Gideon thought of their earlier conversation about Rune, and what he had sworn to do. The idea that Rune was the Crimson Moth, a witch playing him like a fiddle—that she was capable of this kind of carnage—turned his stomach.
But he couldn’t turn away simply because it made him uncomfortable. Nor could he let his feelings for Rune weaken his search for the truth. Gideon needed to keep his head about him more than ever.
She had seemed different under the moonlight the other night. Not at all the irritating girl who’d accosted him in the opera box. Gideon had been so enamored by the pensive, sensitive Rune that the discordance hadn’t raised his suspicions.
Who was the real Rune Winters?
Gideon wondered if his initial theory was correct: that she was pretending to be something she wasn’t to hide a darker truth about herself.
If so, he needed to find out what that dark truth was.
THIRTY-SEVEN RUNE
THE GLIMMER OF A hundred candle flames blurred at the edges of Rune’s vision while she tried to focus on the young woman before her.
“It sounds awful, being raised by a witch.”
“Horrible,” said Rune, whose face hurt from fake-smiling. “The worst.” But if this pain was her penance for the lies that she’d spewed—was still spewing—she’d bear it.
Her speech had been a triumph, judging by the throng of patriots gathered round and waiting to speak with her. Rune had felt sick during all six courses of the meal and barely touched her food. Her stomach grumbled loudly now as admirers swarmed. They were drawn like insects to Rune’s devotion to the New Republic, her embodiment of its virtues, and, of course, her disgust for all witchkind.
Rune scanned the sea of faces, searching for Gideon, but didn’t see him.
He’s not coming, she thought, trying to squash the disappointed feeling burning behind her breastbone.
Am I really so forgettable?
With dinner over, all that was left was the music, mingling, and dessert. The staff cleared tables out of the center of the room and were now assembling some kind of stage, getting ready for the evening’s entertainment.
From across the courtyard, Rune caught sight of Verity. Her friend wore a cream, off-the-shoulder gown with gold beading. One of her hands held a matching gold clutch while the other beckoned to Rune, finger crooked. As if she had some secret to relay.
“Excuse me,” said Rune to the girls before her. “I’ll be right back.”
Rune cut through the fawning patriots and strode past the staff setting up a stage. As she wove through the maze of long tables set with crisp white tablecloths, the chilly evening air made her shiver.
Traditionally, the Luminaries Dinner occurred in the palace’s grand ballroom. But this year, the organizers had moved it to the courtyard. The spring nights were still cool, though, making Rune wonder about the choice.
The moment she arrived at her friend’s side, Verity linked their arms and led Rune toward an empty corner of the courtyard. When there was enough space between them and the other guests, Verity lowered her voice to a whisper. “Witches are kept in the seventh circle of the prison—past Fortitude Gate.”
Fortitude was the seventh Ancient.
And the furthest gate from the entrance, Rune thought, recalling the prison map.
Keeping her face carefully blank, in case they were being watched, she asked: “How did you learn this?”
Her friend’s mouth quirked to the side. “I used some of your tricks on a prison guard who was getting off his shift.” Verity’s eyes sparkled with mischief, making Rune wonder what tricks she’d used, exactly. “He also said that everyone who works in the prison carries an access coin corresponding to the section they work in. The coins are like keys, getting you where you’re authorized to be, but no further.”
Interesting.
“So in order to rescue Seraphine,” murmured Rune, thinking aloud, “I’ll need to find a guard authorized to go beyond the seventh gate.” And steal his access coin.
“A guard,” said Verity. “Or a witch hunter.”
Rune shot her a curious look. “A witch hunter?”
“He said that all Blood Guard officers of a certain rank—usually the captains or their seconds—carry an access coin, allowing them to bring witches straight through to Fortitude Gate.”
If every Blood Guard captain carried an access coin, Gideon surely had one.
Rune wondered where he kept it.
The cogs of Rune’s mind were turning. If she stole Gideon’s coin, and perhaps a Blood Guard uniform—though how she’d do that, she didn’t yet know—would she be able to walk straight through the last gate?
A sudden commotion interrupted her thoughts.
Rune glanced toward the doors to find someone she recognized entering the courtyard. Someone who’d recently shot her.
Laila Creed.
Dressed in her scarlet Blood Guard uniform, Laila strode through the guests while gripping the arm of a prisoner. A black bag covered the prisoner’s head, and from the iron restraints encasing her hands, Rune knew the prisoner was a witch.
While staff filled cups with hot coffee or chilled wine and handed out plates with sugar-dusted pastries, Laila marched her charge through the courtyard. The lights of a thousand candles flickered down the lengths of tables as guests murmured excitedly, their attention on the stage now assembled in the middle of the space.
No, thought Rune. It’s not a stage.
Thick chains hung from a solid beam erected over the platform. Chains Laila was connecting to the ankles of the witch.
It’s a purging platform.
Rune didn’t think, just started forward.
Verity grabbed her wrist to stop her. “There’s nothing you can do,” she whispered, her face going whiter than snow. “Not here.”
Rune’s hands clenched and unclenched, knowing she was right. “Who—”
Before she could finish the question, Laila tugged the black hood off the witch.
Rune and Verity both sucked in a breath.
The face beneath the hood was shockingly familiar to Rune. She knew it from the gold locket Nan used to wear around her neck. It was a locket her grandmother rarely took off.
As a child, Rune liked to open the locket and peer in at the two young women painted on the two panels. On one side was Kestrel’s face, rendered when she was about nineteen; on the other was Seraphine’s, not much older.
The two women had grown up together, Rune knew. They’d been best friends since childhood.
Which was why the sight before her didn’t make any sense.
The witch on the platform bore the exact same face as the one inside Nan’s locket—sparkling brown eyes, sharp birdlike features, black curls that haloed her head like a cloud. As if Seraphine Oakes hadn’t aged a single day.
Why is she so young?
Nan had been over seventy the day she died, and the woman on the platform—Seraphine—looked no older than twenty-three.
Rune’s mind spun with confusion. As she tried to make sense of it, the Good Commander ascended the steps of the platform, causing a hush to fall over the entire courtyard.
The Blood Guard soldiers retreated. Nicolas Creed stepped toward Seraphine, whose hands were manacled at her sides. The witch restraints clasped her hands entirely in iron, so that her wrists ended in two black metal stubs, preventing use.