Page 30 of House of the Raven
“I have to stay,” I add with conviction.
“You can’t.”
“I must. I can’t let them get away with murder, with usurping the throne, if that’s what’s happening.”
“Don’t be foolish. You have no power here. Amira holds all the cards.”
“Perhaps, but if I run, I won’t be able to live with myself. I have to expose the truth and show everyone Orys is behind all of this.”
Because he has to be. I can’t accept Amira isn’t the person I believe her to be, and I’m determined to prove it to myself and anyone who dares doubt her.
9
VALERIA
“No, they don’t come from Portus; they’re a peaceful sort. Los Moros come from the south, and they mean war.”
Luis Castillo - Soldier (Casa de Cano) - 37 BV
Back in my bedchamber that night, I find signs that someone has been searching through my things. They are subtle, but I see them. The top drawer of my vanity is slightly open. The jewelry box on the mantle is misaligned. The covers on my bed aren’t smooth.
“What now?” I ask out loud, my voice echoing in my loneliness.
“Let’s leave, Val. If we don’t they’ll torture you, and when you confess you lost the necklace, they’ll kill you,” Jago insisted when I told him to go to bed a few minutes ago.
But I can’t run.
Amira said I could go about my life in Nido like I always have, and that’s what I intend to do. Well, in theory, this is what I want her to believe, but in reality, I’ll be working to get to the bottom of this. They’re not the only ones who can deceive. I can, too.
Besides, the necklace isn’t truly lost. I have leverage, and I will use it if it comes to it. I resist the urge to leave my room to retrieve it. The heirloom is safe where I last hid it, a place Amira would never suspectgiven its conspicuousness. I moved it from the vault to a place that felt more appropriate, more personal.
There’s a knock at the door. I answer. A servant is here to deliver a note. I recognize the seal: Nana’s. I retreat back into the room and set the note on the night table. She undoubtedly heard the news, and the note expresses her condolences. I know she would be here if she could maneuver the many stairs, but her pain must be too bad today to allow it. I can’t read the note right now. I know I’ll fall apart if I do.
I stare at the tapestry that hangs on the wall. It depicts a field with rows of colorful tulips, my mother’s favorite flowers. We worked on it together as she taught me to embroider.
“How different life would be if you were still here, Mother,” I whisper.
Shaking my head, I walk onto the balcony, wishing Cuervo was here so I could find some comfort in stroking his soft feathers, but he always sleeps somewhere else. I don’t know where he goes. I just know he comes back every morning, bright and early.
Walking through the room, I put out the candles one by one. The servants light them at nightfall, along with a couple of gas lamps by the bed. I don’t change from my tunic and leggings and curl up on top of the covers, leaving the lamps on. I’m afraid to invite the darkness in, afraid to discover that this loneliness has teeth and claws, like the childhood monsters of my imagination.
I shiver, though not from the cold. The room is warm with the summer air that comes in through the open balcony doors. No, I shiver from my effort not to cry, my effort to keep myself in one piece and not let my bones shatter into a million pieces.
“Forgive me, Father.”
The next morning, bleary-eyed, I wake up early, take a bath, and dress in a new pair of leggings and a comfortable wool tunic I knitted myself. I slip on my favorite boots, a well-worn brown pair that Father’s royal cobbler put together. The soles are made of supple leather, perfect for walking silently.
Cuervo’s wings flap outside. I walk onto the balcony and find him perched on the railing. He peers at me with his small round eyes, looking for all the world as if he knows I’m hurting. I swear there is sympathy in his gaze.
He must have heard the news. He always seems to know what goes on in Nido.
“My father is dead,” I say.
He inclines his head, driving his beak toward his chest, his way of sayingI’m sorry.
“You knew?”
He bows again.
