CHAPTER 25
e need to leave,” Freya says.“W “Wait.” Raphael whispers. “Maybe the map is in the châtelain’s chambers. That would make sense, wouldn’t it?”
Freya glances back through the doors. “Raphael, there are a thousand places the map could be.” Her voice is sharp. “We can’t bumble around here.
If we stay much longer, the scheduled coast patrol will block our escape. And at some point, someone might wonder why Viviane isn’t getting on stage—”
“Go down to the boat. If I’m not there in ten minutes, leave without me.”
Desperation laces his tone.
Freya scowls. “Absolutely not,” she says. “We’re not leaving without you.”
“That was an order,” Raphael snaps. “I’m going to check the châtelain’s chamber, and you’re going to wait for me outside. If any guards see you, leave. If I take longer than ten minutes, leave.”
He pushes through the glass doors into the hall and is gone.
Viviane folds her arms. “Fuck that. I’ll stay as lookout down the hall from the office to see if anyone’s coming.”
“I saw the châtelain in the cabaret,” I say. “I’ll go back and make sure he doesn’t leave.”
Freya blinks and shakes her head. “This is stupid, but fine. I’ll keep an eye on the palace’s security.”
I take off first, heading back to the cabaret. As I stride there, I resume the character of Lady Lyoners, only slightly more drunk now.
Deep inside, I know Freya is probably right. Raphael has no idea where the map is, and he’s acting out of pure desperation. Maybe Prince Talan isn’t even keeping it in his castle. Wildly searching for a single parchment in this enormous place is a doomed endeavor.
But I can’t get Raphael’s devastated expression out of my mind.
In the cabaret, I’m relieved to see the aquarium with the siren is gone.
Instead, three Fey women are whirling around the stage dressed in little more than thin golden chains. The prince’s entourage is watching, but Talan is gone. Now that the Dream Stalker isn’t present, a few of the other guests have approached the group, trying to sweet-talk their way into his inner circle.
The châtelain is still there, swilling a red cocktail. At the very least, he won’t be barging in on Raphael ransacking his chambers.
A sudden, dangerous idea pops into my mind.
What if someone in that group knows where the map is? If they do, maybe I can find out.
Feigning a drunken sway, I saunter closer to their table. I breathe deeply, concentrating. Drawing out the frantic, violet-tinged magic, I let it spread through my body.
As the magic billows through me, I sense the feelings of people around me. I can’t read their thoughts without physical contact, but I can feel them, thousands of emotions and ideas and desires waiting to be found. Waiting to be seen.
Dancing by their table, I try to appear like just another hedonistic Fey. I sweep past them, letting my fingers drift very delicately over a man’s shoulders.
Maybe Aenor would agree to invite one of those dancers to our bed tonight. Perhaps if I suggest it, like something that I’m doing as a favor for her… I peer a little deeper into his mind but don’t sense anything about the map. I sashay along, pretending to be mesmerized by the show, and brush against a woman in a green dress.
I shouldn’t have drunk so much mead. This is the fifth day in a row I’ve had too many bottles… Nothing there, either. A few more steps, and I touch another man’s shoulder in passing.
I can’t get that tune out of my mind. It’s driving me insane…
These invasive thoughts sweep around the inside of my skull, deafening.
Each one carries with it unfamiliar emotions, strange images from people’s pasts. It’s like having a loud conversation that I’m not a part of in my head. I can barely focus, but I have to keep going.
The tip of my finger touches another man.
That bastard Orhan, I’ll throw him to the wolves. He thinks he can do
that to me?
And another woman.
I miss Alarice so much…
And another woman.
Mother, why did you leave us?
The flickering of your funeral pyre still lingers in my vision, interfering with my sight. It’s been two months, but I can’t seem to move on. I still remember our last talk. Well, our last fight. It feels like we were always fighting, and about the most trivial things. Like our final conversation, about the skirt I was wearing, of all things. If I had known it would be the last time I would hear your voice, I would have changed the skirt. I would have burned
that skirt, just to see you smile.
I want to recall our happier times.
I remember how hurt you were that summer dance when I refused to dance with you. Back then, I was so worried about what my friends would say. And now, I would give anything for one last dance… I wrench myself away from the woman, heart thudding. She’s talking to someone across the table, saying something inane about the primrose and violet salad, and her turbulent thoughts still whirl in my mind, intermingling with those of the rest of the people I touched. Almost automatically, I move forward and touch someone else.
I wish I were dead. I will never forget the humiliation and embarrassment. Why?
Why have I done it? That waitress told me, “Enjoy your meal,” and I told
her, “You, too.”
You, too.
As if she were also eating a meal.
That smile she gave me, that damnable, pitying smile. And now I see her across the room, talking to another waitress. I know what she’s doing. She’s telling her about me. How I said, “You, too,” like an imbecile. Now they’re laughing! As they should. I wish I were dead. Did anyone else hear me say it?
I can never show myself in public again. I should walk off the cliff into the ocean before I do something even more mortifying. Oh, gods, now I’ve spilled wine on my trousers. Why me? What have I done to deserve this?
And I stumble away as the anxieties churn and roil in my mind like a storm. The woman’s grief twines with other emotions of desire and irritation and anger. They’re drowning my own thoughts, but Raphael needs me to do this.
I don’t remember why, but I touch someone else.
He calls me a friend, a cousin. But how much does he really respect me?
“Lumos, take this to my room.” Or “Lumos, go get us some food.” Or “Lumos, make sure my horse is ready.” I’m third in line to the throne. Why order me around and not the others in his retinue? If he were no longer alive, I’d be second in line to the throne. And he’s never managed to have children, which surely is a sign from the gods.
Well, I won’t take his disrespect much longer. Next time he tells me to do something, I’ll tell him to do it himself. Ha! He should be serving me. That would be a shock for him. “Talan, why don’t you find us a couple of girls for company?” “You know what, Talan, why don’t you carry my satchel, you dog?”
Of course, he’s the prince. But I’m his cousin. And father used to tell me that a man has to have a backbone, or people will tread all over him. And he was right. It’s time for me to grow a backbone.
I totter away, not sure who I am, just knowing this is what I do. I touch people and take their thoughts as my own. I am all of them. I reach out to take another one.
I just can’t stop thinking about her, no matter how much I try. Even right now, with the dancers on stage, all I can do is watch her. Those turquoise eyes, that sweet smile. The way she tilts her head when she’s amused…like
she’s doing right now.
How do I tell Elora how I feel?
Do I show her the poems I wrote about her? Oh, gods, even the mere idea makes me shudder. Those terrible poems. If anyone ever found them, I would die of shame. I should burn them, except that would be burning my own love.
Perhaps I should send Elora flowers. From a mysterious admirer. A dozen forget-me-nots every evening, so she always remembers me. And then, one night, after she’s been showered with hundreds of blooms, I will tap on her door with a bouquet of a dozen more—vibrant violet-blue petals. And
then she will know… Oh, gods. She’ll know that I am a creepy and deeply obsessed man.
That’s all she’ll know.
Oh, Elora. For years, we have been friends. How can I stretch my hand across to meet yours beyond friendship, reaching for something more?
My body is gone, and I don’t know who I am anymore other than a fog of thoughts. Am I eating a strawberry right now? Or drinking mead? Am I even here, or is this a dream? I had a purpose once, and a name, but I can’t remember either. It’s Lumos, right? The prince’s cousin and third in line to the throne.
I need to get back to my body, but I can’t find it, and there are so many thoughts sweeping through my skull. I’m lost in a labyrinth of emotions. I am not Lumos, that’s absurd. I don’t even like Lumos. Once, he grabbed my ass in the hall to impress Talan.
No, wait, he didn’t grab my ass. He grabbed someone else’s. Who am I? I search for myself, but I’m too far gone.
All I can do is add more and more minds to the din in my head.
This salmon is overcooked. I should get the waiter, but then everyone will say that I’m being a killjoy again. Is it my fault that I have a sophisticated palate? Surely— I know I forgot to buy something. Let’s see. I bought a dress for Callice, and the goblets. And of course I remembered the necklace for Astrid. And… “Nia.” A voice is calling me, familiar and so far away.
The dueling sword for Marcus. Oh, I know! I forgot the— I can learn to dance like this. One step forward, two steps back, then sweep the hands. I can practice in my room later… “Nia, snap out of it.” That voice again, calling me, so sweet and alluring, but it’s getting in the way. I need to concentrate so I can get the dance steps right.
How do they twist their hips like that, though? Can I do that? I’ll try in
front of the mirror— “Nia!”
A beautiful man shakes me, and I blink at him in confusion through the cacophony in my head, a million people talking at once. Who is this man? I don’t really want to pay attention to him, but he’s gorgeous, and he looks worried. The chorus of voices in my skull is deafening, but I want to reassure him that I’m fine.
Except that I don’t feel fine. I don’t even feel like I can talk right now, like my lips aren’t mine. Or maybe that I have too many mouths. If I open my mouth, twenty people will talk all at once.
“Nia, what happened?” he whispers. There is alarm in his alluring silver eyes and worry. He’s worried about me, and it touches something in me.
Raphael. I sigh. I like Raphael, though I shouldn’t. I might not know who I am yet, but I’m sure of that. The man with the silver eyes is Raphael, and whenever I look at his gorgeous face, I go weak.
“I’m…I’m…” I attempt to explain. “So many…thoughts.”
He frowns, then his eyes widen. “You read someone’s thoughts? Here?”
“Not someone…” I try to recall. “Everyone’s.”
“Oh, gods, why?” His hand is on my waist, holding me up.
I lean into him. He smells amazing. “I wanted…to find the map. For your sister. And I thought…” I rest my head rest against his broad chest for a moment, not entirely sure what I’m doing. Am I supposed to be avoiding this gorgeous, strong man?
At last, a clear thought pierces the chaos. “I know where it is!”
“Where?”
“It’s in my leather satchel.”
“Nia, you don’t have a satchel.”
“Talan is always trying to get me to carry his stuff,” I whisper. “He’s ordering me around. Lumos, do this. Lumos, take that. Lumos, watch my documents—”
“Who the fuck is Lumos? Do you mean Comte Lumos de Morlune?”
“Yes, that’s my title, you fool!” I snarl. Then, I shake my head. “No, wait.
I’m not Lumos. He’s an ass-grabbing twat. But he has the map.”
I whirl to look for the comte. All those people around the table, talking and laughing. They have no idea I’ve invaded their minds. Unbelievable that they can sit there, as if nothing’s the matter, when I’ve glimpsed the raging chaos in their heads. And there. Lumos, with his bright red hair streaming over his broad shoulders and his satchel by his side. Resentment pours off him.
I lean in closer to Raphael. “See that guy with the bright red hair?” I whisper. “That’s Lumos, and that’s his satchel. The map is in there.”
“Are you sure?” Raphael whispers.
“Yeah, Talan made me carry—” I clear my throat. “Told him to carry it.”
It’s hard to concentrate, to formulate the words. “It’s there. The map’s there.”
“Okay, lower your voice,” Raphael says softly. “I’ll get the satchel, and then we get the fuck out of here.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. He’s probably right. We should leave, though I don’t remember why. I stare at the chandeliers.
He lets go, and I almost collapse. It takes all of my concentration to control my limbs. It feels like I have thirty arms. Thirty legs. I half expect the people around the table to lose their balance as I stumble, because we’re all linked, aren’t we?
I pull my gaze back down just in time to see Raphael walking idly past Lumos. In a swift, casual move, he grabs the satchel from the marble floor.
He’s by my side in the next few breaths.
He grabs my wrist. “Okay. Let’s go. Nia? Let’s go. What are you looking
at?”
His dark hair frames a perfect face.
“Elora,” I mutter. “Isn’t she wonderful? Do you think she would ever love me back?”
Gripping my wrist, Raphael pulls me toward a stairwell. He doesn’t understand my heartbreak over Elora. How could he? Who could understand a friendship like this?
“Nia,” he whispers in my ear, “do you think you can run down the stairs?
We’re going out through the servants’ entrance.”
“I think so,” I say softly. “But I don’t even know who I am.”
He tugs my wrist, and we’re bounding down the stairs. But I can’t tell where my body is, and it’s only a few steps before I stumble and fall. Raphael sweeps me up in his strong arms, and I melt against him.
