing ragged exhales. He blinks, disoriented, until his eyes lock on Angra, and the look on his face unravels me.
Not fear. Not resilience. Not even anger.
