Page 36 of We Are the Match
I don’t acknowledge her apology, but I do nod my head. “He’s loyal.”
“He has known me my whole life,” she says. “My mother placed me in his arms when I was hours old. He has kept me safe ever since.”
“Plus,” I say. “He didn’t find my last knife.”
Helen’s eyebrows shoot up, and then, unexpectedly, she laughs.
“That’s all right,” she says. “He doesn’t know about mine, either.”
She reaches beneath the fold of her skirt, showing a soft expanse of skin as she does.
My face warms despite the chill of the wind.
Helen pulls out a small, sharp blade. She turns it over in her hand, her fingers moving with the dexterity of someone who has long been familiar with a blade.
“Who taught you?” I ask. “Your father doesn’t seem as if he’d approve of his princess playing with blades.”
“My mother,” she answers.
I want to ask more about Lena, to look for some sign that Helen knows her mother is alive, that they have been working together—or confirmation that Helen is truly in the dark. But more than that I want to learn about the woman whom I am trying to destroy, to lean close to Helen and inhale the scent of her, to ask the things we are never allowed to know about her.
I want to know it all, before I bring her to her knees.
“Were you—close?” My words almost catch in my throat. “You and your mother?”
It feels wrong to toy with Helen in this particular way—to ask about Lena, when I may be one of the few who have actually seen her since she faked her death.
“We were.” Helen’s eyes are anywhere but on mine.
For the first time, I wonder what kind of mother would leave her child to grieve the way Helen is now; for all her usual control, Helen cannot hide the sorrow on her face.
“She was from Troy, too.” The words rip from my lips before I can call them back.
That was where I saw her. I visited them every year—the ruins, the memory of my sisters. Because who else would come to visit the burned-out shell of this place, except for the only girl left alive? I had felt like I was the only one who would haunt a place like that—except on the first anniversary of their death, I saw her—Lena in the flesh, strolling into the group home as she once did when we all lived there.
Helen’s hands are clenched around one another, her knuckles white. “She spoke often of home,” Helen says finally.
Revenge had felt like a far-off dream before I saw Lena. Hatred for Zarek burned bright, but he was a god, untouchable. It was seeing Lena—seeing her there, rebuilding her empire little by little, that set me on a new course: revenge that would encompass them all.
Helen turns away from me toward the white couches and chairs, the table at their center laden with food, a clear end to this topic.
“I had Erin—my attendant—bring up a little breakfast.” She takes a seat on the couch opposite me, legs crossed, one arm extended gracefully along the back of the couch.
For one wild moment, I consider sitting down beside her instead of across from her, our bodies just touching.
Instead, I drop onto the couch across from her and reach for a croissant. I shove it into my mouth and then raise an eyebrow at her.“Don’t you eat?” I ask through the croissant, before pausing to think about how rude and abrasive I sound in the presence of royalty.
“Of course.” She lifts a scone more daintily than I ever could and takes a single bite. “I have been thinking about our conversation last night. And I’ve—” She clears her throat, her hands dropping to my hand, to the rings there. “I’ve, well, I’ve decided—” She squares her shoulders. “You will bring me along when you go in ... in thefield. I want to attend at your side.”
“No,” I tell her.
Helen chokes on the dainty bite of scone, her eyes widening. She laughs a second later. “No?”
I set down my scone and lean forward, elbows on my knees. “My terms, Helen,” I say. “Remember?”
She blushes. “It’s just—I want to be part of this. It’s going to be messy, and my father ... well, you know what he’s willing to do. But I would like to minimize the loss of innocent life if I can.”
The light, flowing rose-gold dress she wears has slipped below her collarbones, and I could hold my knife to her again—just there.
