قلب آهنی 1

ONE

Evangeline

Despite the autumn chill, the sun is bright overhead, and I squint behind my shaded glasses. The garden is empty, albeit still green and thriving. The mountain cold holds no sway over Carmadon’s domain. There are flowers, a vegetable patch, fruit trees, even a meticulous square of corn growing in half a dozen rows. The premier’s husband tends to this corner of the city estate like a pet, visiting every morning and every evening. He’s a greenwarden, and he doesn’t need much time to take care of it, but he lingers anyway. Still, he can’t spend all day here, and that leaves the afternoon blissfully quiet.

It’s a good place to hide.

Not that I’ll ever admit to doing such a thing.

I pluck another mint leaf and crush it into my drink, spinning the cubes of ice with a rattle. The sharp bite of sweet whiskey and sugar floods me with warmth. I lie back in the sunlight, content to be still on the blanket I took from our suite of rooms upstairs. It’s soft wool, not meant for grass or dirt, but that’s what servants are for.

It should only be another hour or two. I could sleep the minutes away if I wanted. But that feels like something a coward would do. Remove herself from the equation entirely. And I still have some pride left. Not much, but some.

Elane is busy. By design. She knows I want to spend this afternoon alone, without an audience. I might revel in her attention most days, but not right now. No one else needs to see Evangeline Samos running from her duty one more time.

I reach the bottom of my glass too quickly, draining the last drops of alcohol. If I didn’t want to be found, I might call for a servant and order another. I settle for turning the glass over in my hand instead, holding it up to the sky. The sun sparkles on the many facets of the crystal cup, reminding me of the way Elane can make light dance and split. She fits here better than I do. Not perfectly, of course. The Free Republic of Montfort is as different from our home as can be possible. Silvers, Reds, and newbloods, living together as equals. Beneath a democracy, of all things. It’s still a shock. I should get used to it, though. This is my place now, and Montfort is what the Nortan States are going to become, if all goes to plan.

I don’t put much faith in plans these days, not when I know firsthand how easily they can change.

Another reason I like the garden—there isn’t much metal here. I don’t have to feel anything I don’t bring with me. And these days, I bring very little. In my old life, I used to wear dresses formed from sheets of chrome, or pants laced with steel. Iron-toed boots. Armored jackets. Platinum crowns. Even my most beautiful gowns were bulletproof. My clothes were a message as much as an artistry, displaying the strength and power we Silvers held so dear in Norta. And everything I wore came in varying shades of black and silver, the colors of House Samos. A family that no longer exists, or at least is of no importance anymore.

Cousins of iron, kings of steel. The refrain rings in my head, an echo and a ghost. I would forget those words if I could, and the ill-fated ambitions that birthed them.

Though I have no cause to fear attack in Montfort, I’m not an idiot, and I don’t go anywhere without some metal. It’s just jewelry today. A necklace, a bracelet, several rings, all winking around the edges of my soft sweater. Enough to defend myself if needed, but easy to forget it’s even there. I wonder if this is what everyone else feels. Nothing but themselves. The cold breeze, the scratch of drying grass, the sun dipping steadily toward the distant mountains. I like the emptiness, vulnerable as it leaves me. I sit back, enjoying the sensation, and look upward. I can see the peaks even over the walls of the garden, their heights crowned in deepening snow. Mare went up there once, trying to outrun something. I understand the urge. Now she’s somewhere even farther north, still recuperating. Still mourning. Still running, even if she’s finally standing still.

Suddenly the edge of my perception sings. The lack of metal on my person also makes it easy to sense intruders. This one has no weapons, no guns that I can feel, but his steps are sure and quick, closing the distance from the far side of the garden. I clench a fist, reluctant to move and break the silent spell of afternoon. I know who the visitor is. I can feel the wedding band on his finger. Gold and silver both, braided into a circle.

“I promise, I’m not disturbing the plants,” I mutter, drawing up my knees as Carmadon approaches.

He surveys me with a keen eye, smirking in his usual way. His gaze snags on my empty glass. “That mint wasn’t ready.” “It tasted ready,” I lie, the air cold in my mouth.

The premier’s husband chuckles, showing even, white teeth. He doesn’t mind the temperature like I do; he’s used to the shifting weather of the mountains. This is his home, and he has watched it change more than I can fathom. Sometimes I forget his blood is as silver as my own, despite the cool undertones to his dark skin. He’s married to a newblood, and he certainly acts like one.

He folds his arms, settling into a firm stance. Carmadon is a handsome man, and he cuts a striking figure against the autumn sun. As always, he wears white, fresh as fallen snow. “I know that locks aren’t an obstacle to you, Evangeline, but they should at least be a suggestion.” With a tick of his thumb, he gestures across the garden, in the direction of a gate now hanging off its hinges.

“My lord Carmadon,” I reply, pretending to bask. Donning a winning smile forged in a lost court, I push the shaded glasses up onto my head. “I’m simply enjoying your fine work. Isn’t that the point of this place?” I wave a hand at the garden still in bloom. “To show off?” Of all the Montfortans, I think Carmadon tolerates me most. So it rankles when he shakes his head. “Sometimes I forget how much you have to learn.” I sneer, feeling the familiar prickle of annoyance. I’m not a child and I’m not stupid. I will not be condescended to.

“I suppose this is a good place to think,” he says, gesturing to the meticulously arranged garden. “You know, there are clerks in the city who specialize in job placement. Perhaps I can arrange an appointment for you?” I roll my eyes. The careful prodding toward finding a profession, a life, here in Montfort never ceases to annoy. Even if my time living off the Republic’s government is coming to an end soon, I don’t want to think about it. Not today.

“Whatever job I choose will be lucky to have me. I don’t need placement.” And I don’t need to be reminded of the clock steadily ticking against me, against Elane, against Tolly and Wren.

Carmadon knows it too. But it doesn’t stop him from pressing on. “You’re a talented young woman, yes, but you’ll fare much better if you line up a job before my husband’s government stops paying your way.” Quickly I push to my feet, slinging the blanket over my shoulder. A flush rises on my cheeks, hot with blood. I don’t need to listen to this. Not today.

“If your intent was to drive me out of your little vegetable patch, then well done. You’ve succeeded,” I mutter.

“Oh please, don’t leave on my account. I don’t mind you visiting my garden. But eventually your brother is going to come stomping through and crush something he shouldn’t.” His easy, joking manner returns as quickly as it disappeared. “That, I would like to avoid.” Mention of my older sibling puts me on edge. My fingers curl tighter around the blanket, and suddenly I wish for something large and metallic to shred. “Ptolemus doesn’t know I’m here.” Carmadon tips his head, letting the afternoon light gleam against his naked scalp. “You think he isn’t going to search every inch of this place until he finds you?” “He doesn’t have the time.”

“That jet won’t leave until he wants it to,” he scoffs. “You can’t wait him out.”

At that I laugh out loud. The sound echoes through the empty garden, a bark more than a demure laugh. Sneering, I lay the blanket back down with a flourishing wave, before sprawling out against the fabric. Feeling petty, I even slide my shaded glasses back into place. “Watch me, Carm.” Only his eyes flicker in response. Coal black, but flecked with deep, emerald green. I shriek when something wriggles beneath me, a snake or a— Vine.

A dozen of them, swift and taking me by surprise. I lash out with my bracelet, weaving it into a razorlike whip, but the vines twist and dodge, pushing me back to my feet in a graceless heap. One even flicks the blanket over me, covering my head.

“Excuse me,” I snap, ripping the blanket away. My faces flushes again and I can feel my hair falling out of its braid. If I didn’t look like a mess before, I certainly do now. “That was quite rude.” Carmadon drops into an exaggerated, insulting bow. “I beg your pardon, Princess.”

The title lands the way it should. Like a kick in the gut. The rings on my fingers sharpen, growing spikes as my insides twist. For a second I stare at the grass, trying to collect my thoughts and swirling feelings. But they dance beyond my grasp, too far to reach.

Princess Evangeline. Lady of House Samos. Daughter of Volo and Larentia.

I am none of those things anymore. Not after today. I should be glad—I should be relieved to be rid of the name and the life my parents gave me. And parts of me are. But the rest of me can’t help but be reminded of what I traded away to live as who I am now. What I betrayed. What I killed. What I lost forever.

“Will you miss it?” Carmadon asks softly, taking a step forward. I shift as he moves, keeping my distance.

My eyes crack back to his, blazing and furious. A challenge and a shield. “Titles and crowns mean nothing here. There won’t be anything to miss.” But I feel the absence like a hole in me. I’ve felt it every day for weeks, since I set foot on that underground train, put Archeon behind me, and abandoned my parents to whatever fate waited for them. My blood runs cold. I know what happened. I wasn’t there, but I know. And the thought of my father, terrible as he was, walking off the bridge, his body broken and smashed apart below . . . I can’t stand it. I hate it. I wish I never knew.

“You should be going with Ptolemus.” Carmadon is undeterred by my emotional storm, ignoring it as kindly as he can. “It’s the best way to end this.” Behind me, his vines slither back over the grass, curling over one another. I turn with my old skill, loosing the necklace from my throat. It slices the thickest vine in two with a satisfying hiss before wrapping around my neck again.

“Are you going to make me?” I ask, doing all I can to keep my voice in check. I’ve already made my decision. Will no one honor that? “Will the premier?” “No, Evangeline,” he says quickly. “But you know I’m right. Your brother is abdicating his crown, and you should be with him when he does.” My lip curls. “He can speak without me holding his hand.”

“I know that. But I mean, when he abdicates, the Kingdom of the Rift passes to you.”

Even a Silver child knows that. It’s painfully obvious. Everyone knows the laws of succession in my old country, or at least what they were. Men first, and when none are left, the crown passes to a daughter. A person born to be a pawn becomes the ruler of the board.

I would be a liar if I said I had not thought about it. In the dark, in the quiet moments, in the space between lying awake and falling asleep. No one could stop a ruling queen from living how she wished, with whoever she liked.

A queen of a Silver kingdom, and all that entails. The thought pricks at me, drawing a blossom of shame. Once, the sensation was unfamiliar. Now I feel it most days. It’s difficult not to, in a country like this, compared to the country I came from, the country I would have maintained.

“That’s what the letter is for,” I mutter. Just a few sentences, enough to cut me out of the life I was meant to live.

“That’s hardly the same. It won’t carry the weight your voice will.” This isn’t the first time I’ve heard this argument. From Carmadon or from Premier Davidson. Even Ptolemus hinted that my presence would be helpful. And Elane did as well. She has a mind for these kinds of things. “It must be difficult, to give up—” I cut him off, tired of this conversation. “I don’t want that place,” I almost shout, my voice too forceful, too loud. “I don’t want any of it anymore.” Not weighed against what I have now. It’s not worth the trade. But still—I was raised to that place. To Ridge House, to the scarring valleys of the Rift. Shadow and tree and river. Quarries of iron, coal mines. A beautiful home I will never forget. And no matter how much I love Elane, how much I value being who I am, it’s a difficult life to forget.

“I’m not going back.”

“Fine,” he replies, teeth clenched. “Then you can tell Ptolemus that in person. You can stand and watch him leave. Have some spine, Evangeline,” he adds, looking me up and down with a withering glance. In spite of myself and my pride, I feel exposed beneath his judgment. Carmadon is like me, and deep down, I value his opinion. “You can live your own life here, so live it proudly.” Rage quickly replaces any embarrassment in me. It licks up like flame, feeding my dogged resolve. I almost sit back down again, petulant as a child.

But he’s right.

“Thank you for your advice, my lord Carmadon,” I hiss, dropping into a curtsy even lower than his bow. When I rise, my fingers dance, sending a ring sailing through the trees. It returns in a blink, bringing a small, red apple directly to my palm.

Carmadon doesn’t move. “That isn’t ripe,” he says, his voice tinged with amusement.

I take the largest bite I can as I walk away, ignoring the bitter taste.