Page 21 of Vilest Things
“Highness.” The knocking grows more persistent. “Councilmember Hailira requests your presence. The council is convening on the matter of Rincun, and they’re bringing Leida Miliu up for questioning.”
Calla bites down on the inside of her cheek. She lolls her head back, glaring daggers at the ceiling, tracing her eyes across the floral patterns.
Fuck.Fuck.
In three long strides, Calla crosses her rooms, shrugging off both her backpack and her bag with Mao Mao. Her cat gives an unseemly yelp of surprise, and Calla whispers a quick “Sorry!” before yanking open her door.
The woman waiting at the entrance looks familiar. Something about her white hair and her steady eyes, a muted purple made darker by the lack of natural light in the hallway. The color reminds her of Eno, of the kid’s glassy stare after he was killed in the games under her watch, and Calla forces the thought out as soon as it nudges into her mind. Besides, as the old servant steps back, gesturing into the hallway and turning her head, she’s sure there must be another reason why—
“Let’s go, Highness.”
The old woman begins walking. It clicks. The servant, the one who prepared Calla before the coronation, before Calla went forward to crown the lover she thought she’d killed. Though she was dazed and near-delirious that day, she remembers those two words whispered into her ear, at once an indictment and exaltation:King-Killer.
“Today would be nice, Princess Calla.” The woman has stopped and turned back over her shoulder. The councilmember urged the need for haste.
If Calla is detoured here for too long, she will miss her window of opportunity to leave. Without the shield of the decorators coming in, surveillance will notice her exit, and the guards will most surely block her route.
“Go play,” she whispers to Mao Mao. Her cat ignores her and settles in to sleep in the bag. With a huff, Calla closes her door, then follows the servant.
“What’s your name?” she asks. “I didn’t get to ask before the coronation.”
“Joselie. Would you like adjustments made to your wardrobe, Highness?”
Calla has a brief buffering moment wondering exactly how long Joselie’s name is. A beat later, she registers the question and glances down. She was going to change on the streets of San-Er. While she remained in the palace, she figured it was better to raid the drawers in her rooms: dresses with bell sleeves and loose collars, bundles of fabric with ties around the waists. She’s taken it upon herself to alter some of the items.
“You don’t like my alterations?” Calla asks, smoothing down the rumples at her torso.
“Respectfully, it appears that you took a cheese grater to it.”
“I did.” A knife, but sure.
Joselie’s expression doesn’t change. “Perhaps reconsider in the future. This way, please.”
The decorators have already entered the palace. While Calla was away, the other royal advisors busied themselves planning the gala and spendingtheir allocated budget. With the new security rules that Calla’s proposed edict put into place, they could hire outside the palace, bring in far more decorators for half the price. She watches all the tradesmen—carrying stepladders and paint rollers and neatly folded tablecloths—streaming en masse through the south wing. Calla cranes her neck, trying to determine what those large red buckets being taken into one of the halls are, but Joselie clears her throat, plucking her attention back, and opens a small door beneath the side staircase. Another set of steps lead down into a passageway, dark enough that Calla can’t see much beyond the few inches of brick flooring and vague shadows. When they descend, she walks with her hands outstretched, brushing the wall to keep her footing.
At the end of the passageway, Joselie climbs up three steps and pushes through a door into a new hallway. There, she stops abruptly. Calla braces herself to run.
“I’m running an interception, Highness,” a voice says. “I hope you don’t mind.”
She rolls her eyes, her vigilance easing as she climbs the three steps and exits the passageway too. Galipei is waiting with his arms crossed over his chest, his shoulders so broad that he could probably block a wind tunnel if he tried.
“An interception forme?” Calla says. “I’m honored. We’ll have to make sure August doesn’t hear about this. You know how jealous he gets.”
Galipei scoffs, but a line forms between his brows—a momentary flinch. It wasn’t his king who sent him, then.
“Come with me. Thank you, Joselie.”
Joselie nods. Calla waves in farewell before striding after Galipei, deliberately keeping slower than his pace. They proceed past a green arch and a statue of an enormous rabbit, moving between the atriums. She’s careful to count how many turns they’re making in the hallways. If Galipei is leading her somewhere intending to get rid of her, Calla is going to pull his ribs out.
“We’re still en route to the council meeting,” Galipei calls back, as though he can hear her thoughts, “so you can stop trying to predict an attack.”
“You?Attack me? That’s unheard of.” Calla, begrudgingly accepting that there’s no need for suspicion here, hurries forward a few steps so she’s walking at Galipei’s side. “Why are we going this way?”
“They’ve already brought Leida out from her cell. I want you at the rear door with me.”
“Venus Hailira wants me there to contribute to the meeting.”
“I’m sure if there’s anything you have to contribute, you can project your voice. You don’t need a table seat.”
