Page 202 of A Liar's Twisted Tongue

I smile, only a little. “It’s something we say back home. Don’t presume the outcome before the event is over,” I explain. “It’s really just about the death count from a fire.”

“That’s… vile.”

“The septic usually is,” I say. “What you have here is a joke, comparatively.” The words come out almost cheerfully, but he sullens.

“What was it like?” he asks. “Growing up there?”

“Probably pretty similar to growing up in a castle,” I say. “Let’s talk about this later?”

Why don’t I just tell him? I want to tell him. I want to be heard.

By him.

I want to prove the worlds wrong. Knowledge might be a weapon, but maybe it’s not a weakness. But Mom didn’t look at me in that way because she didn’t know me. And Bernice didn’t say those things because he wasn’t sure.

Are the worst parts of myself who I really am? Is there anything more?

Did the worlds make me this way, or was I born backward?

If it’s the worlds’ fault can it be undone? Can I revert back to some sort of purity? Or am I too far gone?

I don’t want to be too far gone. But I know that if it came down to killing all those people again or my life, I wouldn’t change a thing.

But maybe one person could hear my reasoning and understand. Hear what the world’s done to me and not agree that I’m a monster.

Not look at me the way I’m beginning to look at myself.

“It was hard,” I say. “And I mean, obviously I didn’t know it. As a kid, it was just normal. But, um… before the Gerner when I saw you in the Royals room, or whatever, with your fancy suit and the wine, I thought… this is what I would have dreamed of as a kid if I wasn’t dreaming of more food to ease the constant pit in my stomach or… being able to live in one place long enough to make a friend.” Or killing people. “I didn’t really think it sucked until I got older and I realized there are people out there not fighting, every day, just to make it to bed. So, uh, yeah. It sucked.”

I want to feel awkward or awful for sharing it but the only thing I’m wondering is: Does it exonerate me?

“It wasn’t all bad,” I say. “Sometimes there was music and dancing. Stories and poems. I think most of you posh people would be surprised by how strong we are.”

I’m looking at him, waiting for a response and trying to gauge his feelings from eyes alone.

Lucian walks away from me. Not exonerated. And he was just here saying I could never do something that he needed to forgive… or whatever that declaration was.

I should have known better. I used to. He’s a prince.

Oh, how he must see me now.

Then I hear a click and a rich symphony of sounds starts playing, forcing me to look his way.

“Do you still hate me?” he asks.

Confusion sweeps through me, but it’s this looming feeling of inadequacy that makes me whisper, “Debatable.”

Lucian steps closer, saying, “Perhaps I could change your mind.” Then he bows in front of me, like I’m the Royalty of this duo, and his hand reaches up in invitation. “A dance?”

I stare at his hand, unsure if I want to take it.

“To rewrite the dreams,” he says. A smile pulls at his lips and I see this situation for what it is.

The prince, on his knee for me.

“At least hate me the way you used to.” His voice is hoarse. “When you still cared enough to weaponize my longing.”

“Who says I still don’t?” I whisper, accepting his hand.

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