Penny unwound a hair ribbon.
The candle in her bedroom was burning low, casting long shadows across her vanity. Her hairbrush winked silver in the moonlight, and her white quills fanned out like angel wings. Outside, she could hear the faint slap of water against stone. Someone — a late-night reveler, probably — was singing drunkenly and offkey.
She massaged her temples.
It had been a long day. A gods-damn hard day. Between the Scythe's little performance and Eris's smug demand, there had been an uproar after dinner. And uproars meant a lot of emotions. And emotions meant headaches.
Penny blew out a breath. Mentharoot oil. That's what she needed; it usually calmed her pounding temples. She spun on her heel, scanning her bedroom. Where had she put it? Under the bed, perhaps? She dropped to her knees, pulling things out at random: a poetry book; a half-drunk bottle of wine; a stray satin slipper.
A hatbox tumbled open.
Penny sighed. Wonderful. Just what she needed. She shoved the items back inside — mostly poems and sewing needles — and then paused, staring at a scrap of paper.
Thirteen words were scrawled in her own hand.
The missing princess is the key. His burning soul must be set free.
A shiver slithered down her spine.
Penny sat back, staring at the paper. She'd forgotten about this. It was oddly written — shorter than most of her other poems — and the words bled together, as if she'd been frantic to write it. A feeling niggled at the back of her mind. Worry? Concern?
She traced the words.
Missing princess... could that be Anna? Or herself, Penny thought, since she'd lost her memories? Surely that meant a part of her was missing, in a sense. The next part of the poem was even more confusing.
Burning soul.
Penny mouthed the words to herself, staring up at the ceiling. She'd heard that before, but where? Who had described themselves that way?
It struck her all at once.
She sat upright, her heart pounding. Holy gods. Ryne. Didn't he describe his illness that way? "It's like fire," he'd said to her last month. "I feel as if I'm burning up from the inside. It's not particularly pleasant."
Penny stared at the parchment.
Was it possible that she'd been trying to tell herself something? Could she be holding the cure for Ryne's illness in her hands?
She rose.
Penny tiptoed out of her room. The castle corridors were dark rivers, carrying only velvet whispers and midnight kisses in their currents. Nobody roamed the empty halls. Which was good, Penny thought, starting down the corridor; she'd never quite mastered Camille's ability to glide through the night like a ghost. She was more like a cyclops in tap shoes. Or a drunk toddler carrying cymbals.
She held her nightgown in one hand, padding barefoot up the smooth marble steps. She hesitated at the top, glancing in both directions. Damn. Where was his room again? Left? Right? Up another floor?
"Penny," a voice called.
Ryne stood at the bottom of the staircase, dressed in pajama bottoms and a midnight-blue robe. He took the stairs one-at-a-time, his movements slow and laboured. He paused halfway to rest a hand on the railing.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
Penny debated lying, and then decided there was no point; she'd never been able to keep secrets from Ryne. "To see Grayson."
A dark eyebrow lifted. "In your nightgown?"
"Yes."
"Why wouldn't you...?" Ryne shook his head, starting up the stairs again. "Never mind. I don't want to know. Walk with me."
Her brother swept an arm to the left, and Penny couldn't help but notice the way his fingers trembled slightly. He was good at hiding it, she thought; the exhaustion. The pain. The fact that Ryne was showing it tonight wasn't a sign that her brother trusted her — it simply meant that the problem was growing worse.
They fell into step. Ryne's face was a study in shadows, his eyes the colour of chipped green glass. He waited until they rounded a pillar before speaking.
"Did you get a read on Eris tonight?" he asked.
Penny sighed. "Not a good one."
Ryne gave her a look. Penny crossed her arms.
"He wants the crown," she said. "I suspect you already know that."
Ryne reached for a door handle. "What else?"
Penny hesitated. "He had a lot of feelings toward Anna."
"How so?"
"She... um... excites him."
Ryne stared at her blankly, his hand resting on the doorknob. Penny steeled herself. Gods, this was awkward.
"Eris has a strong physical response to Anna," she tried. "Sexually. Romantically. When he sees her, he wants to—"
"Stop." Ryne's voice was sharp. "Stop, Pen. I understand." He ran a hand over his face, his fingers trembling slightly. "And that's why Eris wants her? To keep her as a sort of live-in concubine?"
His voice was laced with dark humour. Penny pushed past him to open the door; a stone corridor lay beyond, dotted with sconces and oil paintings. Penny caught sight of King Arthur Delafort, smiling down at his children benignly, and she swallowed.
"Yes." Penny paused. "No. Eris wants to possess her, but it's something else." She tore her eyes away from the painting. "It felt like... Do you remember when we were younger, and Camille became convinced that there was a secret tunnel under the castle?"
Ryne's mouth turned up. "She was right, as always."
"Yeah." Penny cleared her throat. "Anyway, we searched for months. We read books and plotted routes and schemed up ways to slip our guards. And then Isaac strongarmed his way into the tunnel one night and we found all those priceless relics." She shook her head. "Do you remember how unreal it felt? How exciting and terrifying? Camille refused to hold any of the jewels in case she damaged them."
Ryne's face was shadowed. "What's your point?"
"My point," Penny said, "is that's what Eris felt like. Like he'd found a priceless relic after months of searching, and he wasn't planning on sharing it." She met his gaze. "Does that make any sense to you?"
"Yes." Ryne's voice was thoughtful. "Yes, that makes a lot of sense, actually."
"Ryne..."
They'd paused outside a wooden door. Penny fingered the parchment in her pocket, turning it over in her hands. Did she show him? But, no; Ryne would find the notion of it ridiculous. He rarely believed in curses, and he never believed in cures.
Penny dropped her hand. "What's Eris planning?"
"Nothing good," Ryne said. "He—"
He coughed, raising his fist to his mouth; it came away stained with something dark and slick, and Penny inhaled sharply. Blood.
"Ry?" she whispered.
"The air's a bit dusty," Ryne said hoarsely. "That's all."
Penny nibbled her lip. How many times had they stood in this corridor together, surrounded by oil paintings? She could see a younger Ryne crashing through the halls with a sword, see a teenaged Ryne lying on his back, tossing an apple up and down with one hand. When you got to know someone well, she thought, they stopped looking like anything at all; they became a vessel for memories. A living container of your time together.
It seemed impossible to think that vessel could disappear one day.
Ryne touched her shoulder. "Goodnight, Pen."
"Night," she said.
Ryne turned, starting back down the corridor. Penny faced the wooden door. It was Grayson's door, she realized; if the muddied footprints outside didn't give it away, then the scent did: sandalwood and brine.
She knocked.
"Grayson?" she whispered.
No response. Penny squared her shoulders. Right; there was nothing for it. She'd just peek her head inside and see if he was awake.
She pushed open the door.
Her very first thought was that she must have the wrong room: overturned chairs littered the room, and feathers leaked from a hole in the sofa. The scent of brandy and smoke overwhelmed her senses. Grayson was slumped in a chair by the crackling fire, his head tipped back; she could see his fine blond eyelashes silhouetted against the flames.
"Grayson?" she asked.
Grayson sat upright. He was staring, Penny thought, but there was something odd about it; he was staring at her as if she might disappear if he looked away.
"Penny?" His voice was a rasp.
"Burning gods, Grayson." She crouched down, setting a chair upright. "What happened?"
His throat bobbed. "You shouldn't be in here."
"Nobody saw me come in." Well, except for Ryne, Penny thought, and he wasn't likely to tell anyone. "We won't be discovered."
"That," Grayson said, his voice very deliberate, "is exactly what I'm worried about." He stood up. "Here."
She watched, half-concerned, as Grayson stumbled towards his wardrobe. He tossed something in her direction — a black riding jacket, she realized — and then closed the wooden door, leaning against it.
"I'm not cold," Penny said.
Quite the opposite, in fact; this room had to rival the eighth circle of hell. Grayson watched her through half-lidded eyes.
"And that," Grayson said gruffly, "is not why I'm giving you that jacket."
He sat down again, resting his elbows on his knees. His white shirt hung open at his throat, revealing a strip of tanned skin. There was something dark about his eyes, Penny noted; they were the colour of navy waves, the kind that churned off the coast of Libertas during bad weather. Boat wreckers, Grayson had once called them: the most devastating type of storm.
A flush crept up her neck.
She shrugged on the jacket. "You're drunk."
Grayson's face was shadowed. "I wasn't expecting company."
Penny rolled up the sleeves. "What's wrong?"
It was Libertas, she thought; it had to be. Grayson had once confessed that he'd charmed her purely to get his hands on the royal purse. It wouldn't be a shock to hear that the city was still in dire financial circumstances. But Grayson just stared into the flames, swirling his glass of whisky.
"I hated the way he looked at you tonight," he said abruptly.
Penny stilled. "My cousin?"
Grayson laughed, but the sound was humourless. "I don't think Eris thinks of himself as your cousin, Penny." He tilted the whisky, and the caramel-coloured liquid glowed amber in the firelight. "I don't need to be a mind-reader to know that he wants to bed you."
"I read feelings," Penny said automatically. "Not minds."
Grayson took a short swig. "I want to kill him."
He said it matter-of-factly, as if he was remarking on the weather, and Penny shivered. Something messy knotted in her chest.
"You mustn't say things like that," she said.
"Why not?"
"Eris may be an idiot," Penny said, "but he's a wealthy, ruthless idiot. And he's heir to the throne, as things stand." She wrapped her arms around herself, burrowing deeper into the jacket. "You're talking about treason."
"I can't help it," Grayson said quietly. "I hate him."
Penny shook her head. "Ryne would never let him touch me. Neither would I, for that matter."
Grayson's smile didn't meet his eyes. "I know."
"Don't be angry," Penny said.
"I'm not angry." Grayson drained his glass of whisky. "Well, no, I am, but I'm also jealous." His mouth curved higher. "Is that ridiculous?"
Penny fiddled with a sleeve; the jacket fell past her knees, swallowing her frame. I must look ridiculous, she thought, and then was immediately horrified. She didn't care what Grayson thought of her. Not anymore.
"It's strange," Penny said softly. "I'm not accustomed to having to guess people's feelings. And I don't..." She swallowed. "We're not well-enough acquainted that I can read every thought on your face."
"No," Grayson murmured. "I suppose not."
She stepped closer. The heat of the fire fanned across her skin, and her pulse raced to meet it, sending sparks along her skin. Grayson watched her with guarded eyes. She wondered if her nightgown was sheer in the firelight. She wondered if it was an effort for Grayson to keep his gaze on her face, to not let it wander down her body.
Disturbingly, Penny wished that it would.
"You should go," he said quietly. "Before I do something stupid."
She didn't move. "I came to see you for a reason, actually. I have a favour to ask."
"A favour," Grayson echoed.
"Yes."
"Alright." His voice was wary. "I'll see what I can do."
She frowned. "You don't even know what I'm going to ask you yet."
"That's the thing, princess," Grayson said. "It doesn't matter what you need; it appears that I'm incapable of saying no to you."
He was looking up at her now, and she could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, like burning stars reflecting in clear water. She reached out to touch his face — just lightly — and Grayson half-closed his eyes.
"Don't." His voice was tight. "Please."
Penny swallowed. Dropped her hand. "Libertas. I want to go."
His eyes opened. "You do?"
"Yes."
"I meant what I said before," Grayson said, watching her face carefully. "I'll need to come with you if you want to access the Great Library." He stood, righting another chair. "You understand that, don't you?"
"I know," Penny said. "I've already made the arrangements." She watched as he poured himself another whisky. "We'll leave in three days' time."
Grayson corked the bottle. "What changed your mind?"
Penny reached into the pocket of her nightgown, withdrawing the scrap of parchment. She'd memorized the thirteen words now, but she ran a thumb over them. Just to reassure herself. Grayson frowned.
"What is that?" he asked.
"Sit down," Penny said, her throat dry. "I've got something to show you. And I think it can help cure Ryne."