Page 25 of Vilest Things
One of the guards stationed beside Calla shifts. She sighs, then nudges the rear door and steps out. Calla only caught a flash while the guard was turning her face, but it’s enough.
In an instant, she follows suit, pushing out after the guard. She waits a beat—the door swings closed. Just as the guard hears motion behind her, Calla’s hand shoots forward and grasps the back of her neck, digging in hard.
Inside the meeting room, the first sound of alarm is called. Someone has finally noticed that Leida Miliu has jumped without light.
“How did you know—”
“Don’t struggle,” Calla interrupts evenly, pushing her forward in the hallway. It’s empty. “I’ll kill you if you so much as flinch. Come with me.”
CHAPTER 8
The palace goes into lockdown.
Anton wandered off at some point after being deposited into his rooms, taking advantage of the distraction among his guards while they argued about who they needed to report to. Under their new quadrant system, there’s no particular guard in charge of the palace, only multiple Weisannas who have opposing opinions about how the halls should be searched and little difference between them in rank. They’re scrambling around the atriums and hallways, inefficient in their delineation of roles while combing through the Palace of Union to find Leida Miliu. All exits have been sealed and windows monitored, so it is not as though she can escape. Calla has disappeared too. On the lookout for Leida, probably. Maybe she’s already found her and refuses to report to the Weisannas or Anton. Fine—the farther Calla stays from him, the better.
Anton gargles, then spits out the water that’s crept into his mouth. His rinsing finally runs clear down the sink, and he closes the tap, marveling at how quickly the pipes in the palace respond. In his apartment on Big Well Street, sometimes turning on the tap meant listening to it creak for a full minute before a light trickle appeared. Sometimes turning off the water had no effect, either, and he had to practically unscrew the spout in order to close the valve.
He leaves the bathroom, scrubbing a towel through his hair. No one has used these in years. What was once soft fabric has turned harsh from time, the threads scraping at him as he returns to the rooms and comes to a stop in front of the mirror.
After a generous amount of black dye and a small brush to reach every strand, Anton has gotten the hair on his head back to its natural color.
August would be furious. All those hours committed to climbing palace ranks, trying to set himself apart from the other leg-huggers. All that time spent ensuring his face was the one that people summoned in their mind’s eye when they thought of the kingdom’s inheritor, someone to appeal to the rich and grant promises to the poor, perfectly suited for the palace to the council’s eye and, to the city’s, a faultless outsider who worked for his stature. August Shenzhi wanted to appear hand selected by the gods.
Now, he looks just like everyone else.
“Your Majesty.” The main door opens before Anton can give an answer. Immediately, the staleness inside the rooms alleviates, cleared by the air-conditioning in the hallways. “You cannot slip away from us when you please. It is a matter of safety—”
The guard halts midstep. Her silver eyes move back and forth in rapid succession, from Anton before the mirror to… Anton Makusa, lying on the bed. His birth body, at least. An unoccupied vessel.
“Seiqi, was it?” Anton asks, unbothered. “How did you find me?”
Seiqi Weisanna is still staring, her jaw slightly agape. She must recognize the face, if not the photos of the Makusas around the four-poster bed. These were Anton’s rooms after his parents were killed: a corner section in the east wing, barely connected to the rest of the palace and placed as far to the wayside as possible. They have been left untouched since Anton’s exile, with the exception of occasional cleaning, it seems. Past the thin layer of dust, the deep-green curtains still fall to the floor the same; the three ceiling bulbs still emit a hum when thebrightness lever is set to low, the electric current pulsing through the wiring in a way that Anton has always suspected is too strong.
Despite everything, these rooms still feel like his. He can’t say that about anything else in San-Er.
“How I found you,” Seiqi repeats, trying to prompt herself out of her stupor. She shakes her head, her long braid flying over her shoulder, and says, “Um, we realized you left, so I looked at surveillance footage of the hallways.”
Anton remains silent for a moment. Then:
“I may have to reevaluate the order of the royal guard, given how long it took you to find me. I’ve been away for quite some time.”
Enough time to fetch dye from the palace tailor. Enough time to have his birth body moved out of storage and brought here, freshly dressed and arranged on the white sheets, looking to be merely asleep.
“I’m not sure that an unannounced test is fair, Majesty. Especially given the situation.” Seiqi, even in the dim light, has turned visibly pale. Her eyes flicker to the door. She regrets coming to find him without backup. “Galipei was very concerned. I can fetch him.”
“No need. I’ll make my way out now.”
Seiqi casts another glance at the door.
“Otta Avia is here for you too.”
That takes him by surprise. His instinct is to decline seeing her, bid her come back later, and let later never arrive. The less time he spends with her, the less likely he will be caught out. Then again, there’s no reason why August would decline seeing her in this moment.
“Otta shouldn’t be walking around while we’re under lockdown. Leida could be in any of these rooms.”
“Yes, well”—Seiqi clears her throat and steps out into the hallway, gesturing for, presumably, Otta waiting nearby—“as we have observed, the guards couldn’t exactly stop you from walking around either. I’ll take my leave.”
The mirror flickers within his periphery. Under better circumstances, Anton would be wearing his birth body instead of fetching it from palace storage, brushing off the dust that had gathered on his shoulders because his body became a forgotten insurance policy jammed between the discarded vessel of a councilmember’s son and a stack of books about the war. August would be standing beside him as flesh and blood, rather than the light reflecting from silver and glass. And when Otta prances in to say hello, her skirts too long and trailing after her on the floor, her feet bare, it would be as casual as anything.
