Before she left, Sandry went in search of Zhegorz. She found him seated on the balcony outside Tris’s window, facing into the breeze that came over the walls. He had one of his metal ear beads in his hand and his strange metal spectacles on his face. “Don’t trouble yourself about me,” he said with a cheerful smile. “Viymese Tris visits once a day for my lessons.”
“That’s good to know,” Sandry told him. “Are they going well?” He seems so much calmer now.
Zhegorz, who had been sitting on a tall stool, was getting to his feet. He was frowning as he turned this way and that, the ear with no bead in it facing into the wind. “I don’t know,” he murmured. “Why would sailors be prepared for a midnight getaway?”
Sandry had to smile. “For as many reasons as there are sailors, I should think,” she replied. “I shouldn’t worry, Zhegorz. Unless you know the name of the ship or her captain, there’s nothing you can do.”
Returning to the palace, she napped, then ate a light supper. There would be a larger banquet that night, but Sandry knew she would collapse before then without something in her belly. Afterward, she bathed, then let Gudruny dress her and arrange her hair. After that, she sat down to read. Berenene had said a courtier would bring her to the Imperial Hall, where the ball was to be held.
A rap on the door announced Sandry’s escort. Gudruny opened it to reveal Fin, gloriously handsome in navy velvet and silver. He might have chosen his clothes to complement Sandry’s own pale blue and silver. He grinned at Sandry. “I hope you appreciate all the begging and pleading I did to get Her Imperial Majesty to agree I could escort you to the ball,” he said. “You look glorious, Lady Sandry.”
She smiled and let him kiss her hand. “Careful,” she warned.
Fin raised his brows. He knew what she meant. “Flattery?” He looked at Gudruny. “Do I flatter? Is she not beautiful?”
Gudruny blushed and curtsied. “You do look so lovely, Clehame.” She curtsied again, and opened the door for them.
Fin placed her hand on his arm and guided her down the hall.
They turned inside the lobby that connected the three wings of the palace and walked until Fin led her through a door into a back corridor.
“But the Imperial Hall is that way,” Sandry protested, stopping.
Fin smiled down at her. “We’ve had a change of plans. Her Imperial Majesty has asked me to take you by a side route to the entrance she uses—she wants you beside her when she greets the ambassador.”
“But isn’t that properly where her heir should stand?” asked Sandry, letting him pull her along.
Fin nodded. “Except Princess Maedryan lives in the eastern empire,” Fin explained. “You will act as her stand-in tonight.”
Sandry frowned. “I hope the princess understands I’m only holding her place,” she said, troubled.
“It’s common,” Fin explained. “You see, after two kidnap attempts, Her Imperial Majesty sent her to live in secrecy. Others have served in her place before, but no one is silly enough to believe that anyone but the princess holds that place in reality. This way.” Fin steered Sandry around a corner.
Sandry turned with him and walked into a damp cloth. Whatever was on it swamped her mind, letting her sink into black sleep.
Somewhere nearby was the living world.
I fell asleep…when? I did it sitting, with my knees drawn up? Why in Mila’s name would I do that? And when did it get dark?
My head aches so! I must be dreaming yet, because I think my eyes are open, but it’s still pitch-black.
Everything above my chin is throbbing.
Sandry tried to press her hands to her eyes—the throbbing was at its worst there—only to find she had little room to move her arms. When she did touch her eyes, she could feel her eyelids move. The brush of lashes against the inside of her fingers told her that her eyes were wide open…and it was still dark.
She searched for light, her breath coming faster. I cannot, cannot be in the dark, she told herself. Everyone knows. Gudruny, Briar, Daja—everyone knows I must not be left in the dark, alone. Not ever. Just breathe, Sandry. Slowly. This is all easy to explain if you collect your wits and don’t panic.
There—a faint glimmer: magical signs, written just inches away, over her head, to either side, and on what she could see underneath her. Sandry put her hands out and explored her surroundings. There was a solid barrier some inches before her knees and under her. Her back pressed it. It was inches from her sides and above her head. The silver gleam came from spells that covered it. As she squinted at them, forcing herself to think, to see what they were, she began to recognize them. These were signs to unravel and undo. They had been written in combinations and materials to keep a stitch witch’s power weak and confined. They cast no light. They did nothing to dispel the darkness.
The dark. She was trapped in pitch darkness with no light and no crystal lamp.
With complete understanding came real, uncontrolled panic. She gasped, unable to breathe. Suddenly she was ten years old and trapped below a palace, the dead strewn through the building above her. The only person who knew where Sandry was, who had locked her in this cellar, had been murdered within earshot.
Now Sandry was alone again, and she had no light.
Sandry screamed. She shoved all of her magic outside her skin, fighting to call light to the very fabric of her clothes, only to have her power dissolve. She screamed again, begging for someone to let her out, to light a lamp, to find her. Shrieking till her voice cracked, she hammered at the wooden trap with feet and fists, ripping her delicate dancing slippers, bruising her hands, banging the back of her head against the unforgiving wood. Again and again, ignoring the pain that shot through her muscles and veins, she dragged at her power, trying to thrust it through her pores. Silk, silk had worked before, it had held light for her before, she was wearing all kinds of silk, but the magic would not come. She finally stopped screaming and wept, shuddering in terror.