Oma still didn’t know I’d frozen the Vier or that I’d killed Coralythe’s sons. What a relief. But the familiar weight of secrecy settled upon my shoulders again. Would I never be able to live free of its lock and key? I wasn’t about to hand Oma more leverage, so I let the silence stretch on.

“After all I’ve done for you, you won’t tell me?”

I snorted. “What have you done?”

“I used every last coin of mine to keep you alive these past few months—”

“You drugged me.”

“I’ve given you a home—”

“That you made me pay rent for with wishes.”

“I’ve raised you—”

“Because you lied about my mother’s death.”

Oma cursed and stomped out of the shelter. Good riddance. But at her absence the burn of tears threatened. My inner walls crumbled at the safety that accompanied solitude.

Anouk was queen and didn’t know how to find me. Mutti was alive but didn’t know who I was. And I was cursed to die the next time I allowed myself to feel something.

I gulped my tea. It burned my throat. Even after I swallowed, the burning continued from the overload of information and my turbulent feelings. I didn’t want to talk anymore. I didn’t want to assess my next move or accept the repercussions of my predicament. My breathing quickened and I barely managed to abandon my tea on the bedside table. I fumbled for the herb cloth and slapped it to my own nose.

As I breathed in the new scent of sleep, I clung to one thought. I had to break this curse. It was the only way to atone. Then maybe, just maybe, I could die without a suffocating weight of guilt.

Chapter 11
Bastiaan

King Mattias wore his throne like a cloak of carved stone and gold.

Bastiaan stood on the gleaming marble floor at the king’s feet, his own inverted reflection bloated with secrets. The new queen stood in the shadows behind the king, long dark hair and regal stance. Runt stayed flush with the entry wall, the proper place for a servant. His bowed head and subservient stance made him practically invisible to the eyes of the elite, but his ears were alert and seeking. Gathering information to share with Bastiaan upon their exit.

“Who exactly were you to my father?” King Mattias asked.

Bastiaan’s reply would set the tone for this audience. There were too many paths toward failure. He must weigh and measure every word. Every breath. He needed Mattias to trust him—to see him as one with great knowledge who could benefit him. Train him. Teach him.

Who was Bastiaan to the former king? At the beginning he was a distant servant. Then a dear friend and son. At the end . . . murderer.

“I started out as a private messenger for him. Before he died . . . I served as confidant and advisor.”