With nothing better to do, I put it back on the shelf. The leather-bound book slides in neatly between its brothers, volumes VIII and X. Maybe I’ll pull the other books down and rearrange them. Waste a few seconds of the endless hours.

I end up on the floor instead, trying to stretch a bit farther than I did yesterday. My old agility is a faint memory, restricted by circumstance. I try anyway, inching my fingers toward my toes. The muscles in my legs burn, a better feeling than the ache. I chase the pain. It’s one of the only things to remind me I’m still alive in this shell.

The minutes bleed into one another and time stretches with me. Outside, the light shifts as spring clouds chase each other across the sun.

The knock on my door is soft, uncertain. No one has ever bothered to knock before, and my heart leaps. But the rush of adrenaline dies off. A rescuer would not knock.

Evangeline pushes open the door, not waiting for an invitation.

I don’t move, rooted to the spot by a sudden rush of fear. I draw my legs up under myself. Ready to spring if I need to.

She looks down her nose at me, her usual superior self in a long, glinting coat and tightly sewn leather leggings. For a moment she stands still, and we trade glances in the silence.

“Are you so dangerous they can’t even let you open a window?” She sniffs at the air. “It stinks in here.”

My tightened muscles relax a little. “So you’re bored,” I mutter. “Go rattle someone else’s cage.”

“Perhaps later. But for now, you’re going to be of use.”

“I really don’t feel like being your dartboard.”

She smacks her lips. “Oh, not mine.”

With one hand, she seizes me under the armpit and hoists me to my feet. As soon as her arm enters the sphere of my Silent Stone, her sleeve falls away, collapsing to the floor in bits of gleaming metal dust. It quickly reattaches and falls again, moving in an even, strange rhythm as she marches me from my room.

I don’t struggle. There’s no point in it. Eventually she loosens her bruising grip and lets me walk without the pinch of her hand.

“If you wanted to take the pet for a walk, all you had to do was ask,” I growl at her, massaging my newest bruise. “Don’t you have a new rival to hate? Or is it easier to pick on a prisoner rather than a princess?”

“Iris is far too calm for my liking,” she shoots back. “You still have some bite, at least.”

“Good to know I amuse you.” The passage twists in front of us. Left, right, right. The blueprint of Whitefire sharpens in my mind’s eye. We pass the phoenix tapestries in red and black, edges studded with real gemstones. Then a gallery of statues and paintings dedicated to Caesar Calore, the first king of Norta. Beyond it, down a half flight of marble steps, is what I call the Battle Hall. A stretching passage illuminated by skylights, the walls on either side dominated by two monstrous paintings, inspired by the Lakelander War, stretching from floor to ceiling. But she doesn’t lead me past painted scenes of death and glory. We’re not going down to the court levels of the palace. The halls become more ornate, but with fewer public displays of opulence as she leads me to the royal residences. An increasing number of gilded paintings of kings, politicians, and warriors watch me go, most of them with the characteristic Calore black hair.

“Has King Maven let you keep your rooms, at least? Even though he took your crown?”

Her lips twist. Into a smirk, not a scowl. “See? You never disappoint. All bite, Mare Barrow.”

I’ve never been to these doors before. But I can guess where they lead. Too grand to be for anyone but a king. White lacquered wood, silver and gold trim, inlaid with mother of pearl and ruby. Evangeline doesn’t knock this time and throws the doors open, only to find an opulent antechamber lined by six Sentinels. They bristle at our presence, hands straying to weapons, eyes sharp behind their glittering masks.

She doesn’t balk. “Tell the king Mare Barrow is here to see him.”

“The king is indisposed,” one answers. His voice trembles with power. A banshee. He could scream us both deaf if given the chance. “Be gone, Lady Samos.”

Evangeline shows no fear and runs a hand through her long silver braid. “Tell him,” she says again. She doesn’t have to drop her voice or snarl to be threatening. “He’ll want to know.”

My heart pounds in my chest. What is she doing? Why? The last time she decided to parade me around Whitefire, I ended up at the mercy of Samson Merandus, my mind split open for him to sift through. She has an agenda. She has motives. If only I knew what they were, so I could do the opposite.

One of the Sentinels breaks before she does. He is a broad man, his muscles evident even beneath the folds of his fiery robes. He inclines his face, the black jewels of his mask catching the light. “A moment, my lady.” I can’t stand Maven’s chambers. Just being here feels like stepping into quicksand. Plunging into the ocean, falling off a cliff. Send us away. Send us away.

The Sentinel returns quickly. When he waves off his comrades, my stomach drops. “This way, Barrow.” He beckons to me.

Evangeline gives me the slightest nudge, putting pressure on the base of my spine. Perfectly executed. I lurch forward.

“Just Barrow,” the Sentinel adds. He eyes the Arvens in succession.

They stay in place, letting me go. So does Evangeline. Her eyes darken, blacker than ever. I’m seized by the strange urge to grab her and bring her with me. Facing Maven alone, here, is suddenly terrifying.