Page 81 of A Game of Veils

With the remaining threads of my self-restraint, I stay where I am rather than dashing over to claim mine from Melisse. Marclinus rubs his hands together with a self-satisfied air, as if he’s immensely pleased with how the latest trial has gone.

Well, why shouldn’t he be? He got everything he wanted from us.

I ready myself to walk calmly over to the waiting maids on his dismissal. Once I’m moving at all, it’ll be harder not to dash.

The imperial heir sweeps his gaze over us once more, an arrogant grin playing with his lips. “Today has given me plenty of opportunity to consider all the assets my potential brides possess. Unfortunately, not all of them are quite as pleasing to my tastes as the others.”

Emperor Tarquin speaks up from his chair. “A factor their elders surely should have considered before putting them forward as candidates.”

My spirits start to sink. We aren’t through with the trial after all. Is he really going to cut down our number again over something as out of our control as his physical preferences?

What if he’s decided my scars repulse him after all?

“Yes,” Marclinus says, so cheerful about it I’d like to strangle him. “A grave oversight that speaks to selfishness and lack of consideration for one’s rulers. I must eliminate the least suitable of you now. I’m afraid you should have known there could never have been any passion between us, Lady Rochelle.”

My heart plummets so swiftly it might crash through the floor. A sound like a whimper escapes my friend where she’s standing beside me.

A guard strides toward us, drawing his sword just like the one who slaughtered Jovitte this afternoon.

In a matter of seconds, it’ll be Rochelle crumpling in a spray of her own blood.

No. I can’t let it happen. I can’t make my peace with this act.

The guard moves to brush past me, and my voice bursts from my throat. “Wait!”

The guard’s steps falter. He pauses with a flick of a glance toward me and then a questioning look at Marclinus.

The imperial heir studies me with a bemused expression. No one’s outright protested any of the executions before, have they?

He speaks in his usual careless tone, but a silky note of warning runs through it. “What reason do you have for concern, Princess Aurelia?”

I thought I’d been overly ogled all day, but nothing compares to the pressure of the gazes burning into me now from all around the room. The whole court is waiting to see what I’ll say, whether I’m going to call the blade to my neck as well.

What in the realms can I say?

I drag in a careful breath to delay my answer, my gaze flitting across the room as if I might find an answer there. It snags on Prince Bastien’s sallow face where he’s staring from the sidelines.

The answers he gave last night come back to me in a jumble. How a person could escape the palace. They’d need a collaborator to smuggle them out.

If there’s a way that I can bring Rochelle with me, right under the emperor’s nose…

The rustle of the dresses in the maids’ arms sets off a collision of ideas in my head. My pulse skips with momentary exhilaration.

But I’m going to have to sell the proposal with a pitch perfectly tailored to the man hearing my appeal.

I don’t feel right trying to curtsy nude, but I bow my head low with a similar positioning of my arms, figuring that can’t hurt my case. “I apologize for interrupting, Your Imperial Highness. It’s only, I think I might be able to suggest an even better punishment for Lady Rochelle’s failure.”

An eager gleam lights in Marclinus’s eyes. That remark has caught his attention.

He crosses his arms in front of him. “And what would that be?”

I give a sheepish laugh as if I’m a bit embarrassed by my boldness. “It’s selfish, I’ll admit. But it could serve both our purposes. I’m used to having multiple maidservants to call on. I’m not sure I’ve been able to present myself to you at my best while relying on one. Lady Rochelle has shown a keen eye for apparel. I’d be grateful to exploit her skill more directly, without the effort of feigning friendship. What if Lady Rochelle died and became Rochelle the maid?”

He needs to believe I couldn’t possibly be making this request out of compassion rather than cruelty, that any evidence that I cared about her was merely a ploy. Please, let my act work.

A brief noise of consternation is muffled somewhere in the crowd behind me. Maybe Rochelle’s father, who might actually think that seeing his daughter stripped of her title and status is worse than watching her murdered.

I’m sure Marclinus can’t conceive of a humiliation much worse than having to serve the people who were once your equals. He’d probably choose death first.

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