Page 69 of Into Ember

“—and the flowers on the east columns refreshed by midday.” An old man’s voice, dry, precise, the kind that has never once been interrupted. “Tonight has to go absolutely perfect, Sam. The future depends on it.”

I know that voice. Everyone in the Legion knows that voice. Morty — Mortimer if you’re in trouble — the voice of the Vestry when the Vestry doesn’t come down the steps themselves. When Ezra isn’t in the room, his mouth is her word.

“But sir—” Younger. Nervous. Sam, apparently.

“You know your orders, Sam.” Slow footsteps on marble, coming closer to where we are. In the gap where the drape meets the window I can see a slice of him — gray robe, hands folded behind his back, inspecting the flowers like he’s grading them. “Get her away from them. Get her to the place we agreed.”

My heart tries to speed up.

I don’t let it.

“They’ll be waiting,” Morty says.

Sam takes his time answering. “Yes, sir.” Smaller, reluctant.

One set of footsteps leaves quickly. The other doesn’t. Morty walks the length of the ballroom like he has nowhere to be for the next century, pausing at the dais, at the fountain, at the chair — her chair — and he straightens a fold of the white drape with two fingers. Gently. Like fixing a kid’s collar.

Then he leaves.

We stay dead for another hundred heartbeats. That’s the training too. The room stays empty.

Brock lets the drape fall open. The gold light comes back in and neither of us moves for a second.

“Do you think—” I start.

“Yes.”

“We need to tell everyone.”

“Now,” Brock says, and we’re moving, out the doors, down the corridor, not running because running gets noticed and noticed gets questions, walking fast and my head replays it on a loop with no off switch — get her away from them, they’ll be waiting, the place we agreed, the future depends on it — and I can’t say a word of it out loud, because this castle is full of ears that hear heartbeats, and the first rule in a realm of dragons is that a room is never empty.

We make it one corridor.

They’re standing in the middle of it like they were placed there. Anya, Neve, Colette. Gray dresses, folded hands, three polite smiles at dawn.

“Just the men we wanted to see,” Anya says. “Come with us.”

“Where?” I ask.

“Where do you think?” She’s already turning. “Since the queen has decided to keep you, you’ll all be escorting her tonight. Fittings.”

Fittings.

There is a man in this castle planning to take her, and they want to measure my inseam.

Brock and I look at one another, talking without talking, and we have a plan.

I groan instead, loud, because Gunnar-being-difficult is the least suspicious thing I can think of. “It’s dawn. Measure me at a civilized hour.”

“The tailors have been up since third bell,” Colette says, unmoved.

“I’ll follow you down,” Brock says, easy, warm, the voice that opens every door he’s ever come to. “I left something in the room — take him, he needs the most work anyway — I’ll be right behind you.”

“I’m afraid we must insist.” Anya’s smile doesn’t move an inch. “All of you, together. And no seeing the queen before the ball. Old customs. It’s what’s proper.”

No seeing the queen.

Brock’s face does absolutely nothing. Which is how I know we both realize how fucking screwed we are. Keep the men downstairs. Keep the queen upstairs. Everything proper. Everything perfect.