I did as he said. I put my murderous shoes back on.

  The Crown came riding in on horseback. Banners of red blew behind them like a streak of blood across the morning. The crowd of noblesse closed ranks around them like a small army readying for battle. I stood shoulder to shoulder with my friends and family, forming the ring that one of the princes would die inside. We bowed to them as they dismounted their horses. We applauded lightly as the King raised his arms in triumph to us, as though he had accomplished something just by arriving.

  I felt sick to my stomach as I watched the twins come down off their horses. Dressed in all white, Gable and Bastian were the mirror image of each other; broad shoulders and pure confidence in every step they took. Neither looked half as nervous as I felt.

  A horn blew. A minister said a prayer. We all said ‘Amen’.

  We gave our consent.

  It all happened so fast, I could barely understand it. I remember being breathless. My heart was lodged in my throat as though it would never come down again. My terror squeezed the life from my body until I was leaning heavily on my grandfather. His withered hand held mine tightly, his fingertips cold as death. He was and is a brutal man, harder than stone at the core of the earth. Oddly, his innate evil made me feel safe.

  Satan, I reasoned, must fear my grandfather. Everyone else did.

  Grandfather muttered to me roughly, “Steel yourself, Aurelia. You cannot cry, do you understand?”

  “I’m afraid,” I whispered.

  “Never show it.”

  “Is Gable going to die?”

  He squeezed my hand so hard my bones felt like jelly. “Yes.”

  Another shout from the horn. Longer. Mournful and ominous.

  Bastian pulled his sword first. Gable was slow to respond, reluctant, but he wasn’t about to go down without a fight. He took a defensive stance. I’d seen him do it a million times. It never ceased to amaze me how comfortable he looked with a deadly weapon in his hands, like he was made for it. As though he’d known this moment was coming since the day he was born.

  “Good luck, Gable!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. My throat constricted around the words like a snake on a small, hopeless mouse trying to squirm its way to freedom.

  It was the absolute wrong thing to say. I could feel it in my gut and the impossible pressure my mother suddenly put on my hand. I was worried she’d break my bones if she squeezed any harder, but then Bastian lunged at Gable and I didn’t care if she ripped my hand clean off.

  “Hold steady,” Mother hissed fiercely, her eyes on the boys.

  I don’t believe she was talking to me.

  Their swords met with a shrill clang that jolted down my spine like lightning. I felt lightheaded as Gable fell back, but then he was surging forward, forcing Bastian to the edge of the ring in three quick steps. Men and women stepped back, but Arden shouted at them to hold the line. And they did. Better to lose an ear as a casualty of the battle than to spend your life in a Work House for disobedience.

  Bastian threw Gable off with a quick shove. They circled each other slowly in the meadow, slipping in and out of sunlight that darted behind dark clouds. Shadows chased them impishly. They nipped at their heels, whispering through their hair. They danced across their eyes like masks trying to disguise them from who they truly were. I wished one would land on Gable and make him someone else, just for a day.

  Across the field, past the green grass and boys about the slaughter each other, stood King Arden. He was a handsome man with the same bronze skin, brown eyes, and flowing brown hair as his sons. His hair was free of the usual wax that held it in a stern line across his forehead. The only thing that set him apart from the rest of us was the large, gold medallion draped around his thick neck.

  So much about that day was fuzzy, as though my mind tossed away details to keep the edges soft, but I remember the way the King looked watching his sons. I remember being sick to my stomach.

  The fight lasted six minutes. It felt like eons but all it took was one mistake and Gable was dead. He let his guard down for half a second, just enough time for Bastian to run him straight through. Right in the stomach. I watched in stunned silence as Gable fell to the ground. He slid off of his brother’s sword as red blossomed like a rose around the wound.

  My grandfather’s grip tightened so painfully I would be bruised by dinner, but I didn’t cry out. I was speechless. Boneless. Thoughtless. I couldn’t understand what I was seeing. My closest friend lay dying on the grass as we stood dumbstruck, doing nothing to help him.

  We couldn’t. It wasn’t allowed.

  Gable coughed, gagged, the sound of his death mingled with the shrill caw of a crow somewhere in the darkness of the forest. The first sound that made any sense to me was a mournful wail. Queen Marie broke ranks, launching herself at her fallen son. Bastian stepped out of her way. His sword hung heavy at his side, the tip dripping his brother’s life down into the grass. It rolled effortlessly over the satiny green blades before disappearing into the cold dirt at our feet like we were already burying Gable.

  Bastian stood over him, watching patiently. His back was to me. I couldn’t see his face and for that I was a grateful.

  I wasn’t ready to face the monster he’d become.

  now

  chapitre dix

  If you had to kill a king, how would you do it?

  I think about that question all the time.

  How would I kill King Arden if given the chance? And say I did kill him and France was free of his madness, what then? Bastian takes the throne and we start the cycle all over again. He’s a devil made in Arden’s own image. No one believes life will get better when Bastian takes over so whatever you do, you’re going to have to do it twice. You have to be committed.

  So… how would you do it?

  I think the answer lies in how much you care about getting caught. If you don’t mind spending your life in a Work House or banished to the borderlands or, better yet, with your neck on the chopping block, then it really doesn’t matter how you go about it. You can shoot him, stab him, poison him – who cares? You’re not trying to be subtle. Subterfuge is not on the agenda.

  On the other hand, if you didn’t want to get caught, if you wanted to live a long life and enjoy all that tyranny-free world you just created, what do you do? How do you make sure no one ever knows you murdered a king right in front of their eyes?

  I’ve read books on the subject. Of murder, not regicide. There are no How-To manuals on that specifically, but the castle library has a stunningly in-depth murder mystery section. Very educational stuff. And yet, I haven’t pulled the trigger, so to speak. I keep running into one very large hiccup in my plan;

  I’m not a person who is capable of murder.

  Not yet.

  A hand grabs my arm. It pulls me sharply, nearly knocking me off my feet.

  I should scream. I should shout.

  I do neither.

  I’m pressed against the rough bark of a cherry tree, tall and imposing. The moon flickers through the rustling leaves as a hot hand pushes against my hip, pinning me back. Trapping me.

  I smile. “Are you trying to scare me?”

  Gable grins down at me. He’s so tall, it’s unfair. I’m barely five feet and he’s over a foot taller and twice as broad. I’m a ragdoll in his hands. His large, calloused, gentle hands.

  He was dead. Just for a minute. After Bastian stabbed him, he held on for most of the night before his heart gave out and his body went limp. I screamed; ragged and soul wrenching. They heard me all the way in the stables. The doctor worked quickly. He breathed into Gable’s mouth, pushed against his chest, and after what felt like hours, Gable was alive again. Like magic.

  “You can keep him if you want him,” King Arden promised Queen Marie, as though he were talking about a stray cat and not his own son. “But from this moment on, he’s dead to me. Bastian is my only son.”

  With that declaration, Gable became a bastard and Bastian became Dauphin. That was our reality. All because King Arden said it was so.

  “I wasn’t trying to,” Gable tells me now.

  “Liar,” I tease.

  “You’re impossible to scare.”

  “Because I’m not afraid of anything.”

  “Not even getting caught?”

  “No.”

  “Not your mother?”

  “Is she intimidating? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “What about spiders?”

  My eyes go wide. “If there is a spider on this tree, you have to tell me. Do you understand?”

  He smiles, lowering his face to mine. “There’s no spider, Relia. You’re safe.”

  He kisses me softly. Gable doesn’t kiss any other way than softly. It’s divine and slow and sort of… well, it’s boring, really. But it’s also nice and I don’t have the heart to tell him any different so I keep my mouth shut, my lips against his, and I savor the taste of this impossibly sweet, stolen moment.

  I’ve kissed three boys in my life. One was an artist (don’t tell my mother), one was an aristocrat (don’t tell my father), and now Gable. A ghost. A fallen prince hiding in the shadows, waiting for me. It’s ridiculously romantic. The kind of illicit, forbidden feeling that comes with wanting what you can’t have. Needing something you shouldn’t. Needing someone.

  Suddenly my stomach is in knots, my mind a wild hare racing away through the orchard. Gone. Back to the castle and everything I try so hard to stay away from.

  I take a deep breath, pulling away. I smile to cover the vacancy inside me.

  Gable touches my face, just for a second. One finger running down my cheek, my jaw, like he’s trying to bring me back.

  “Are you cold?” he whispers.

  “No.”

  “I brought a blanket.”

  I push my hands inside his coat, burying them in the warmth at his back.

  I lied. I’m freezing.

  “With what expectation?” I tease.

  “The expectation of keeping you warm and safe inside it.”

  I smile. “That was good. I liked that.”

  He grins, his face so handsome it physically hurts. “I’ve got more if you’ve got the time.”

  “I wish I did.”

  “You have to go soon?”

  “Really soon. I was barely able to get away.”

  Gable frowns sympathetically. “Is your mother going insane about the holiday?”

  “Out. Of. Her. Mind. It’s the hundred-year anniversary of the burning of Paris, not the second coming of Christ. And after all this time we’re not even allowed out of France! Does that make any sense to you? We’re celebrating what is essentially considered the end of the plague and a hundred years later we’re trapped in the same plague-proof box we started in.”

  “It doesn’t make a lot of sense,” he admits.

  “And it’s all because—” I can’t say what I want to say here. My mouth is always two steps ahead of my mind and sometimes I catch it, sometimes I don’t. Luckily, tonight I’m on top of it. I’m able to stop myself from saying his father’s name. It’s a sore subject for Gable, for obvious left-for-dead-and-completely-cut-out-of-his-life reasons. “It’s all so stupid. I can’t stand it.”

  “I know.”

  I cringe apologetically. “I’m sorry. I get five minutes with you and I’m wasting it complaining.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Relia.”

  “I do, though.” I tug at him gently, pulling him closer. “I worry about you.”

  He chuckles. “I worry about you too.”

  “Is that why we’re together? Because we’re worried for each other?”

  His body goes rigid, his eyes widening. “Are we together?”

  “Are we not?”

  “I—uh… I…”

  “Gable,” I laugh. “It’s okay.”

  He loosens a little, relieved. “I don’t want to say the wrong thing.”

  “What would be the wrong thing?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m not sure what to say.”

  I hug him close, leaning my cheek against his chest. He wraps his long arms around me tightly. “Is it awful if I don’t know either?”

  “It makes me feel better, actually,” he admits, his deep voice rumbling against my ear.

  Here’s the truth: if my mother found out I was out here with Gable, she’d lock me in the tower. No long tresses of hair to escape on. No dog named Fickle for company. You’re ruining your prospects, she’d tell me. You can’t marry a dead man. And if Arden found out that Gable was kissing a Villette in the orchard, he’d have him killed. For real this time.

  I can feel the scar on Gable’s back through his thin shirt. The spot where his brother ran him clean through. It’s smaller than it used to be. Or maybe it just seems that way because Gable is bigger now. It’s been six years since the Strain and somehow it feels like it was only yesterday. I remember very clearly what it was like to lose Gable. Bastian too.

  That was the worst year of my life. I didn’t know how to live after Gable died. He wasn’t allowed to be my friend anymore and I certainly wasn’t allowed to be his. A boy with no title in the stables? He wasn’t fit to be my friend, they said.

  How quickly they forgot he once was a prince.

  That was what King Arden wanted, though. It’s what he always planned – to have the two boys whittled down to one. The chosen one.

  We kept away from each other for the first few years after the Strain. It was what Gable needed. A clean break where he dove headfirst into his new life wearing thin, worn clothing and secondhand shoes. It was hard for him at first. He was born a complete stranger to manual labor, though he picked it up quickly. Queen Marie was the only one allowed to visit him but she gave reports on his wellbeing to anyone who dared to ask. My dad was one of the few. He’d share the information with me and pretty soon I got bold. Or desperate. I think I was lonely and I know I was sad all the time. I lost both Gable and Bastian at once, my whole world, and while I couldn’t get Bastian back, I felt like I had a sliver of a chance with Gable.

  I sent a note to him through Queen Marie. She was ecstatic that someone cared, willing to risk her husband’s rage to bring any kind of joy to her lost son. He wrote back immediately and it snowballed from there. We agreed on a secret place in the garden to hide our letters, circumventing his mother so we wouldn’t have to censor ourselves, and pretty soon we were writing each other every day. We left little gifts when we could. He wrote me stories about a life we lived outside of France with a cabin by the sea and dogs running wild through the yard. I baked him small cakes and wrote him riddles he was too clever for.

  One evening we ran into each other in the garden where we hid our letters. He was bringing me the latest chapter in our story. I was bringing him donuts with yellow frosting. We sat under a cherry blossom and ate them together as he read to me. The next night we met there again. And again. Every night for months. A year. Two.

  Last night he kissed me.

  Everything is different now.

  Gable walks me back through the orchard to the edge of the garden. This is as far as he can go with me. I can almost see the hole in the wall where I’ll slip through to the other side, leaving him behind.

  “I have something for you,” he says.

  “What? No! I didn’t bring you anything. We said no gifts tonight.”

  He puts his arm under my elbow to lead me into the shelter of an apple tree. It takes me by surprise. I gasp audibly, feeling like a damsel in one of the stories my sister Iris reads. They’re always gasping and swooning, falling to the ground like downy flakes of snow in a winter storm. Gable gives me that feeling sometimes; frailty. It’s new and exhilarating and completely uncomfortable.

  I was brought up with a strong distaste for weakness.

  My family strives to breed it out of our bloodline.

  Gable reaches in his pocket. “You don’t have to wear it if it makes you nervous.”

  “What is it?”

  He hesitates before opening his hand. I can feel his eyes shift to mine, reading me like a book, but I don’t meet them. I haven’t quite figured out how to look at him when we’re like this. I don’t know how to be when we’re ‘together’. For now, I watch his long, elegant fingers unravel around the object in his palm.

  It’s a bracelet; orange and delicate. Copper. It’s not a metal I see very often but I recognize it immediately, along with the intricate pattern of geometric shapes that are etched over the outside.

  “Do you like it?” Gable asks.

  “I love it,” I answer mildly.

  “You do?”

  “Of course I do.” I summon the will to look him in the eyes. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

  He grins, glancing at my lips without meaning to.

  “Where did you get this?” I ask, careful to sound casual.

  “The black market.”

  “You shopped on the black market?”

  “I know it’s dangerous, but it was worth it. Do you know who made it?”

  “No,” I lie.

  “The Brûlén.”

  Oh Gable, what have you done? Isn’t your life dangerous enough?

  “Really?” I ask, trying my hardest to act surprised.

  “You can tell by the marking on the inside. Look.” He’s visibly excited, his mouth curved in a feline grin that reminds me too much of his brother.

  The truth is, I’ve seen bracelets like this before. Recently.

  Really recently.

  The last time I was visiting my grandparents at Fontainebleau I saw an entire shipment of them.

  Despite the fact that it’s incredibly illegal, the Villettes never stopped trading with Brûlé. Grandfather pays them to run our trade routes instead of sending his own army out to the slaughter because the Brûlén can handle it. They have the knowledge, the equipment, the skill, and the reputation to do it without dying. The Bluecoats have none of that. They tried to run the route themselves once. It wasn’t pretty. When Grandfather went to them for help, the Brûlén were willing to take over. Their chief, Fennel, asked if he was willing to take such a big risk but Grandfather wasn’t about to burn a hundred-year-old bridge with them just because His Serene Majesty has some imaginary grudge.