Page 70 of The Twisted Throne

She gave a soft snort. “I hardly care, cousin. Your sister just made me piss in the corner of the Sky Palace’s courtyard while her ladies watched and laughed. I have no dignity.”

Virginia’s bias against Cardiff was worse than most, given that Alexandra had been pouring her venom into his sister’s ears her entire life, but his jaw tightened when he heard that Virginia was partaking, because this behavior was beneath her. Regardless of the state of his cousin’s dignity, James refused to turn until she was dressed. He heard her abandon the gown, then the whisper of fabric as she pulled on a robe.

“Your morals are safe, Jamie.”

He turned to find her wrapped in thick velvet and perched on a sofa, her hair damp from washing and face scrubbed clean of its usual cosmetics. Lestara was denied little, dressed in the finest gowns and jewels, yet humiliated at every turn.

For his part, James believed she deserved it. Believed that Keris Veliant had made a fine choice in sending her to Harendell. Children had died because of Lestara’s actions. So many that the Maridrinians had buried their dead in mass graves. Pissing in front of laughing ladies was the least of what this woman deserved.

“Why are you here?”

“Your uncle Cormac inquired about your well-being.”

Lestara tilted her head. “So playing messenger?”

James didn’t answer. He’d been seven or so when his cousin had been born to King Ronan’s sixth wife. His fourteenth daughter. But because that particular wife still lived, Lestara had a place of privilege, so James had been in her presence every time he’d been sent to stay with his uncle, and there’d been a time he’d known her well. Then he’d ceased his visits in favor of secret meetings with his uncle Cormac, and Lestara had been sent to join Silas Veliant’s harem in exchange for better trade terms for mink fur.

“Oh, I’m fine, Jamie. Just every day wondering if the long drop might be better than the nightmare that prick of a Veliant condemned me to.”

“You condemned yourself.”

Lestara made a face. “Are you sure it’s cattle Harendell raises? Because you bleat like a sheep.”

“Has anyone struck you?” he asked, keeping his voice as bland as possible. “Caused you physical harm? Deprived you of the necessities of life?”

“Baa!” Lestara imitated sheep. “Yes, Jamie. The finest food. A diamond collar for when they walk me like a dog.”

He inclined his head. “Good evening to you, Your Highness.”

Quick as a fox, she scurried in front of him and blocked his path to the door. Her eyes glowed yellow in the lamplight, reminding him that there was power in her.The sight,they said. And a fate worth watching.

“Doesn’t it bother you how they treat me?”

“No,” he said. “You deserve it. You deserve worse, which is likely why your father is content to allow you to languish here.”

“Perhaps.” Her head tilted, making her look like a wolf. “But thereason your sister and her ladies terrorize me is not dead babies, Jamie. It’s because of my blood. The same blood as yours. It’s how they’d treat you if not for fear of good king Eddie’s wrath.”

As if he didn’t know that. As if he hadn’t dedicated his life to changing that dynamic. But he’d cut his own throat before revealing the stakes to her. “Your tears mean nothing to me, Lestara. They don’t mean anything to anyone, so endure your punishment or take the long drop. I care not.”

“Perhaps I instead tell them who you really are.”

James laughed. “Do it. No one will believe you. None of them would believe that a princess would be sent to serve a scullery maid so that she might spy.” He stared her down. “And know that if you cross your father, the long drop will seem the merciful death.”

Lestara didn’t look away, breathing heavily as her eyes searched his. Then, in an abrupt motion, she scuttled across the room. She picked up a cup he recognized as from Virginia’s tea service, the sides foiled with her initials. “This is Ahnna Kertell’s teacup. She joined Virginia today, and I stole it.”

His blood turned to ice.

Lestara tilted the cup, turning it this way and that. “No matter what I do,” she whispered, “it always returns to the same pattern.”

Then she slid it across the table toward him, and against his will, Jamie looked down and read the pattern.

Death.

“Tragic,” his cousin whispered, but James was already walking out the door.

“Your Grace,” Ahnna said, catchingherself as she started to bow and switching to a smooth curtsy.

Alexandra looked her slowly up and then down, and Ahnna waited for her criticism, but the queen only said, “You look like your mother.”

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