Page 11 of Sharpest Court

Zeke obliged but I remained frozen, breathing fast through parted lips. I was suddenly unsure who in this tent posed the larger threat. Because if Keil’s sister discovered my identity, she would have a greater incentive either to help me, or to punish me. Regardless of what Keil might have told her, she could very well consider me the manipulative noble who’d blackmailed her brother during Rose Season. She could consider me the daughter of a Hunter.

And as I looked again toward her scar . . . I knew she would not want to help a Hunter.

“Are you well, Miss Summers?” Arun was scrutinizing me with the sharpness of a blade. “Or do you require assistance to be seated?”

“Miss Summers can seat herself, Arun,” Valeria said flatly. “She’s probably rattled by the rough manner of her escort.”

“Miss Summers should consider herself lucky. As I was about to tell her, dullroot smugglers are usually escorted to Her Imperial Majesty in chains.” He gestured toward the chair, smiling. “Please, prove Her Highness correct and seat yourself, Miss Summers. Unless, of course, you have something to hide.”

I swallowed hard, the fever drying my tongue. Knowing that resisting this search would only make me appear guiltier, I stumbled into the chair and dropped my saddlebag at my feet.

Valeria began, “Miss Summers, Mr. Cromwell. Do you understand why you were brought here?”

“Because we ruined your med tent?” Zeke lounged in his chair like a disobedient schoolchild, arms crossed and legs stretched under the desk. “We might as well have stayed in Daradon if this is how you treat the people you promised to protect.”

Valeria’s expression did not soften. “I believe your overseer informed you of Ansora’s stance on dullroot during your voyage. You were all advised not to smuggle into our lands a substance that could harm our people or your fellow refugees.”

“Dullroot doesn’t harm anyone. It helps them.”

“Your education around Wielders is understandably lacking, Mr. Cromwell. But if you can easily tolerate the sensation of dullroot, it is possible that your specter simply manifests more weakly than most others.”

Zeke’s nostrils flared. “My specter is not weak,” he gritted out. “That’s the problem.”

Valeria gave him a bland once-over. “And is that what you planned to do with such a large quantity of dullroot? Use it to fix your own problem?”

“I hadn’t planned on doing anything with it. It was hers.” Zeke glanced toward me, his smile razor-edged. “Isn’t that right, darling?”

Valeria’s jaw clenched at the smarmy endearment, and I knew she’d already gathered that we were not cousins. I knew, too, that on some level, I must have misread her intentions earlier, because she clearly didn’t want to be questioning us. If anything, she seemed to be waiting for me to disagree with Zeke. But being guilty as Dinah Summers would amount to less trouble than being innocent as Alissa Paine.

So I said, resentfully, “The dullroot was mine.”

“You see?” Zeke stood, smirking. “So I can just—”

“You can sit down.” Valeria hadn’t raised her voice, yet her tone sent ripples through the space, freezing Zeke to the spot. Her stare was so flinty and full of authority that he dropped his gaze and slumped back down.

Valeria turned to me, and her voice gentled. “Did you intend to distribute the dullroot, Miss Summers?”

“No. Only to use it.”

“Yet you are not dosed with it now,” said Arun, looking at the fist I’d made in my lap. My hands had started trembling again, a symptom of withdrawal he must have recognized. “I assume your outburst upended our medical tent?”

“That was an accident.” I flexed my hands, trying to shake out the tremors. “I—I stopped dosing on the ship, but the change has been . . . difficult.”

“And you didn’t want to be without your stash,” he deduced. “So you attempted to hide it in the medical tent, presumably to return for it later. A clever little ploy. I hear you even fabricated an injury to bypass the initial checkpoints.”

Fake marriages, real feelings.

Head to Lokepub for romance novels with a little extra drama.

“I didn’t fabricate anything.” Irritation sharpened my words. “I am injured.” I hiked my blouse sleeve up, briefly baring my red-hot wound, then yanked the sleeve back down.

“How ghastly,” Arun drawled. “And how did you acquire such a wound?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” My good judgment told me to stall my sharp tongue before it tripped me up. But I was aching and frustrated, and the mask of submission was harder to wear now that my specter was sludging toward the surface again.

Arun gave a small, pointed smile. “You will find, Miss Summers, that everything in this empire is my business.” He looked at Valeria, whose eyes were trained on my wounded arm. “Search her.”

A beat of silence passed. Then my saddlebag rose under what had to be the grip of Valeria’s specter, while Zeke’s satchel made a similar journey toward Arun. My pulse thumped wildly as the bags landed on the desk.