Ines kept the servants jumping, bringing up food and extra medical supplies for the newcomers. She even ordered several servants to retrieve Asa’s body and place it on a black sheet in the main entry, so there would be no dispute about the Superior’s fate. The approaching soldiers would see their fallen leader immediately upon breaching the palazzo doors.

No one questioned her. Serina thought it had to do with the rigid set of her mouth and the fact that no one else was giving orders within the palazzo. Everyone, servants and Graces included, was waiting to see what the soldiers outside would do.

Serina, Nomi, and a few of the less injured girls bathed hurriedly and put on the clean, dry clothes Ines provided. Wide-legged linen pants and blousy shirts. Not exactly fighting clothes, but better than their torn and bloodstained prison uniforms.

Serina cringed at the way her callused palms caught against the fine fabric. It was strange to be dressed like this again. It felt natural and yet foreign at the same time, like the two sides of herself—the Grace and the warrior—were in constant opposition, both vying for control.

Nomi introduced her to a small tawny-haired girl named Angeline, the handmaiden who’d replaced Serina. The girl looked meek, but the first thing she said to Serina was, “I’ve herded all the Graces into the farthest dining room so they’ll be out of the way if you need to fight.”

She spoke like a soldier giving a report.

Serina nodded, and the girl hurried away.

Nomi finished braiding her wet hair and swung it over her shoulder. “We can try to get them out through the tunnel. I told Angeline about it, in case I didn’t come back… in case Malachi wasn’t able to help them.”

“The passageways. Of course,” Serina said, her mind racing. “Maybe we can all escape, if need be. Unless there are troops hiding in them.”

They both fell silent at the prospect.

Renzo appeared in the doorway, a strange expression on his face. It almost looked… relieved. But Serina couldn’t account for that at all, not with an army at their door.

“Are you well?” she asked, unease coiling within her.

Renzo stepped inside the room, revealing another figure.

Malachi.

Unlike the soldiers in the palazzo, who had been dressed in the household uniform, the Heir was dressed for battle, in armor. He held his helmet under one arm.

“Hello, Nomi. Serina,” he said.

THIRTY-EIGHT

NOMI

“M-MALACHI,” NOMI STUTTERED. Her heart ricocheted against her ribs. She didn’t know whether she wanted to throw her arms around him or run away. Emotions churned so quickly through her mind she couldn’t fix on any of them.

He looked so big and frightening in his battle gear, and his expression didn’t offer any relief. His mouth had turned into a severe frown, his freshly shaven jaw sharp and unforgiving.