Page 72 of Legacy of Thorns
“You can’t really think this plan is going to work,” Finley said, unable to keep quiet. “The girl isn’t just going to accept you.”
“Of course she’ll accept me. I’m her rescuer—her hero.”
“Some hero,” Finley muttered.
Barlowe whirled on him, the lines of his face cold but his eyes burning. “I’ve planned everything,” he hissed, “and the Legacy is finally going to realize I’m the hero, not the villain.”
Finley cocked his head, his brow quirking as he processed Barlowe’s words. Gradually the pieces came together.
“You saw me arrive at the ball, and you recognized what I was doing to gain entry,” he said slowly. “Because you’ve done it before yourself, haven’t you?”
Barlowe straightened his jacket with fingers that twitched slightly.
“You weren’t the first one to come up with the idea. I used it to enter my first noble party over ten years ago.” He smiled reminiscently, but the expression quickly faded. “When I did it again and again, the Legacy’s power built around me. It propelled me to enormous success over the years that followed—the Uninvited Guest who was catered to and given a place of honor.”
“If you’ve had so much success in that role, why are you taking this so far?” Finley asked.
“Why?” Barlowe stared into the distance. “Would you want to be nothing more than a guest for a decade? Always a stranger in someone else’s home, a figure in the background. The Legacy thought it could force me into that role, but it has me wrong. I’m not a villain, I’m a hero. And now it will have to acknowledge me as such—and give me the resulting rewards.”
Finley stared at him, but Barlowe barely seemed to remember Finley was there, his bright eyes fixed on the towers ahead. For once Finley didn’t doubt the truth of Barlowe’s words. Everything else had been a polite, amused mask, a cover for cold plans and cold ambitions. But now Barlowe was burning from the inside out.
This was the motivation at the heart of it all, and it was nothing more than ego—just as it had been for the original uninvited guest. Barlowe thought he was escaping that role, but he was only sinking more deeply into it. And like the originalguest, he was going to heedlessly tear down the lives of others along the way, whether they’d wronged him or not.
Unless Finley managed to stop him.
Barlowe didn’t speak again, and the remaining path to the white castle disappeared beneath their feet far too quickly. In what felt like minutes, Finley stood gazing up at an impassable wall of thick brambles that grew to an unnatural height, curving away from them in both directions.
Barlowe turned to Finley, the eager light in his eyes tucked away behind his mask once more. He smiled slowly.
“Your moment has come, Prince Finley.”
“I’m no prince.” Finley didn’t step toward the brambles.
“I think you’ll find you’re close enough for the purpose.” Barlowe gestured toward the wall of green.
Finley hesitated for a moment longer before shrugging and stepping forward. If he refused, Barlowe would have no more use for him, and he didn’t think he wanted to see what would happen after that. He lifted both bound hands and brushed his fingers across the closest length of bramble, sucking in a breath at the feeling of power and control that instantly flowed through him.
A small part of him had still doubted the whole thing, thinking that Barlowe had made a terrible mistake—that he had the wrong brothers. But with the merest thought, Finley set the whole wall of greenery quivering. It snaked away from him almost too fast to watch, the brambles sinking into the ground in front of them. The effect flowed outward on both sides as the huge circle of brambles came undone, sinking back into the ground, into nothingness.
Barlowe had spoken the truth. Finley’s father must have been a prince.
“See,” Barlowe said. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Finley didn’t respond, his eyes on the building that was now exposed before them. He had suspected Barlowe of being pretentious in calling it a castle, but it was undoubtedly the first word that sprang to mind. The structure soared above them, its square towers of gleaming white stone lined with battlements. And beyond, he caught a glimpse of sunlight on the surface of the lake. With the brambles gone, and the cherry blossoms in bloom, it was an enchanting sight.
“Do you like my home?” Barlowe asked with satisfaction. “I’ll be planning my first party here soon—one that will put every doubt to rest.”
“It isn’t yours yet,” Finley bit out, but Barlowe merely laughed.
The man holding Finley’s rope tugged, sending Finley stumbling forward again. He went without resisting, Barlowe several strides ahead, his eyes fixed on the castle.
When they reached the front doors, Barlowe almost leaped up the steps to reach them. Pulling them open with a dramatic gesture, he let sunlight flood the vast entryway beyond.
Finley stepped in after him, his eyes darting around the space. It was larger than he’d expected, a vast foyer that soared two stories above them. But it contained an excess of furniture—most notably a large, canopied bed in the middle of the space.
Barlowe’s eyes moved straight over the odd addition to the room, dwelling instead on the luxury of the furnishings and the gilt edging of the mantelpiece. As he had said, he had no interest in the girl herself, only her possessions and the position she could provide. And he didn’t even seem to notice the old woman slumped in a chair by the large, cold fireplace.
“Hurry!” Barlowe’s smooth voice held a greedy note as he gestured to the man holding Finley’s rope.
