When we reached the other side of the decimated block, I had my first real dawning of recognition.
We were near the restaurant now—our restaurant—in the alleyways that ran behind the marketplace.
After a wrong turn, we finally found ourselves standing in the central square. I almost never came there, but I knew the place immediately, and I dragged Angelina close to me, wrapping my arm around her head to shield her eyes. I didn’t want her to see the place where men, women, and children were regularly executed, even though I couldn’t stop staring at the simply constructed scaffolding of the gallows. The hangman’s noose dangled limply, lifelessly.
“Just a little longer,” I promised once we were past it, recognizing that her steps were growing sluggish. “We’re almost there.”
Angelina said nothing in return.
As we approached the plate-glass window of our parents’ restaurant, I squeezed my sister’s hand. We could see only darkness inside, not even a flicker of light to ignite my hope that they might be in there. There was no point stopping.
I struggled to contain my emotions so that Angelina wouldn’t see my disappointment. What had I expected? I didn’t believe Brook had lied about searching the restaurant. Still, I couldn’t just give up.
We moved faster now, spurred by the fact that we were so close to our home. When I felt Angelina faltering beside me, I reached down and gathered her into my arms, finally letting her collapse against me.
There were other destroyed buildings, damage that blemished the landscape of the city, but I couldn’t take the time to reflect on those things now.
When we reached our street, anticipation made my heart stutter.
I slowed down, my pace hesitant now. I took in every tiny detail. Everything appeared so normal, practically unscathed by the violence that had rocked the city just the night before. It felt like a lifetime had passed since my parents had pushed my sister and me into the battle-scarred streets.
Ahead of us, our house stood silent and still, cloaked Jtoo.
Despair snaked around me, squeezing until I thought my lungs might collapse. At the front step, I set Angelina on the ground once more and tried the door.
Unlocked.
My parents had never left the door unlocked before.
I eased it inward, the creaking of hinges heralding our arrival. I kept Angelina behind my legs, not certain from what I was protecting her, as my throat tightened.
As vendors, our home had never been fitted for electric lights; they were a luxury well beyond my family’s earnings, so I fumbled inside the door for the lamp that was always there. But this time it wasn’t, and neither was the table it usually sat upon.
Choking on my own fear became an entirely real possibility.
“Stay here,” I ordered softly. But Angelina held tighter, stepping when I did, refusing to peel away from me.
I blinked hard, trying to adjust to the absence of light within the walls of my own home. When I stepped again, glass crunched beneath my foot, and Angelina’s grip grew desperate.
Every step I took over the debris was loud, and inwardly I recoiled from the noise I was making.
I groped in the blackness with my hands, searching aimlessly. I jolted when I bumped into the bulky wooden dining table where we ate our meals, but at least now I had a landmark.
My fingers explored its scarred surface, feeling the familiar blemishes that had always been there, and then relief blossomed when they brushed against the candle, exactly where it should be at the table’s center. I edged around the table, carrying the candle with me to the sideboard and fumbling through the drawer for the matches I knew I’d find.
That pale flame was more beautiful than any sunset I’d ever witnessed. I sighed heavily at the sight of it.
The light gave me the courage I’d needed to try my voice for the first time since crossing the threshold. It only seemed natural to call out for my parents in the language they preferred. I turned in a circle, Angelina still clinging to me as I searched the room. “Mom! Dad—”
The words had barely reached my tongue before I sucked them back down my throat.
My house—our house—couldn’t have been more damaged had one of the bombs found its way inside. But I knew that wasn’t the case. The walls were still standing, still sturdy.
Angelina’s fingers pinched my hand.
“I don’t know . . . ,” I answered on a silent breath.
I scanned every corner with my eyes, every place the light could reach, hoping we were all alone, that whoever had done this to our house had already gone.
I knew now, without a doubt, that my parents weren’t here. That something had forced them away.
The broken lamp beside the door was only the beginning; our home had been ransacked. Furniture was upended. Cushions had been sliced apart and were bleeding stuffing onto the floor. Books Jtoom">house and photographs looked as if they’d been blown haphazardly by heavy winds, and, in some places, even the floorboards had been ripped from their joists.
For what purpose, I had no idea.
My first instinct was to flee, to take Angelina away from here, in case those responsible returned. But this was our home, and we had no place else to go. At least not until I had some answers.
And I was desperate to find out what had happened to my parents.
Angelina was sleeping on the sofa that I’d pieced back together, replacing the cushions and as much of the stuffing as I could. I didn’t want her in our bed; it was too far from where I worked to restore some semblance of order, repairing some of the damage that had been inflicted on our home. And she hadn’t argued; she’d simply curled into a ball, yawning hard and loud, and allowed me to cover her with a quilt to keep her warm. I doubted she wanted to be too far from me, either.
I did my best to put furniture back in its proper place, and then swept away the shards of broken lamp from the entry before gathering papers and books and photographs from the floors. Most of the things I picked up were familiar items, part of our household: written recipes, childhood storybooks that my father had read aloud, first to me as a girl and then to Angelina, and the small pile of family photographs that my parents had been able to afford on our modest budget.
But there were other items as well, things that were less recognizable. A carved box lay in pieces beside a hole in the floorboards, and I knew that I’d never seen it before. There were documents, many of which looked old—older than my parents’ generation—and the papers they were printed on were brittle and curling at the edges, the ink fading with age. I flipped through them but could see nothing significant in their contents. Antiquated land deeds, legal rulings, and personal correspondences, mostly dating from before the Revolution of Sovereigns. But among them were portraits that I didn’t recognize, fading as well. Old, but beautiful. And strangely haunting.
I sat on my knees as I sifted through them, tracing my fingers over the faces that stared back at me.
I knew these people—these strangers. Men, women, children. I recognized their posture, their expressions, their features.
I studied the photo of a man, a smile touching my lips as my eyes moved over his mouth, his eyes, his gossamer blond hair. His face was the face of my father. And of my sister, I thought as I glanced at Angelina sleeping soundly on the sofa.
I reached up and ran my fingertips over my cheeks and my nose and my chin. And of me.
But who were these people? Why had I never seen these portraits before now?
I looked closer, trying to find a clue.
In several of the pictures, the men were wearing sashes of some sort, each bearing a similar emblem. I leaned forward, drawing the photos closer to the lamp on the floor beside me, trying to decipher the wording on the insignia. But the image was too unclear, too faded.
Frustration wept through me, and I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to figure out what it was that nagged me about the image.
I glanced down at Jtoothet t the shattered box. I coul
d make out parts of that very same symbol on it, identical to the one the men wore in the photographs, but now it was splintered apart. I reached down and carefully began piecing it together, like a puzzle, using the photographs as my guide.
Outside, in the street, I heard voices. They seemed far away, another lifetime from this moment.
When I was finished at last, I studied the emblem, wondering at it. It was beautifully carved; the woodwork was master
ful. But it said nothing, this etching. Just a design. A brilliantly intricate design.
I sighed, running my finger over its lovely, ornate surface . . . and that was when the world around me shivered. My vision blurred, and for an instant I was aware of nothing but the sensation beneath my touch. Time seemed to stop.
I moved my finger again, stroking the details of the carving, feeling my way around each groove as I realized that this was no ordinary design.
This was a language. A tactile language.
And it spoke to me.
I gasped as I drew my hand away, clutching it to my heart, which was pounding erratically within my chest. I suddenly wanted to take back that simple action, that light brush of my skin over the surface of the mended box. I wanted to unlearn what I’d just discovered.
Because it wasn’t just an emblem they wore in the photograph, these men who looked so much like my father, and like myself.
It was a seal. A crest.
Belonging to a long-banished royal family.
XVII
The noises I’d heard coming from the street were just outside the door now, practically right on top of me.
I was almost too stunned by the disturbance to breathe, let alone acknowledge that we—my sister and I—were no longer alone. My fingertip felt as though it had been blistered by the flames of a fire, but I knew that it was something worse that had burned it. Knowledge of something that should have remained hidden, buried beneath floorboards I’d walked upon my entire life.
Xander was right. Of that I was almost certain.
My father was a descendant of the throne. The original throne.
And that meant that I . . . that Angelina and I . . .
The first female children, wasn’t that what Xander had told me?
The door opened, and again, I cursed the fact that the lock had been broken. We were trapped in here, and I jumped to my feet, positioning myself in front of the sofa, reminding myself that nothing else mattered right now except keeping Angelina safe.
Behind my back, I clutched the iron fireplace poker that I’d kept close for exactly this purpose. I was prepared for anything, I tried to convince myself as I readied to fight my way out of here.
But as it turned out, I was not at all prepared to face the person who stood inside the doorway, filling out the frame.
He glanced at t K glat he photographs and papers strewn about my feet, his gaze falling to the crest atop the poorly repaired box. Then his eyes landed on me, taking in the defeated expression on my face, and the fireplace poker now hanging limply at my side.
“I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”
“You knew? How many more secrets have you kept from me?” I ducked out of his path, circling the table as he tried to approach, keeping it as a barrier between us. I didn’t want his sympathy or his compassion. “And where are your goons? I’m assuming since you travel in a pack that they’re somewhere nearby.”
But Max didn’t give up that easily; he eased toward me, taking slow, cautious steps. “I was worried about you, Charlie. How long have you been here?”
“I don’t want to hear how worried you were. I want answers. I want to know what you haven’t been telling me. Are we in danger now?” I tried to keep my voice low so I wouldn’t wake Angelina, but I felt hysteria creeping in on me. I had so many questions; they were all coming at once.
“I don’t think so. No one knows you’re here. The queen thinks you’re a member of the resistance. She doesn’t know that I . . .” He didn’t finish his sentence, but I wondered how he would have: Know you? Kissed you?
I was thankful that the queen knew neither.
“What about your guards, they didn’t tell her? Are they here now? Will they turn us in?”
“They’re right outside the door, making sure no one can enter,” Max explained. “They’ll tell only what I allow them to, which is only what you want to reveal. You can trust me, Charlie. I never meant to hurt you. I wasn’t trying to deceive you.” He stepped closer, but I shoved my hands against his chest, keeping him away and shaking my head.
“You have a strange way of showing it. So it’s true, then?”
I waited, needing to hear it from him. He didn’t move right away, and I wondered if he understood what I was asking.
Then he nodded his head. So slightly, almost imperceptibly. I closed my eyes. I’d needed his confirmation, more so even than Xander’s.
I was a princess. As was my little sister. My father was a prince, a member of the Di Heyse family—which meant almost nothing in a long line of male progeny, even those belonging to a royal bloodline.
Only the girls were born to rule.
“How did you know?” I finally found my voice again, and Max took another slow step toward me, closing the gap.
He shook his head. “I wasn’t entirely sure until now.” His eyes fell on the box again. It was the Di Heyse family crest that should have been destroyed more than two hundred years ago, along with everything else from that sovereignty. But it wasn’t. It was here. In my home. “I first suspected when I saw you in Prey.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy gold chain—a necklace with a locket, and on the outside, that same royal crest had been engraved into the antique metal. His thumb released the catch, and he revealed the minia J glen?se fture photo inside.
Even in the pale light of the candle I could see the resemblance. Like all the other pictures I’d looked through, it was like looking in a mirror. I lifted my gaze to his. I had so many questions.
“Queen Avonlea,” he explained. “She was the first to die in the Revolution.” His dark eyes were heavy with sadness. “My brother and I used to hunt for treasure on the palace grounds. . . . I doubt my grandmother even noticed when this went missing.” He held it out for me. “It seems as though it belongs to you now.”
I shook my head, backing away as if the locket would somehow scald me. “I don’t want it. I can’t—”
Max didn’t press me; he simply put the necklace back into his pocket. “And then when I saw you with your friend, you seemed to understand my guards. . . .” He studied me pensively. “No one should have known what they said.” It wasn’t an accusation, but it felt like one.
I looked away, not ready to admit anything.
“Is it just the Royal language, Charlie, or are there others?” He stepped again, this time standing right against me. If I’d wanted to meet his gaze, I would only have had to tip my head back. But I didn’t. I stood stock-still. “Didn’t you ever wonder how that was possible? How a vendor’s daughter could understand a language she’d never heard before?” He reached over, his finger nudging my chin to gain my attention. “You’d never heard it before, had you?” He didn’t bother speaking in Englaise now. And I didn’t pretend not to understand.
I shook my head, my eyes finding his. My heart was thundering in my chest, making so much noise I was surprised I could even hear his words.
“Your parents knew?”
A slow nod, a simple admission.
“They never explained what it meant? About why you might have this . . . ability?”
I glared at him, the only answer I was willing to offer. What did he know of my parents? What right did he have to question their reasons for what they did—or did not—tell me?
“You know,” he continued, refusing to relent, even while facing my frown, “only those who can be queen are born with powers. Only the female royals.”
I took a step back, bumping into the table behind me. “It’s not a power
,” I tried to explain, shrugging it off. “It’s nothing. Less than nothing.”
He smiled then, but it wasn’t at all warm or friendly; it was triumphant, gloating. “Really, Charlie? Tell that to everyone who can understand only the language of their class.” Then he tipped his head toward Angelina, just four years old, a beautiful slumbering angel, oblivious to how her life was changing. “What about her? Do you know what she can do yet?”
I frowned at him, my head reeling. “So, what now?” I finally managed, ignoring his question. I felt dangerously light-headed.
Max reached for my hand, and I was too overwhelmed to keep it J gllai I f from him. I wasn’t sure what I thought about him, whether I trusted him or not. But for the moment, he was all I had. Besides, he made me feel things that had nothing to do with trust, and if I was being completely honest, I liked having my hand in his.
“I’m not sure. I suppose that depends on you.” He was speaking in Englaise again, probably to put me at ease. His thumb moved in lazy circles over my palm, as if he were trying to create his own language, trying to communicate with me through his touch. I understood the meaning even if I didn’t comprehend the vernacular. “There are things we need to discuss.”
A loud crash outside the door made me jump, and I pulled my hand away, tucking it behind my back as if hiding the evidence of our intimacy.
“Don’t move,” he ordered, even as I was rushing to Angelina, who’d been awakened by the commotion. He shot me a warning look, telling me that he meant it, but it didn’t matter—the door was already swinging inward.
Claude stormed inside. “There’s someone outside who insists on seeing the girl.” I wondered if he actually didn’t know I could understand him.
Max played along, keeping his sentry in the dark. “Who is it?”
“Xander.” The way he said Xander’s name made me shudder. It was dark and laced with menace. There was a history there, I was certain. “And he’s not alone.” Claude smiled then, and like Max’s smile before, there was nothing warm or friendly about it. It was pure daring, and it was chilling. “Do you want me to handle him?”