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He told us five years—that was my father’s punishment for his betrayal the night Marko sought his revenge on Taras Holodryga. Five years in a cell, and payments every month.
The closer we get to that five-year mark, the more certain my mother becomes that Marko intends to kill my father, keep the money, and pour out his endless lust for revenge on the rest of us.
So that was Plan A: find my father, break into wherever he’s being held, and bring him home. Knowing that if Marko even caught a hint of what we were trying to do, he would slaughter my dad immediately.
Plan B is Nix.
We knew she’d be vulnerable at Kingmakers—out of her father’s tight circle of protection.
You can’t attack Kingmakers to kidnap a student. But if you’re already inside . . .
We planned to take her and trade her life for my father’s.
The only reason my mother hasn’t done it already is because it’s risky—Marko is volatile, irrational. A simple trade might not go as planned. And my mother believes we’re closer than we’ve ever been to finding my father.
I cross the deserted castle grounds.
It’s too early in the morning for anyone else to be stirring, after the night of extended revelry at the Christmas dance.
My mom will be awake. She doesn’t sleep much anymore.
I crack the heavy library door, entering the cool, dark space.
I know she’ll hear me coming in. She’ll hear me walking up the ramp, even with the thick carpet underfoot.
Sure enough, she’s waiting for me halfway up the ramp, perched on the edge of the desk, a simple black robe wrapped around her slim frame.
She looks more like herself than I’ve seen in a long time. This is how she dressed normally: in simple, dark clothing. Moving as smoothly as a shadow come to life.
I can just see the tiniest hint of her natural dark brown color coming in at the roots of her red hair. Time for another application. She dyes her hair in the sink of her small apartment at the very top of the Library Tower.
She’s not wearing the false glasses. Unencumbered and unshielded, her dark eyes glitter with the full force of their intensity.
“How was the dance?” she says.
I hesitate, wondering if she knows I got in a fight.
I didn’t see her at the party, though that doesn’t mean she wasn’t there. She hears all the gossip that passes between students in the library, allowing her to know more of what goes on at the school than the Chancellor himself.
No students today, though. So no gossip.
As blandly as possible I say, “It was good.”
Then, to distract her further, I thrust my gift into her hands.
My mother unwraps it, smiling slightly.
“I was hoping for a new Ruger, but it doesn’t feel heavy enough . . .” she teases me.
When she sees the framed photograph, her face goes still.
It’s a picture of my father and her, dancing at a wedding—I don’t know whose.
My father is spinning her around, her hand up-stretched and his arm the axis. My mother’s head is thrown back. She’s laughing, her skirt flared around her legs like a bloom around the stem of a flower. My father is staring at her like he’s never seen anything more captivating. He’s grinning like the luckiest man in the world.
“Freya said he kept it in his desk, face-up in the top drawer, so he’d see it whenever he?—”
“Yes,” my mother says softly. “I remember.”
