My breath hitches in my throat. “It’s not that we didn’t try to get people to help us,” I say with emphasis, quickly crafting an answer that is not only believable but is also the truth. “But no one would. So if there is someone killing your guards, it doesn’t have anything to do with us.”

Jag stares at me, and I’m hyperaware that he’s reading my features, looking for a crack in my answer and an excuse to slit Ash’s throat. I don’t dare blink, afraid that any movement will turn out for the worst.

Just then the metal door behind us whines on its hinges. I release my breath and Jag turns around. A middle-aged woman enters the cell. She’s dressed similarly to Jag, with strawberry-blond hair and the same blue eyes as Brendan. Rose.

“We’ve had another”—Rose hesitates—“incident, this time in the gatehouse.”

Jag listens, his face unreadable.

“I think we should delay,” Rose continues.

“We’re not delaying,” Jag states simply, showing no upset but also leaving no room for argument. “I told everyone to be here this morning and be here they will.”

By “everyone,” I can only imagine he means his guests from the ball last night.

Rose frowns. “With all these people arriving, our risk—”

“I can’t imagine how repeating yourself will change my mind,” Jag says, shutting her down matter-of-factly, and her face takes on a neutral expression that reminds me of my dad’s in his cell last night.

“Bring them upstairs in half an hour,” Jag says to the guards, and brushes his hands together as though we got him dirty, leaving the cell as confident as he entered it.

I stare at Ash, who has a bloody lip, but he’s not looking at me, he’s looking at Rose. And he has the strangest expression on his face, like he’s asking her a silent question. The guards lock Ash back up in his restraints.

Rose makes eye contact with me, and I freeze. Despite her dainty, elflike features, there is nothing soft about her. She follows her father out of the cell with the guards and the bouncer.

We remain quiet until their footsteps fade and we’re certain we’re alone again. I look from a bleeding Ash to Ines, whose hair is raggedly shorn off but who holds her chin high and wears a proud expression.

“I’m so incredibly s—” I start.

“I’m not,” Ines says. “All I am is determined.”

“But last night,” I start. “If I hadn’t smashed that vial—” I stop, the lump in my throat growing.

Ines turns to me, her proud expression unchanging. “November, don’t you dare,” she says, and my eyes widen at her uncharacteristically forceful tone. “My hair is just hair. Ash’s lip will heal. Complicit Strategia are the backbone of Jag’s rule. Always be defiant. Always, always.”