Page 23 of A Pact of Blood

Then my plate is set in front of me, and I understand my reaction with a punch of recognition.

Next to the fresh-baked pastries sits a pot of a flecked jelly as white as the walls back home.

Coconut jam. It was almost always on the breakfast table when I was a little kid, but I haven’t gotten to taste it in years.

Marclinus lifts his voice from where he’s lounging at the head of the table. “I hope you all enjoy the treat we ordered in from Rione. My wife had a craving for coconut.”

He shoots one of his cocky grins at Aurelia, who dips her head modestly. “Thank you for indulging me.”

The morning sunlight streaming through the windows lights up her walnut-brown hair and gleams in her dark blue eyes. At the small smile that crosses her lips, my heart hitches in my chest.

I realize I’m staring at her and yank my gaze back to my own meal.

She didn’t so much as glance my way. She hasn’t said a word to me since her wedding ceremony.

But she told me out in the woods weeks ago that she’d never tasted coconut before. AfterItold her that coconut jam was one of the things I missed most about my early childhood in Rione, before Emperor Tarquin claimed me as a hostage.

She asked for this treat for my benefit, not hers.

A lump rises in my throat. If my hand wobbles a little when I dip my spoon into the pot of jam and swirl it on the flaky pastry, I hope no one notices.

She also intervened when Marclinus was going to order me to play for the court a couple of days ago. Has she really pretended to enjoy my music in the past, or was she asking for the court musicians to spare me the strain she knows comes with using my gift?

The emotions that’ve been roiling inside me for the past few days churn even harder. A swell of affection clashes with the lingering pain of watching her rush into Marclinus’s arms and a sharp prickle of uncertainty.

She could have beenwithme rather than him. With all of us, away from here, never worrying about catering to our tyrants’ whims again. I called out to her the way only I could, laid out the whole plan to reassure her, promised her the entire blasted world?—

And she signed her refusal to me with a jerk of her handand careened on into a marriage to a psychopath.

I loved her. I don’t know whether I should still think about that emotion in the present tense. I don’t know whether the woman I fell for even existed, or if she was as imaginary as the illusions my gift can conjure.

The creamy sweetness floods my mouth with each tiny bite I push between my teeth. Thank all that’s holy that some capacity for taste remains in the stump of my tongue and the flesh around it.

I do my best to drift away from my turmoil into recollections of careless days roaming through the city streets or exploring the mountain slopes with my older sister and cousins, but the gloom that’s shrouded me since the end of the final trial follows me even into my memories.

I polish off every bit of the pot’s contents all the same.

Should I say something to Aurelia? Indicate that I recognize the gift—that I’m grateful for it?

Or would doing that only make me more of an idiot?

It’s hardnotto feel like an idiot when we move to the gardens and I have to watch Aurelia sashay between the flower beds and around the fountains with her hand tucked around Marclinus’s elbow. She beams up at him and laughs at his jokes, the perfect picture of a devoted wife.

I don’t think her offering at breakfast was intended as an invitation. Maybe it was an apology. A consolation prize.

He got the woman I adore, and I got a pot of jam. Am I supposed to be grateful for that?

Now that we’re well into summer, it’s a hot day even in the late morning with the sun glaring down from a stark blue sky. I wander through the shadows, watching Aurelia as surreptitiously as I can manage.

I shouldn’t pay attention to her at all. I should pretend her existence means nothing to me. But her presence tugs atme as if she’s snagged a fishhook right through the chambers of my heart.

She brought a light into my life like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Now that I’ve tasted that kind of joy, I can’t help craving it, more than I crave even my old home.

This isn’t healthy. I can’t chase after what might only have been an illusion.

Except it might have been real. I can’t shake the gloom or the craving while that possibility lingers in my head.

I’m not sure what signs I’m watching for now. Raul insists that she murdered Tarquin, that shehadto stay so she could end our foster father’s brutal reign—the way we meant to end it ourselves, as hopeless as those plans turned out to be. Could the gentle, compassionate woman I thought I knew really have schemed to end a man’s life, no matter how awful he was?

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