The Conquering, page 27:

  Varuht threw himself into our plan with a sort of madness I’ve never before witnessed. He trained every moment he wasn’t working with me on the plan. He forged blades all night in his master’s shop, and quickly surpassed his teacher in skill.

  I did my part by continuing my double life. I saw Kheovaria at the palace and would bring Varuht word of her. They lavished riches on her. Gowns embroidered with elaborate designs. Jewels draped from her neck, her wrists, and shone from every finger of her hand. A living, walking, breathing treasure she wore with deference and pride. I had hoped for many months that she would turn her cheek to them. That we would get to her before their hot baths and rich foods won her completely.

  She never saw me. Never noticed the man who worked so hard to free her.

  The Privetts’ city home lies on the prosperous Founders Row lining Canal Street. These brownstones perch upon the city’s northernmost street, with only the canal separating them from the palace grounds—affording them a spectacular view of the palace and its mountain spire.

  I rub the thin, healed scar at my palm as the Foundress Privett beckons us inside her brownstone—a pretty three-story building midway down the row.

  “I’m so glad you’ve accepted my offer—what a terrifying experience that must have been. Rebels, barely outside the city walls! And the wyvern attack at the ball, too. What disturbing times we’ve entered.” The Foundress guides me towards a curved staircase as Clara and Liliana spill behind me into the foyer. “You all must be exhausted. Let me show you to your rooms. You will all be much safer staying in the city with me. Mr. Bens will bring up your luggage and I’ll have refreshments prepared.”

  Clara hadn't even waited for the Foundress’s reply letter. She'd woken the entire household staff in the middle of the night to pack as soon as the High Guard returned us, muttering repeatedly under her breath, “We cannot travel during the day for fear of wyverns, we cannot travel at night for fear of rebels, so we will not travel at all.”

  The return post from the Foundress came a few hours after dawn and confirmed our invitation to stay with her, and we departed immediately thereafter. I hadn't even a chance to send word to Farnell—although one of our handmaidens assured me they’ll pass news to him at the first opportunity.

  The Foundress sweeps us up the stairs to the third floor and down a hall decorated with portraits of the private line—all dark-skinned men with intelligent eyes and charming smiles. Some painted with their gold-marked wives and male heirs. One catches my eye: a beautiful, younger version of the Foundress beams from beside her now-deceased husband and a little boy with a troublemaker’s grin. In the portrait, the Foundress’s tightly coiled hair is still solid black, unlike the complete grey it’s become today. The dots of gold that sprinkle half her face and the entirety of one shoulder remain unmarred by time.

  “Here we are,” the Foundress declares and pushes open a door across from the portrait. It reveals a modestly-sized, ornately decorated bedroom, fitted with a plush four-poster bed and a polished mahogany vanity. The window shutters have already been thrown open, and mid afternoon sunlight bathes the room in a warm glow.

  “Thank you for your hospitality, truly.” I bow my head.

  The Foundress waves her hand. “Nonsense. Get yourself settled in—take a nap—whatever you like. Join us down in the drawing room for a bite to eat whenever you feel up to it. Or would you rather I send up a platter? You had such an arduous night.”

  I quickly shake my head. “I’ll freshen up and come right down. No need to go through any trouble.”

  “No trouble at all. Take your time.” The Foundress squeezes my forearm. Then she turns and beckons to my stepmother and stepsister. “Clara! Lilianna! Come with me. Your rooms are this way.”

  I ease the bedroom door shut, closing out my stepmother’s prattled compliments, and sag against it. I feel like my bones are bending with the weight of everything. The promise of the Ball and the First Dance with the Prince… then the subsequent complete and utter lack of seeing him again. Rahiid Venon, of all people, knowing I bleed gold. His threat.

  And the rebels.

  I claw open the too-tight, too-stifling high collar of my day dress and hurl myself across the room to the open window to thrust my face out. I gulp in great lungfuls of air tainted with the acidity of old manure and damp cobblestone wafting up from the dank alleyway below.

  I dig my nails into the wood sill and try to ground myself against the memories. Abel’s dark eyes crinkled with amusement. Don’t run from me the next time I find you. Next time. Damned Skies, I do want the rest of that story. Is he concocting lies to placate me long enough to kidnap me? What other reason could there be? I was there that day—at least for the start of it. That wyvern mauled and burned Father so badly we’d had only his wrapped body to bury. Everyone knows the story.

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  I reach for my mother’s necklace, but it’s packed with my things and my throat is bare. I remember Clara specifically saying it was an engagement necklace—but what had Father said? I can’t remember a word of it from him. Every day, his memory seems to slip a little further away.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and kick myself. This is supposed to be an opportunity. A reprieve from the dangers of travel. And at least there isn’t an attic to get locked in here. Hopefully.

  I draw in a breath and turn back to the room to accept it for what it is. An opportunity. One I will not waste.

  Composure. Commitment. Conviction.

  I can rest and fantasize later tonight. Time to get back to real life. The Foundress Privett is a prominent member of society and I need her on my team.

  I gaze blearily around the Foundress Privett’s sitting room’s shelves and shelves of books as Clara repeats the story of our ambush in exaggerated detail. I’d rather not relive the experience and instead peruse titles by way of distraction. Unlike the Venons’ manor, the Privett’s library is meticulously maintained. Not a cobweb in sight.

  “And then the lamp got knocked from its hook—I tell you, I was certain it was going to burn us to the ground for a moment there!”

  I bristle. Of course, Clara leaves out any mention of my attempt to protect us. Perhaps she should, since women are not to do such things, but it still irks me. Not that it matters, really. My attempt to protect us hadn’t done any good. Abel disarmed me before I could even blink. Oh, what I’d give to move like that.

  I shake myself. If I had the guts to warn Clara in the first place, back when I first saw Abel in the woods, maybe none of this would’ve happened at all. I squirm under the weight of that guilt and rub again at the scar I deserve on my palm. Father wanted this urbane life for me. I must respect and honor him better.

  I take a tiny sandwich square from the platter that’s already half-empty from Lilianna’s pickings. The platter sits on the low table centered between the sofa I rest on with Lilianna and the two armchairs Clara and the Foundress occupy. Clara shoots me an intensely disapproving look, but I do my best to ignore it as I cast my gaze back to the books I long to run my fingers over—can Clara even make me pay for disobedience here?

  “Do you read?” the Foundress’s voice cuts through my distraction like a knife.

  Heat flushes my face. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Of course she can read.” Clara casts another warning glance at me. “I have her well versed on Proper Etiquette and, of course, the classical hymns and poems of the First Founders, Helberg and Hoad.”

  I hate those books. It’s as if the authors wrote them to torture children.

  The Foundress huffs. “What ridiculous rubbish. You would do well to acquaint yourself with the library while you’re here, young lady. A woman without a proper education shouldn’t even be allowed in court. Books were written so we could learn from others’ mistakes, not for gathering dust or prattling on with poetic self-importance.”

  Insulting so-called classics and offering me free access to a fully stocked library in the same breath…? I might genuinely enjoy my time here.

  The Foundress catches my eye and—did she just wink?

  As if nothing of the sort just happened, the Foundress bites into a raspberry-topped tart. “I think it wise of you to have accepted my offer, with all this business of rebels these days. Fascinating, really, that they would attack such a family as yours. I did so admire your father. A right, honest man. Honest and good as a man ever was.”

  “You knew my father well?” I ask. I haven’t had the opportunity to speak of him. Clara loathes any mention of him—unless she’s reminding me it’s my fault he’s dead.

  “Of course I did,” the Foundress says with a smile. “My late husband was very fond of him. They served together and he often joined us for dinner before he married your mother. You know, when your father was the High Guard, his knights were unflinchingly loyal. This kingdom was in good hands when he was around. I’m sure you’ve heard many stories of those days.” She nods her head at Clara.

  Clara’s smile grows tight. “It pains me to speak of him.”

  The Foundress’s expression falls. “Ah, well, I can certainly understand the pain of loss. My own has settled well in my heart, so I’ll have to share with you some tales when it’s just you and I, Lady Aubrey.”

  “I’d like that,” I say and hope my smile conveys just how much it means to me. Skies, I’m almost enjoying myself already. I take another bite of my sandwich and dare a glance at my stepmother from the corner of my eye. Clara’s jaw twitches as she smiles amicably at the Foundress.

  “These are fantastic,” Lilianna says, and pops another pastry into her mouth.

  “Well, let us talk about you, my dear,” the Foundress goes on, shifting in her seat to face me. “You had quite the evening at the ball with the Prince, didn’t you? You know there’s been much debate about you these past few years. And here you finally are.” She raises her eyebrows and sweeps her gaze over me, pausing on each gold marking exposed by my short-sleeve housedress. Then she glances at Clara. “She’s certainly pretty enough, don’t you think? And all that gold…”

  I flush again, my enjoyment of this afternoon waning.

  Clara casts her own perusal of me. “Yes, one can only hope.”

  “Hope, I shall,” the Foundress agrees. “If she’s even half like her father, she ought to do the monarchy some good. Skies above, we need some improvements there.” She fluffs her skirts, as if she’s not said anything remotely controversial, and adds, “Well then, it seems about time now. Shall we ride?”

  I straighten.

  Clara blinks a few times, as if she, too, is struggling to keep up with the Foundress’s abrupt changes in direction. “Ride?”

  “But what of the wyverns?” Clara says, casting a look at the broad daylight that pours in through an open window.

  A sly smile spreads across the Foundress’s face. “Word has it, the Prince will be riding with his friends within the hour. Where Prince Emory goes, there will certainly be more than adequate protection from flying beasts.”

  Clara meets the Foundress’s gaze with a predatory smile of her own. “A ride sounds lovely.”

  I pop the last bite of my sandwich in my mouth and the last of my fatigue vanishes with it. A house full of books, a fascinatingly outspoken host who loved my father, riding, and an opportunity to see the Prince? Perhaps these are exactly the benefits of high society I’ve been waiting for.