I see Victor in my dreams again. His icy blue eyes bore into mine, picking me apart bone by bone.
You're taking too long, he says. He lifts a silver pocket watch, dangling it from its chain. Its hands spin dizzyingly, moving at so rapid a pace that they are merely black blurs passing over the face of the watch.
My plan will work, I tell him. I never fail.
He doesn't speak, but his eyes glitter. I wonder if, beneath his mask, he is smiling.
When I wake, my heart is pounding and my flesh burns where the Immaterial Ring was resting against it yesterday. I dive for the drawer and grab the black band, ignoring the hot sting of the metal against my fingertips. Though I take a few minutes to examine the ring in the rising sunlight, I find nothing out of the ordinary. But, then again, my eyes have not been trained to recognize magic.
I climb out of bed and dig through the wardrobe. Morwen has added a few more gowns, ones that Ethel has grown bored of. One of the new ones, with fabric in so deep a blue it almost looks black, has pockets. It also has cumbersome sleeves that trail to the floor and an overly revealing neckline, but I'll have to make do. No one will be able to see me for most of the day, anyway.
Slipping the ring into the gown's left-hand pocket, I step into the duchess's room. She's already dressed, in a poufy violet gown that's nearly twice the width of her body. When she turns around to face me, I see that she is also wearing a brilliant smile.
"Nyx! Good morning."
"Good morning, Ethel," I return. "You seem cheerful."
"You would be, too, if you had received a gift from Victor."
Goosebumps rise on my arms as I remember his eyes flashing in my dream. "He was here?"
"Or he sent someone on his behalf. I found this on the table." She passes me a flat velvet box.
When I open it, the scent of bergamot fills my nostrils. There's a diamond necklace lying in the box, along with a handwritten note affixed to the inside of the lid.
Ethelâ
This is a mere taste of what's to come. Make sure Nyx is doing as she should.
V.
That strange tingle returns to my stomach. This isn't a message for the duchess, it's a message for me. A warning. Grey must have told Victor of my admission that I have made no progress yet, and his dissatisfaction is not something to be trifled with. Already, he is growing impatient. I have no proof, but I'm absolutely sure that he brought this gift here himself. Somehow, he sneaked into the castleâinto this roomâand left it for Ethel to find.
When I glance at her, my anger flares slightly. From the dreamy, vacant look in her eyes, I can see that she's unbothered by this intrusion. She doesn't understand how dangerous Victor is. Instead, she's blinded by her attraction to him. It's foolish. It's reprehensible.
It's just like a noble.
"Ethel," I murmur, staring at Victor's spiky handwriting. "Do you know how he got in?"
"No. There's something so romantic about it, don't you think?" she asks. She snaps her fingers at Morwen, who scampers over to fix her hair.
"Someone broke into your room," I say stiffly, returning the box to her. "He could have killed you if he wanted."
She shakes her head, smiling as though this is the silliest thing she's ever heard. "He would never."
"I thought that guards patrolled the corridors at night."
"They do, but surely Victor is clever enough to bypass them."
Knowing that there's little point in wasting my energy to argue with her, I change the subject. "Do you know where the prince's room is?"
Ethel's coy smile puts the one I attempted yesterday to shame. "I see you're finally making your move."
"So it would seem." It's better to keep my change of plans to myself. While Ethel has managed to keep my assignment from Victor a secret, I don't want to trust her with further information. Allowing her to help me at all is enough of a gamble. At first, knowing that Victor had faith in her put my mind at ease, but his recent actions are making me question him as well.
You're the only one who can do it. For all his confidence in my abilities, he certainly is keeping a close watch on me. My eagerness to get revenge on the king blinded me to how dangerous accepting an assignment from the Lord of the Underworld is. He could be my downfall.
"It's at the far end of the West Wing," she says. "Turn left when you step outside and keep walking."
"Thank you." At least she's moderately useful.
"Nyx," she calls as I grab the doorknob.
I turn around to look at her, lounging in her chair with Morwen gently pulling a brush through her hair. She looks entirely at ease as she admires the diamond necklace, resting in its box. I know that she won't turn me in; she wants the prince's handâand fortuneâtoo much for that. Still, I can't shake the thought that she could if she really wanted to. The reward for turning in a girl conspiring against the prince and, effectively, the king, would probably sustain her for a good amount of time.
"Is that how you're going to present yourself to him? With your hair like that?"
As usual, I've twisted my long black hair into a braid. "Yes. What's wrong with it?"
Ethel sighs. "At least that gown reveals some of your assets."
I can't help but roll my eyes as I exit the room. The hallway is bustling with servants helping their masters prepare for the day, but as I proceed towards the western end of the castle, I find a secluded alcove to duck into. Hidden from view by a large stone pillar, I slide the Immaterial Ring onto my finger, wincing at the sudden burning cold that feels as if it might sever my finger from my hand.
Soon, a strange tingling takes over the rest of my body, spreading through my arm and dispersing up to my head and down to my toes. It doesn't hurt, exactly, but it's massively uncomfortable. It feels as though my whole body has gone numb, and I can hardly even feel the soft cloth of the gown I'm wearing pressed against my skin. When I look down, I choke on a gasp. My body has vanished completely.
It works, then. I must admit that I had my doubts.
Disconcerted, I step back into the hallway unthinkingly, crashing straight into a maid carrying a silver platter piled high with breakfast things: peeled oranges, buttered toast, and a steaming cup of hot tea.
The maid walks right through me, and I have to catch my breath as the strangest sensation overtakes my body. A hollow feeling, as though she has scooped out my insides and left a gaping hole through the center of my body. Now I realize why it's called the Immaterial Ring: I have become intangible. The thought is frightening, but at least it makes my task easier.
Pushing my unease aside, I continue to the end of the hall. A large set of ornately carved double doors leads to what I can only assume is the Silver Prince's bedchamber. His four guards are on duty, though they look far more relaxed than I would expect them to be. There is no stiff vigilance about them; only a lazy apathy.
Good.
I skirt around them, then take a risk and step right through the double doors. The strange, hollow feeling takes over again and I shudder. It seems unfair that my entire body is numb, yet I can still feel that harrowing emptiness. My finger throbs, and I wonder just how long I can keep this up.
But for several moments, as I take in the Silver Prince's bedchamber, my pain is forgotten. It's just as grand as the duchess's room, but twice as big. The walls are papered with blue floral damask and edged with white molding. The marble floor is covered with a thick carpet, woven in intricate swirling patterns that are almost mesmerizing to look at. The glossy mahogany furniture is equally splendidâa table with matching chairs, a large desk, and a wardrobe with a lion's head carved at its peak.
A great, canopied bed draped with dark blue silk and velvet is against the wall to the right and, lying upon it, is the Silver Prince.
There's a strange softness about him as he sleeps. Without his cruel smirk, his mouth is gentle, and his shut eyes don't glitter like gemstones. He lies on his side, his body curled like a child's, shrouded by a blue silk robe. His white hair is gently tousled from turning in his sleep, but I find that it looks better when not so strictly combed back from his pale face.
He's beautiful, I think, and instantly hate myself for it.
The pain of the ring around my finger is so much that I crave release. Glancing around the room, my eyes alight on the prince's cluttered desk. I rush over and duck underneath it, my invisible hands fumbling for the ring. The moment I yank it free, I sigh in relief. The numbness of my body fades, and I feel whole againâthough my finger still aches. Slipping the ring into my pocket once more, I watch the prince.
He lies still for ten more minutes, then his eyes slide languidly open. Raising his arms, he stretches in a catlike manner, then sits up. His open robe reveals his bare torso, and I feel my face warming as I look at him. It's strange; usually I feel nothing when spying on my targets, but for some reason the Silver Prince is different. Perhaps it's because he seems so drastically different here than when he flirts with noblewomen at supper or attempts to intimidate me in the rose garden or in the woods. It feels far more invasive than observing someone who is the same when alone and when in the company of others.
The prince stands and walks over to his doors. He opens one and pokes his head outside. "Ingram, send for my breakfast."
When he turns around, my stomach drops in panic, worried that he'll see me. He doesn't, of courseâI've picked a good hiding spot, and he has no reason to suspect that anyone has infiltrated his bedchamber. Even so, I know that the consequences of being caught here are far worse than being caught by any of my past targets. I shove my hand into my pocket again and slide on the ring. The numbness spreads through my body and the burning sensation at the base of my finger intensifies. But I would much rather endure this pain than allow the prince to find me here.
He paces his room idly until a young servant arrives, carrying a large tray laden with food. The Silver Prince sits on of the mahogany chairs, waiting patiently as the servant sets up his breakfast on the table.
"How are you this morning, Booth?" he asks.
I am surprised at his asking, but the servant acts as though this is a standard question from his master. "Fine, thank you."
"Did my father make good on his threat?"
Booth winces. "Yes, sir...he did."
I have no idea what they're referring to, but from the solemn way the Silver Prince bites on his lower lip, I know that it's nothing good. Since he's asking a servant for details, I make a mental note to ask Morwen about it later. She may have heard about this. Or, at least, she may be able to tell me who else I might ask.
Booth leaves, and the prince pokes disinterestedly at his food. There's a dreary loneliness about the sight that almost makes me pity him. He looks utterly bored, void of company and thus unable to make the lively conversation he engages in every night at supper. There's an emptiness in his eyes, too, that I have seen in my own. Mirrors have never interested me, but when I do look, I never look into my eyes. There is something lost there. I know what haunts me, but I wonder what haunts the prince. As far as I can tell, his life is perfect.
The prince barely touches his breakfast before abandoning it entirely. As he dresses, I avert my eyes, not wanting to intrude more than is necessary. Once he's decent, I follow him into the hallway, where all of his guards offer him halfhearted bows, their reverence seemingly gone without anyone around to witness it.
I trail behind the four guards as the Silver Prince passes through the wide halls. Servants and nobles alike move out of his way, their low bows going unacknowledged as he walks by. He heads downstairs, leading the way to yet another set of large doors on the opposite side of the castle as the ballroom.
When he opens them, I am awed by the sight that greets me. I thought I had gotten myself relatively familiar with the layout of the castle, but I somehow managed to miss this room. It's a library, with shelves upon shelves of books stretching all the way up to the ceiling, each colorful tome stamped with golden lettering to announce its title. Ladders on wheels are spaced about the room to allow for access to higher shelves, and plush sofas and armchairs surround the dead fireplace at the far end of the room, creating a cozy area for reading.
There are a couple large tables in the very center of the room that seem meant for more serious study. An old gentleman with a white beard is seated at the head of one, books and papers piled so high in front of him that his head is almost hidden behind them.
The Silver Prince sits directly to the man's right. "Good morning, Master Keyon."
The old man glances up, eyeing him over thick, half-moon spectacles. "I trust you haven't come to your lessons drunk again, my lord."
The prince sighs impatiently, resting his chin in his hand. "No, I haven't."
Keyon shakes his head, irritated by the prince's attitude. He passes him a large book bound in dark green cloth. "Your father asked me to review the King's Credo of Itoria with you today."
"Did he?" The prince's voice is sour with sarcasm. "As if I haven't got the thing memorized."
Ingram, the head guard, speaks up. "Mind your tone, Adrian. Remember that your father asked us to report on your behavior from now on."
It seems that I am not the only one keeping an eye on the prince. His own father has asked these guards to take note of everything he does. I have to bite my tongue to keep from laughingâhe is so badly behaved that the king cannot trust him. How is the Silver Prince going to take his father's place if his behavior is so flawed, even after many years of education?
Angered, the prince slams his palm on the table, the sudden noise echoing throughout the high-ceilinged room. "My father should learn not to treat me like a child any longer."
A heavy silence fills the room. Once it settles, Keyon says, "If you didn't act like a child, Adrian, he wouldn't treat you like one."
"Nor would he punish you like one," Ingram remarks.
By now, the Silver Prince's cheeks have gone pink. I've never seen him like this before; the color looks strange on his normally pale face. It feels like a victory, though the victory is not mine. At least now I have seen the prince flustered, as he has ruffled me in the past.
"Fine," the prince mutters resignedly, opening the book. He bends his head to study the pages, biting on his lip so hard that I wonder if he will draw blood.
Royal blood. I almost wish he would.
"How much of the exordium can you recite?" Keyon asks, his voice marginally softer. While it seems as though he has about as much fondness for the prince as I do, he does seem to pity him a little.
"All of it," the prince says. He closes the book and his dark-lashed eyes as though visualizing the credo. "'A king is honest, just, and fair. He puts his people before himself in all matters, and sees to the needs of those around him. In times of famine, he is last to eat, and in times of war, he is first to bloody his sword. When his subjects call, he answers, and in moments of weakness, he turns to none but the gods to light his path. A king is selfless and humble, a servant of Itoria to his dying breath.'"
"You should think on that," Keyon tells him gravely. "That should be the first thing you say to yourself when you wake up in the morning, and the last thing you think of before you fall asleep at night."
The prince's shoulders slump, as though the weight of the words has physically manifested upon him. I had never heard the credo beforeânever even knew it existedâbut I find the words uniquely sobering as well. The prince certainly doesn't live by them, though I doubt that the king himself does, either. The most cynical part of me wonders why such a writing even exists and why the kings and princes must learn it if they have no plans to act accordingly. While I'm sure that the prince can only benefit from repeating it as often as Keyon suggests he should, the hypocrisy between King Thurstan and his credo is undeniable.
The morning hours pass slowly. I spend most of it hidden behind a bookshelf, ring in my pocket, as I listen to Keyon's droning voice. He quizzes the prince on all manner of dull subjects, and the prince answers in quiet, uninterested tones. Though the experience is hideously boring, I'm glad that it gives me a long break from wearing the Immaterial Ring.
In the afternoon, the prince practices his swordplay outside. I'm surprised by his skill; he disarms several of his partners with apparent ease. As he fights, grim concentration overtakes his face and sweat pools on his forehead. It's unnerving to see just how deadly this man, who appears foolish, truly is. As quick as I am, I'm not sure that my abilities would protect me from him, should I state his fear wrongly and end up in an altercation.
When he retires to his room to rest before supper, I go to my own chamber instead. After securing the ring in my drawer, I lie down on my bed and gaze up at the ceiling, disheartened. Doubt clouds my mind, and I fear that this plan won't work. Unless I can eavesdrop on a conversation with someone the prince trusts, I won't learn anything worthwhile about him. And it seems like he trusts no one.
My body aches, doubtless due to the amount of magic I've exposed myself to. It exhausts me, and I allow my eyes to closeâjust for a few minutes.
It's already dark when I wake to Morwen gently shaking my shoulder. "Nyx? You slept through supper."
"Morwen!" I gasp. My stomach growls, now unaccustomed to missing a meal. How pathetic I've grown so quickly. "I have to ask you about something."
"Yes, I can bring you food from the kitchen."
"No, no," I say quickly. "Have you heard of a threat from the king recently? Something he would have just followed through on."
Her eyes look pale in the darkness. "Yes...last week, some of the servants demanded more pay, and the king threated to dismiss them if they ever asked again. A few of them asked again, and they were dismissed last night."
I frown in confusion. "Would the prince be upset about that?"
"No. Why should he be?"
The Silver Prince's expression earlier, after speaking to Booth, returns to my mind. Booth had to have been talking about something else; there's no way the prince cares which of his servants are dismissed, so long as there are still people to serve him. I've seen his flippancy at every supper, the way he ignores those who bring him food so that he can focus his attention on Cordelia. Of course he doesn't care; he has no reason to. Everyone around him is replaceable.
I wonder what tomorrow will bring. My muscles tense at the thought of wearing that painful ring again, but I know that I have little choice. Now, though, I wonder if this is the kind of magic that can tear me apart.