Red Ruse

Chapter Two

Mare

I hate black. It's the color Dad's leg turned from years of rot, of boxes in the mail that spilled ash if handled too harshly. Our mourning clothes were same as the rest. No one had the money for anything else.

A laugh stiffens me, draws my head to a cluster of nobles sipping champagne. Their house colors have muted themselves to accents, an earring here, a medal there, pageantry prevailing above all else. None knew the king, I'm certain. His loss is gossip, a shakeup to an otherwise unbothered existence.

"Sonya!" Atara tips her glass at a dangerous angle. "Don't you look magnificent!"

She's not wrong. Sonya has polished her grief like a blade, black satin rippling with gems at the waist. Red is as much Iral as blue, but the latter is far more prominent, encircling the scarlet like a luxury noose. The color of Merandus. Clever. "You flatter me, Viper."

"You earned it." A cackle, followed by a sip. "Have you seen the walking vulture?" She gestures to Evangeline, clad in black blades so serrated they resemble feathers. "No subtlety, I swear."

"Evangeline has always had a flair for the dramatic." Sonya chuckles. "You should've seen the fit she threw last week." Her eyes find mine. "Lady Titanos missed it. A shame." Oh no. "We have her to thank for it, afterall."

"Me?" I attempt a laugh and end with a squeak. "Surely not."

"She emerges at last." Atara tosses back another flute and chokes. "You were–" Cough. "Gone so long we–" Sonya pats her back a bit harder than necessary. "Assumed you were dead."

"I was grieving."

"Hmm?" Sonya raises a brow. "I heard you were ill."

Beside her, Atara adjusts the luna moth nestled in her hair. Vipers, Lady Blonos echoes from the grave. Do not talk to animals. They command them. They use their senses to reach past our human limits, collect information for the Crown as Iral does.

My heart pounds. "Ill with grief."

"Ah." Sonya plucks Atara's glass from her hand, pressing it into mine. "I would be ill too. That girl–She looked just like you."

It shatters.

A few nobles turn their heads, and my cheeks burn. "Pardon?"

"In the arena." Sonya gestures for some Reds to pick up the shards. "Tiberias escaped, unfortunately, but Evangeline managed to skewer her on a pipe. Too quick an end, if you ask me."

My head spins. "He–" I swallow Maven's name before it can choke me. "Escaped?"

Atara grabs a new flute and glares at Sonya. "Oh, don't you start. It's bad enough I gotta listen to Evangeline. I don't need you mourning her terrible aim too."

Sonya chuckles. "Did I poke a sore spot?"

"I'm sorry." My eyes can't tear away from the floor tiles. "I must've missed something. It's been hectic, I–" Words fail me. "Who is this girl?"

Sonya presses Atara's glass into my palm. "The one from the footage."

"What footage?"

Atara scowls. "From the trial. Duh."

"Did you know her?" Sonya slides her chair closer to mine. "Her face was blurred, of course, but you're more familiar with Reds than I am."

"I–" Can't breathe. "Don't understand. Which–"

Atara rolls her eyes. "The one who seduced Tiberias."

The air chills before I'm forced to respond, neck prickling with the brush of a hand against my shoulder. "A tragedy." Maven sighs. "As life often is."

I can't tell if I want to kiss or choke him.

Sonya purses her lips. "Your Majesty–" Atara takes the opportunity to steal her glass. "What brings you here?"

"I heard something shatter." He pulls up a chair, and I'm reminded of the times we'd band together in Training. It was him and me against the world. All of it, lies. "Are you alright?"

Atara huffs. "I'm fine." She sips the rest of Sonya's champagne. "Do we have to call you 'Your Majesty' now?"

"Yes." Maven reaches for my wrist. "May I have this dance?"

My hand balls into a fist beneath the napkin. "No."

He frowns. "I insist."

Atara's moth flutters from her hair to mine. "We were having a lovely chat."

"Atara, darling." His fingers pinch in my curls, tiny legs kicking in protest. "Learn to share."

Sonya cuts her off before she can retort. "It's alright." There's a knife beneath the napkin, and my fingers curl around it. "Be sure to return her when you're done."

"I can return myself, thank you."

"Perhaps." Maven chuckles, quickly sobering when he sees my face. On instinct, I slip the knife into my pocket. His hand is warmer than it was in the dungeons, but I still shiver when it rests at my waist. "We may take longer than you expect."

She has no counter.

The waltz is a simple one, especially with Maven leading me. It should be easy to step in time to the music, to avoid his toes as we spin about the ballroom.

Too quick an end, if you ask me.

"I'm sorry," Maven whispers, and I jolt. We've drifted from one end of the floor to the other, right next to the open air of the balcony. "I should've realized you were an easy target for interrogation."

"Why, so I could defend you?"

His grip loosens. "You don't have to pretend to love me."

I tear away from him, appearance be damned, and snarl. "That girl." Tears bleed from my eyes, stupid, stupid tears he hasn't earned the right to glimpse. "Who was she?"

He sighs. "Mare–"

I've heard enough. Enough to reach not for his hand, but the door, to cling to the balcony like it could ward off the truth. Below me, the palace steps gleam with fresh rain, a flowered vine streaking pollen onto my gloves.

Something brushes my sleeve, and I growl. "Don't touch me."

A beat passes.

Maven stands beside me, skin glowing in the moonlight. At night, he's more of a ghost than ever, eyes solemn as he leans to whisper in my ear. "Would you rather it were you?"

I know the right answer, the brave answer, the one the hero makes in the storybook. The answer that should ring true in my bones, strike deep into his heart until he aches as I do.

But I can't bring myself to lie anymore.

"You're still alive." Maven's hand drifts to mine, and I find myself gripping it as if it might shatter. "Make it worth it."

For a moment, our eyes meet.

Then he turns around, leaving me alone in the autumn chill. Alone, but for the Reds inside, clamoring to pour glasses for nobles that will never thank them. Were it not for a slip over the railing, I might've been among them.

Maven said that Thomas was a fabrication. That any feelings he'd claimed for him were a lie. Were they true, could he have used that girl as he did?

It's a question without an answer. One I ponder as I take my seat at the table, directly across Evangeline's empty seat. Murmurs ripple through the crowd. She must plan on making a dramatic entrance.

The cameras hum with life, crackling as Maven reaches for my hand. Choose me, he'd begged. Say you'd rather live with me than die with him.

I'd told him to prove there was something in him worth saving. Worth more than a promise he never intended on keeping. Worth more than the hand reaching into my pocket. Worth more than the knife slashing deep into my shoulder.

Worth more than the table dripping with bright red blood.