“Rodric,” Priya calls after him. “Do not start an internal feud when Grimm walks free around the Ten Provinces.”
“As far as I know, Priya,” he replies, not bothering to stop, “Miss Corvi is an Aspieri-Mortemagi crossmage, last seen with my nephew. He is now dead, and she has two of his aspiers and the Deathbringer’s aspier, none of which belong to her.”
There’s so much venom in his words. I want to tell him to take all of them. The aspiers, the magic, my life.
Sylas is gone, and there’s nothing left for me.
Sylas, I love you.
I never told you.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
LOST LETTER FROM VIOLA CORVI TO SYLAS ARCHYR (D. DECEMBER 11, 1939)
fifty-two | viola
TWO WEEKS LATER SATURDAY, DECEMBER 25, 1939
No matter how many times I flip the mattress, it feels like I’m lying on a bed of rocks. So I slide down to the cold, white marble floor, where I’ve slept for most of the last two weeks. The cell is depress-ingly white, down to the metal bars that lock me in. I’m surprised they were merciful enough to hold me somewhere with a tiny window and an in-room sink and latrine.
Paltro was relentless, filing charge after charge, channeling the anger and pain of Sylas’s death through every new accusation he made that night. Hours after I stepped into the Grand House, I walked out, my clothes still soaked in Sylas’s blood, straight into Riverview Prison for Highly Dangerous Individuals, where they handed me a blue jumpsuit that scratches against my skin like sandpaper. They can’t execute me because of Raiek, so every mode of torture has become acceptable.
“Prisoner sixty-three,” my new guard calls, and I rise to my feet. She stops in front of my cell, fiddles with one of the bars, and finally clicks open the lock. She’s a manipulator Arkani who failed her Firstline assessment three times, I’ve learned since yesterday. She has a beautiful name,Aria Lan. “You must be the most visited prisoner in the history of Riverview Prison. What are you in for?”
The familiarity of her tone gives me pause.
“Every offense in the rule book,” I deadpan as I walk out, following her. She was assigned to me only two days ago, and she’s the only one who doesn’t handcuff my feet and hands while leading me to the visitor’s room. She’s also the only one who talks to me; the other guards shove me around instead of using words.
“We have a couple of minutes,” she quips as we walk down the corridor between the full prison cells.
“One count of murder, one count of endangerment, three counts of theft, one count of stolen identity, and one count of existence, I suppose,” I muse. “And whatever else the chief of Firstline feels like adding at the next hearing.”
“Existence—” She chuckles.
“I was cursed to be born a crossmage.” I cut her off, and she leaves me be.
When we walk past Victor’s cell—four cells down from mine— I glance inside. He straightens, less surprised now than when he was the first few times our eyes met when I walked by. His mouth parts when he notices my new guard, then he nods at me and I nod back, a silent acknowledgment of our unfair predicaments while a mass murderer walks free, amassing an army of mages to take over Draterra. I understand his anger now. Maybe that’s exactly what they deserve.
Officer Lan leads me down a flight of stairs, and we take a left turn, stopping at the third door on the right. Behind us, a cleaner dumps a bucket of soapy water on the floor and frantically gets to mopping. Riverview’s obsession with upkeeping their white floors and walls is outlandish.
“I’ll be out here when you’re done.” She unlocks the door, and I step in, taking a seat at the lone table in the middle of the room.
The other door opens, and Priya walks in, Gan in tow. Gan. My mother’s mother. My grandmother. They visit every day without fail, sometimes with my grandfather, eyes full of hope, smiles filled with warmth, and food that keeps me sane.
Gan sits, lifting her rattan-woven lunch basket to the table. She pulls out a plate full of toast, freshly made jam, and clotted cream, then sets the basket on the floor. Yesterday, she held my hand and told me she wasproud of me. I didn’t even say thank you. I don’t deserve their patience. I don’t deserve their love.
Priya takes the empty seat next to her and slides the plate toward me. “Eat.”
She doesn’t have to tell me twice; the moment my tongue tastes the sweetness of the jam, tears fill my eyes. This is much better than the soggy grains and burned bread the prison serves us once a day.
“Beau and Gryff testified yesterday, so the theft charges have been dropped,” Priya tells me.
If the charges have been dropped, they must have lied under a reader’s touch. She lowers her head and adds, “Paltro is now accusing you of collusion with Grimm. Your hearing is at four in the afternoon tomorrow. He… he has poachers ready to testify against you, and you’ll be sent to solitary again, this time in the Farbon Desert. It’s brutal out there, and I won’t be able to help.”
The piece of toast slips through my fingers, and I gape at her. Paltro will really stop at nothing until he tortures me by every means possible; first was solitary, which Priya got me out of; then it was no food for three days, which was ridiculous; and now, it’ll be whatever other horrible punishment they come up with.
Grimm’s words play in my mind like a broken symphony:They will never accept you for who you are.