Page 38 of Thief of Dreams
And then she's gone.
Panic sweeps through me, like the wings of a swarm of moths.
My sister's deadly at the best of times. And she's no thief. She'll try and take the Heart by force, not misdirection. Prince Keir might be powerful, but he won't be expecting it.
I have to stop her.
Stumbling to the chamber pot, I thrust both fingers down my throat, forcing my gorge to rise. The wine comes up with a splash, in great, gasping heaves. Hopefully, it won't be too late.
When it's done, I fell to my hands and knees on the carpets, shaking all over and calling her every vile name under the sun.
I think of the prince and his story of betrayal. It's such a bitter fruit to taste, all the more so because only one you trust can strike so true.
He'll never forgive me for this, and the thought is enough to force me to my feet.
I stagger like a drunk fresh from a tavern.
Soraya is gone.
And so is the gown I was wearing.
11
Night’s Bloom races through my veins as I stagger between shadows, desperate to make it toward Keir's chambers.
The enormous gilded doors are locked. Of course. Slamming my fists against them, I try to snatch at the wisp of shadows that lurk beneath them, but there's nothing there. Only a spill of light, as if someone's set a lantern near the door.
Soraya has accounted for my strengths.
But the bitch doesn't know me well enough.
It's been ten years since we fought each other in the training camps, and the girl she knew wasn't ruthless enough to face her sister and winat all costs. Something always held me back. Something always stopped me from striking a mortal blow that could have won me the title of champion and cost me a sister.
But there's nothing more inspiring than betrayal.
She wants to fight?
Fine.
Filmy curtains drift in the hallways, chased by the skitter of wind through the arched windows. I haul myself through one of them and look down. The famous gardens are far below and the ledge beneath my feet barely wide enough for my boot, but this isn't my first time in a precarious position.
Just not when I'm half-drugged with Night’s Bloom.
I can see the balcony that juts out from the prince's chambers. Ignoring the drop, I slip along the ledge like a cat and leap onto the balcony. I nearly miss the landing, muscles straining as I misjudge it. Muscle memory saves the day, and somehow I hook my leg over the balcony, even as the stone tiles loom far below.
Cauldron’s piss, that was close. Sweat drips down my spine as I take a second to catch my breath. I swear I am going to wring my bloody sister's neck when I get my hands on her.
Hauling myself over the edge of the balcony, I crouch behind the gauzy curtains, knees trembling.
The sight that greets me shakes me to the core.
A woman straddles the prince, the violet sweep of her skirts—myskirts—sliding up her bare thigh.
A woman wearing my face.
The arts of glamour are gifted to all fae. You can't entirely change your appearance, but you can embellish it.
And Soraya and I look similar enough that one could almost be forgiven for the mistake, even without the heavy lashing of glamour she's applied.
