Page 36 of Vilest Things
“Do you have any evidence? Or are you working off the baseless accusations of a woman imprisoned for treason?”
“Surveillance in this palace certainly goes back seven years.” Calla’s eyeslift. Even here, there’s a camera blinking above them. “Do you want me to look? I’ll have them find every bit of footage capturing the two of you together.”
“You are so insufferable.” In a smooth motion, Otta stands again. She dusts off her skirts, sniffing when she finds creases marring the silk. “If her claims are true, then it’s not like I taught her on purpose. Go look through the footage—you won’t find anything. She was the daughter of the captain of the guard. She must have been spying on me.”
Calla can’t believe what she’s hearing. So Otta isadmittingto it. Long before Leida started spreading impossible practices across San-Er, Otta Avia knew how to do it first. Some part of Calla still doubted it, despite her rampage to confront Otta.
Seriously?she can’t help but think. The same Otta Avia who calls for servants to hold up a straw so she can have her hands free from the glass? The Otta Avia who gave herself the yaisu sickness from being stupid enough to attempt jumping into Weisannas?
“If you were a little nicer to me, I’d teach you.” Otta bounces on the tips of her toes, just like she did to get closer to Anton’s ear during the meeting. “Too bad.”
Something in Calla snaps. Her hand plunges into her pocket. Barely enough time passes for her to process the gesture herself, never mind for Otta to realize what she’s doing and get out of the way. Logic kicks in at the last millisecond. Just as the knife whips out of her palm, she jerks her wrist, redirecting it to draw a bit of blood rather than embedding somewhere more serious.
But that turns out to be for naught.
Her knife doesn’t land.
Calla watches with absolute incomprehension as the blade pauses midair, hovering a second in front of Otta’s face before falling to the floor with a lackluster clatter. A shudder moves through the passageway. A strange smell sears Calla’s nose, like burning rubber.
“Oops!” Otta says brightly. “You’re losing your touch, aren’t you?”
What… the fuck.
The side door slams open. In that moment, Calla is so taken aback that her mind falters. August has entered the servants’ passage, half bathed in shadow; the words are already forming on her tongue to demand he get his sister under control. Then he comes closer, and the sight of him gives her a physical jolt. His eyes catch the light; she remembers. August isn’t here. This is Anton, training his gaze on Otta with a concern that Calla has certainly never seen.
“What’s going on?” he asks evenly.
“Yourhair,” Calla exclaims, as though this is the most pressing matter at hand. The freshly dyed black makes August’s face look shrewd again, in a manner that didn’t photograph well when he was younger and new to the palace, in the way that other noble children didn’t like the look of for a reason they couldn’t explain.
“Otta?” Anton prompts. “Are you all right?”
At the other end of the hall, a cluster of servants have arrived with plates, but they come to a quick stop upon seeing the passageway already occupied. A few of them scramble to turn around and get out of sight. Others stand and wait, watching. Anton has noticed too, his attention flickering over, then back. Despite the easy demeanor of his words, his shoulders are stiff underneath his black jacket. He’s also changed since Leida’s interrogation. August has never worn these clothes, so it must be brand-new from the tailor.
“Would you like to tell him?” Otta asks. “Or shall I?”
“Rincun,” Calla says. She pretends Anton isn’t there, forging on with her interrogation. He’s doing a mighty fine job doing the same to her, anyway. “Did you have anything to do with it?”
“Whatever could you mean?”
Calla’s eyes narrow. A finger of cold has started to trail down her spine. “The massacre there,” she says in a low voice. “Last week.”
“Oh, silly me,” Otta says, examining her nails. “Of course not. Why would I know anything about a massacre inRincun? May I be excused to make a toast, Majesty?”
Anton doesn’t immediately grant her permission. He tilts his head, catching the same tone in her voice. “Why did you say that? About Rincun.”
Otta strides to the door. She brushes by Calla, their sleeves grazing against each other with all the friction of sandpaper. “I have something to announce. May I go?”
“No.” Calla throws her arm out, blocking Otta’s path. “You may not.”
“Majesty?” An edge has entered her voice. This time, when Otta calls for Anton, it is nonnegotiable, and Calla understands why. Otta knows.
“Remember,” Otta goes on, “I’m doing this for you.”
This isn’t the voice she would use with August. This is the expectation that Anton ought to be standing up for her, and when Anton’s mouth simply opens and closes, he’s taken too long. A flash of anger darkens her gaze.
“Enough.” Otta smacks Calla’s arm out of the way. The contact stings much more than Calla would have expected. Though she’s quick to recover and shoves her arm out again, Otta is equally prompt. She catches Calla’s wrist and bends it backward.
“Ow,ow,” Calla says before she can stop herself. Where was this strength before, when Calla was dragging Otta across the hall?
