Chapter 13: Ghosts

The morning sun in Fortundra didn’t just shine; it interrogated. It poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my suite, illuminating every stray thread of my borrowed silk gown and, I feared, every lie etched into the set of my jaw.

I sat at the vanity, my spine stiff, as Angela moved behind me. The silver-backed brush glided through my hair with a rhythmic, hypnotic shush. She was quiet today—too quiet. Usually, she filled the air with tidbits about the castle’s history or gentle teases about Zion’s brooding nature, but this morning, her blue eyes were fixed on my reflection with a clinical intensity.

"You tossed and turned last night," Angela remarked. It wasn't a question.

I forced my hands to remain limp in my lap, resisting the urge to ball them into fists. "New bed. It’s... softer than I’m used to. My back doesn't know what to do with the kindness."

"Is that all?" She paused, the brush hovering near my temple. "I came in to check the hearth at midnight. Your bed was empty, Diana. The balcony door was unlatched."

My heart did a slow, sickening roll in my chest. I had been so careful slipping back in from the woods, timing my movements to the rhythm of the sentries' boots.

"The moon was full," I said, my voice steady—a lie practiced in the dark of Silvermere until it sounded like silk. "I couldn't sleep. I went out to watch the clouds pass over the spires. It’s beautiful here, Angela. Terrifyingly so."

Angela didn't go back to brushing. She stepped around to face me, leaning against the mahogany table. She reached out, her fingers—calloused in a way that suggested she hadn't always been a lady’s maid—brushing a stray dark hair from my shoulder.

"You have a smudge of red clay on the heel of your left boot, dear," she said softly. "The kind found near the western ravine. Not on a stone balcony."

The air in the room suddenly felt like lead. I looked at her, searching that graceful, middle-aged face. Was she a friend? A motherly soul trapped in a tyrant’s service? Or was she Zion’s most effective weapon—the velvet tongue that licked the secrets right out of his guests?

"I must have stepped in it during the garden walk yesterday," I lied, meeting her gaze. I didn't blink. In Silvermere, if you blinked, you were dead.

Angela studied me for a long beat. Her expression was a masterpiece of neutrality, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—frustration, perhaps? She knew the math didn't add up, but she couldn't find the missing variable.

"Perhaps," she murmured. She picked up a silk ribbon, the color of a bruised plum, and began to tie my hair back. "You know, the King is a man of great intuition. He doesn't see what people show him; he sees what they try to hide. If I were a girl in a strange land, I would be very careful about where I wandered. The woods have eyes, Diana. And the King’s eyes are everywhere."

"Is that a warning, Angela? Or a threat?"

She leaned down, her breath warm against my ear as she tightened the ribbon. "It’s a kindness. Whether you believe I’m capable of such a thing is up to you."

She pulled back, giving my shoulder a maternal pat that made my skin crawl with conflicting emotions. I wanted to trust her. I wanted to lean into that warmth and tell her how heavy the crown of this mission was. But as she turned to straighten the bedsheets, I noticed the way she moved—efficient, silent, and always positioned between me and the door.

Was she a nice woman caught in a bad place, or was she the silk lining of Zion's iron trap?

"The King is waiting for you in the solar," Angela said, her voice returning to its cheerful, servant’s lilt as if the tension of the last five minutes had been a hallucination. "He says he has something 'educational' to show you."

"Educational," I repeated, standing up. The silk of my dress hissed against the floor. "That sounds dangerous."

"With Zion," Angela said, opening the door for me and offering a shallow, perfect curtsy, "everything is."

As I walked past her, our eyes met one last time. She was smiling, but her hand remained tight on the door handle. I realized then that Angela didn't need to prove I was a spy to destroy me. She only had to keep watching. She was the slow burn, and Zion was the explosion.

I headed down the hall, the weight of the rose Zion had given me still a ghost-sensation against my palm. I had to find the maps today. I had to find a way to outrun the maid who saw too much and the King who saw everything.

Because if Angela figured out the variable before I found the exit, I wouldn't just be a "guest" anymore. I’d be a ghost.