Page 108 of Down Comes the Night

“You don’t know anything—”

“How stupid do you think I am, Wren?” Una curled her hands to fists. “He surrendered and lied for you, that knife you have is Vesrian made, and you’re wearing his jacket.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is that you’re not seeing things objectively. You’re not thinking clearly. I saw how it gutted you to turn him in. I saw how you looked at him in the ballroom.”

She refused to dignify Una with a response. Their relationship wasn’t any of her business.

“So the queen is right.” Una regarded her with open revulsion. “You do love him.”

“Idon’t.” It wasn’t a lie, was it? It wrung something out of her to say it. “Goddess above, Una. What does it matter if I did, anyway?”

“Because he’s a monster!” Una’s eyes flashed with hurt. “He’s killed hundreds of our countrymen. Or have you conveniently forgotten that?”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Wren said. “Nor have I forgotten that Lowry’s killed three without remorse. There will be thousands more.”

The silence between them was a wall, impassable.

“Neither Cavendish nor Lowry is a good man,” Una continued, softer now. “No matter what we do, one of them goes free. I have to put my faith in the queen’s judgment. I have to believe Lowry is the lesser of two evils. Can’t you understand that?”

“I understand perfectly.” Bitterness coated her every word. Wren turned away from her and wrapped herself tighter in Hal’s jacket. The smell of it—of Hal—nearly wrecked her. “Are you done talking yet? The queen says I need my rest. You wouldn’t want to disobey her orders, would you?”

She expected another argument, but Una only sighed. Wrendidn’t know what to make of the hoarseness in Una’s voice when she said, “Yes. I’m done.”

With those three words, Una abandoned her. How had she been so foolish to believe Una would help her, that justice could be stronger than hatred? Maybe Lowry was right. Maybe they could never escape this cycle of war, this inherited violence. They were cursed to bleed and bleed and bleed until nothing and no one remained. Wren felt herself falling into some dark place inside herself—so dark, she didn’t know if she could find her way back to the light again.

She’d failed her country.

She’d failed Hal.

She’d failed herself.

It’s easier to feel nothing,Hal had told her once, a strange kind of wistfulness in his eyes. Now she understood so perfectly why he’d become the Reaper of Vesria. How she wished she could cut out her every emotion, to sink into oblivion. But even now, she couldn’t harden herself to suffering. She’d never been able to, and maybe she never would. This sorrow and pain at the core of her—it gave her purpose. It gave her strength. No, she couldn’t let herself sink any deeper. She’d made a promise to Hal that she’d save his life.

I believe you,he’d said, with more trust and affection than she thought she’d ever deserve.

Now she had to believe in herself.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The road to the royal palace was paved with people. Crowds jeered and hissed as the Guard’s carriages rolled over the slush-slick cobblestones. Wren was grateful she couldn’t make out what they were saying over the clatter of the wheels and the clop of hooves. Through the foggy windows, their faces were contorted and gore-red with cold and a terrifying, ravenous hunger. This wasn’t a celebration, despite the market stalls doling out hot rice milk and pickled oysters. This was a spectacle.

It was fitting. Today marked the first time Isabel had opened the palace gates since she surrendered the war a year ago. Hal Cavendish’s trial, so long anticipated, warranted a setting to match its breathless gravity. Wren’s stomach hadn’t stopped turning since she’d first received the summons. All members of the Queen’s Guard were required to attend.

She’d been home for two days now, locked in a bedchamber in the North Tower as Isabel’s “honored guest.” Two days spent agonizing and worrying. Two days wasted. Although she fantasizedabout breaking down the door, about freeing Hal from his cell some stories above her, she was still no closer to a concrete plan to save him.

Una sat beside her in the silvery chill of a carriage. Although she was effectively her jailer, they hadn’t spoken since they had left Colwick Hall on the night of the ball. Whenever Wren glanced over at her, she could see the tense set of her jaw and the brutal tightness of her fists. A war raged within her eyes.

The carriage rattled to a halt, and Wren climbed out without a word.

As soon as she stepped into the rheumy winter air, the crowd’s energy changed. Their jeers melted away into a hush—and then, the shouting began anew, exultant and barely articulate. Through the overwhelming noise, through the blood roaring in her ears, she could make out a single word:hero.

It struck her like a stone.

“You look ill.” Una stood shoulder to shoulder with her. “You’d better hide it.”

Wren grimaced before forcing herself to wave at the crowds. As they passed the main gates, she numbly registered the featureless, cheering masses, the sparkle of sunlight and flash of camera bulbs. Colors swam in her vision. Once, she had dreamed of this.