But his nose wrinkles. “I never developed a taste for the stuff,” he says, waving a hand dismissively.

Frustration rises in my chest but I force it aside. So close, but I can’t very well shove the poison down his throat.

“Very well,” I say, setting the pot back on the table. “What can I do for you, Your Highness?”

Though it nauseates me, I glance up at him through my eyelashes and summon my sweetest smile.

His smile broadens and he leans back in the chair, which creaks under his girth.

“The Theyn and I have been discussing your future, Ash Princess, and I thought you might like a say in it.”

I have to choke back a laugh. He already has my future plotted, and nothing I say could change that. It’s the illusion of a choice, just like the one he gave me when he asked me to kill Ampelio.

“I’m sure you know what is best for me, Your Highness,” I reply. “You have been so kind to me so far. You must know how grateful I am.”

His hand slides across the table toward mine and I force myself not to pull mine back. I let him place his thick, clammy fingers over mine, and I pretend his touch doesn’t revolt me. I pretend I welcome it, even as bile rises in my throat.

“Perhaps you could show me just how grateful you are,” he murmurs, leaning toward me.

I can’t look at him, so I watch his hand instead. His sleeve is touching the base of the candle, only inches away from the flame. If it isn’t my imagination or a coincidence—if I really am controlling the flame without meaning to—what else can I do? How difficult would it be, really, to make a spark jump and catch his sleeve on fire? It would look innocuous enough, but it would make him stop touching me.

I would give anything for him to stop touching me. Anything.

Even your chance at the After? Even your mother? Even the future of your country?

The questions give me pause.

Suddenly a crack slices through the air and the Kaiser is yanked back, falling to the ground in a graceless heap, the chair splintered beneath him, the iron frame snapped cleanly in half. Shocked, I leap to my feet, along with everyone else on the pavilion.

Lying on his back, he reminds me of a turtle flipped over onto its shell. His bloated stomach strains at his shirt as he writhes, struggling to sit up to no avail. His guards rush forward to protect him, but when it becomes clear there was no attack, only the Kaiser’s girth breaking the chair, even they have to struggle to keep straight faces as they help him up to his feet. The courtiers crowded on the pavilion are less able to hide their giggles, which makes the Kaiser’s face grow redder and redder with fury and embarrassment.

I search for my Shadows lurking in the corners, and for Blaise in particular. The Kaiser’s weight alone wasn’t enough to break the wrought-iron chair, not without a touch of Earth magic. But it’s hard to believe Blaise would have done something so reckless on purpose.

There are only two figures standing in a dark corner, one tall and one short. Blaise isn’t there, though I know he was a few seconds ago.

All I can do is hurry around the table to where the Kaiser is being helped up by his guards.

“Your Highness, are you all right?” I ask.

He pushes his guards away and brushes off his clothes before taking a step toward me. His blue eyes—the same color as Søren’s—dart around the pavilion. No one dares laugh out loud, and many avert their gaze, pretending not to have seen the blunder at all. But he must know it’s a lie. He must know that they are all mocking him. He pushes his guards away from him, setting his jaw in a firm line and coming toward me. The smell of sweat and metal is overwhelming.

“We’ll speak again soon, Ash Princess,” he says, reaching his hand up to touch my cheek. Søren did the same thing when we were on his boat, but this is so much different. It is not a touch of affection, it is a claim staked in front of dozens of courtiers, and in an hour’s time, the whole city will know about it.

When he turns to go and finally takes those cold eyes off me, my knees all but buckle and I have to grip the edge of the table for support, though I try to hide it. Now more than ever, everyone is watching me, praying for me to fall so that one of their girls can take my place.

I am a lamb in the lion’s den, and I don’t know that I can survive.

WHEN I GET BACK TO my room, I’m relieved that Hoa isn’t there. It’s all I can do to keep the storm of fear and doubt buried deep in me. Screams and tears and fire scratch at my throat, but I swallow them all down, down, down. I cannot appear weak, not with my Shadows watching me. But someone is always watching me, aren’t they? Always expecting something of me, always waiting for me to slip.

With calm, measured steps, I cross to the water basin sitting on my vanity and dip my hands into it. The hands he touched. I scrub them until they are red and raw, but it doesn’t do any good. I still feel the Kaiser’s touch. I still feel the threat of him wrapped around my neck like a noose.

There is a pumice stone next to the basin, so I use that, digging it into every part of my hands, the palms, the backs, my fingers, even the spaces in between. It doesn’t matter, it’s never enough. Even when my knuckles bleed and turn the water pink. Even when my skin turns numb.

Good girl. You’ve grown awfully pretty, for a heathen. Perhaps you could show me just how grateful you are.

A strangled cry breaks the silence and I look around for the source before realizing that it’s coming from me, that I’m the one crying, and now that it’s finally started, I can’t make it stop. My legs give out and I fall to the floor, bringing the basin down with me and drenching the skirt of my dress with bloodied water.

I don’t care. I don’t even care when the door opens, even if it’s Hoa, ready to run to the Kaiser. Let her. It’s too much. I can’t do this. I am not enough.

Footsteps come toward me and I look up to see Artemisia in her black cloak, indigo hair spilling over her shoulders and something that might be pity in her hard eyes.

“Stand up,” she says, her voice soft.

I should listen to her, I shouldn’t let her see me like this. She thinks I’m useless already, and I don’t want to prove her right. Still, I can’t move. I can’t do anything but cry.

With a sigh, she drops to her knees in front of me and reaches for my bloodied hands, but I pull them back and cradle them against my stomach.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she snaps. “Let me see how bad it is.”

Hesitantly I hold them out to her, flinching when she none too gently turns them over.

“Heron?” she says over her shoulder to where a tall boy with overgrown black hair and thick eyebrows lingers in the doorway, looking like he might be sick. “A little help?”