Anatol cupped Evangeline’s head in his hands and shook her lightly. She’d have a whopper of a headache when she woke. Probably a black eye, too. The men who’d spotted them had taken one look at the haughty expression on her face, had declared her trouble, and knocked her out first thing.

They were right. Evangeline was trouble. He, of all people, knew that.

He still wasn’t sure why he’d helped her get out of the palace. He stared down at her closed eyes, the thin veins purple. A bruise had begun to bloom violently on her upper cheek. She looked so fragile, so innocent this way. Vulnerable. Not soft, not weak—but misused. She was a survivor.

And that was the truth of Evangeline.

No matter the act she might put on for others, she was injured, defenseless, and broken on the inside.

Who was he kidding? He knew why he’d helped her. He loved her. He had for a long time. She was hopeless, lost in a tangle of her magick and the cruel environment she’d grown up in. Yet there was vulnerability beneath the mask she wore, and it was that part he was drawn to. Maybe he thought he could help her—fix what was broken.

He was an idiot.

She roused, her eyelids fluttering open. She immediately winced, her hand coming up to touch her injured cheek. “That man punched me!”

“Yes, he did.”

“Where am I?”

“Safe.” He paused and looked around at the alley. “In a manner of speaking.”

She looked around, shakily sitting up. He’d found a space between a couple of buildings, the opening hidden by some large, discarded boxes. Stars shone down from above. Even at night, hours after the initial siege of Belai, the city seemed to seethe with anger. Shouting, screaming, crying, and the sound of things breaking could still be heard in the distance.

Her lip curling as she took in her surroundings, she noticed what she was dressed in—little more than rags. While she’d been unconscious, he’d snatched more appropriate attire for them and thrown away the costly garments that marked them as fresh from the palace. She probably had never seen herself dressed this way, though if she’d grown up with her birth family in Cherkhasii Province she would’ve worn clothes like this all the time. As a trade-off, she would’ve had love, but Evangeline didn’t know that love was better than nice clothing.

He’d dressed her, too, though Evangeline wasn’t the type to care if someone she barely knew had seen her naked. It would be low on her list of concerns, but it had affected him. Despite the circumstances, despite the danger, touching the bare body of the woman he’d wanted for so long had made him tremble with need.

She touched her head again, apparently deciding her head hurt too much to become overly offended by the clothes. “What happened with all those men?”

He settled down beside her and sighed. “I used magick.” He kept his voice low. “I created an illusion of the Imperial Guard and sent them running. It will be the last time I can do that. You should try to avoid using your magick, too.”

“Why? It’s our right to use our abilities.” Her voice, as ever, held unbreakable pride.

“It may be our right, but it will also be our death. They’re rounding up the J’Edaeii, all the nobles, especially the royalty.” He paused. “They’ve already started killing them.”

“What? Where is the Imperial Guard? The Royal Army?”

He snorted and hung his head. “You really are a beautiful, clueless little bit of fluff, aren’t you?”

Except, he knew different. The good part of her was just buried under all that magickal backlash. His gift went both ways, just like hers. He could cast illusion, but he could also see through it. She could sense other people’s emotions, but could too easily block her own—which is what she’d been doing since she was a young child. For good reason.

He understood the truth of Evangeline, but that didn’t make her any less of a pain.

She bristled. “Listen—”

He held up a hand. “I’ll tell you what you should already know. The army is made up of commoners. Most of them have laid down arms and taken up with the people. Those who didn’t join the rest are now dead or imprisoned. The Imperial Guard was defeated right off, overwhelmed by the number of peasants who stormed the palace. Our time is over with, Evangeline. The rich are reaping what they sowed with the poor. Taxing them into starvation. Confiscating their goods and the fruits of their labor. Suppressing inventions to deny the rise of the lower and middle classes and keep power in the hands of the royals. Dancing and feasting while they died in the streets from neglect and hunger. It’s no wonder they hate us.”

“I had no idea.”

“Because you weren’t paying attention. Because you are self-centered and oblivious. This has been going on for a long time now. Everyone but you and the royals saw it coming.”

Her jaw locked. “No.”

“Yes.”

She surged to her feet. “No! This isn’t possible. None of it!”

He hissed through his teeth, grabbed her arm, and yanked her down. “Stop it. You’ll get us both killed. Now calm down and settle in. We can’t move from this spot until morning. It’s not safe.”

She sat back down next to him with a thump. “I’m hungry.” There was more than just a note of petulance in her voice. She probably couldn’t remember a day in her whole life when her stomach had rumbled and she hadn’t been able to put something in it.

“So am I, but we’ll stay here anyway. Turn over and raise your shirt.”

“Excuse me?”

“When I dressed you, I noticed the skin around your jewel and the tattoo Roane gave you is looking red and irritated. You run the risk of it being infected. I need to look at it again.”

She scowled at him for a moment, but turned. Efficiently, he assessed the area. The skin around her sapphire looked like it probably hurt, but maybe her mind was on other matters at the moment. He couldn’t blame her for that. The tattoo was a fine swirl of color to either side of the jewel—a brand that marked Roane’s “ownership” of her.

“It’s too soon to tell.”

Shivering, she pulled the rough shirt back down. “I’ll be fine.”

“So you say. We’ll keep an eye on it. Now settle down and try to sleep.”

“How can we sleep at a time like this?”

He sighed. “I don’t know.” The truth was that he wouldn’t sleep at all. He hooked an arm around her and pulled her close for warmth. She stiffened. “Hush, princess, we need to share body heat.”

“What will we do now?”

“We wait. Rest as much as we can, sleep if possible. In the morning we’ll see where the city stands. We’ll have immediate concerns—food, shelter, water.”

She pursed her lips. “Thank you, Anatol. You have your head much more right than I do at the moment.”

Shock vibrated through him. Had she just thanked him?

“I’ve been expecting this.” He paused. “Not quite like this, but I’ve thought about the possibility.”

“And I’m just a little bit of pretty fluff that never saw this coming.”

“You see it now.”

She looked down into her lap. “I see much more clearly than normal.”

There was a note of something in her voice—emotion. He frowned. It was probably the first time ever he’d heard such from her. First it had been a note of panic, then chagrin at her own short-sightedness. But this last bit was regret, sadness.

Perhaps this experience was breaking down the barriers that kept her magick of empathy so carefully away from her. Did that mean the walls were about to break? That could happen if something traumatic happened to her, he supposed. After all, it had been the separation from her family at the age of four that had built the walls in the first place. If so, she was about to become a mess of major proportions.

Evangeline hadn’t allowed herself to feel emotion since she was a child. At least, not enough of it to be of consequence—only enough to help her survive her life in the palace. Little bits of feeling here and there, driving her actions in a way that would keep her fed and with a roof over her head. He knew; he been watching her closely for her entire life.

It wasn’t that her feeling emotion would be a bad thing. Anatol thought it might be the best thing for her, but it would complicate matters out here while they were trying to survive. Having her break down emotionally would not help them in the coming days.

He glanced over at her. She’d leaned her head back against the wall and her long lashes shadowed her cheeks.

“Evangeline? Are you still awake?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember your family?”

She opened her eyes and looked at him for a long moment before speaking. He thought for a moment he’d overstepped and she was angry, but then Evangeline would need to actually be in touch with her anger for that. He had a pragmatic reason for asking. It might be time now for both of them to seek their families.

“Not really,” she answered, diverting her gaze downward. “Just brief flashes.”

“But you know your last name and the province they live in.”

“What are you saying? That I should go back to being a pig farmer’s daughter?”

“We’re going to have to explore all our options.”

She blinked at him slowly and looked away with her chin raised. “I don’t think being a pig farmer is an option.”

He composed himself before answering. “You might have been very happy being one.”

She gave him a look of complete scorn and closed her eyes again. “Who were your parents before the royals tracked your magick?”

He gave a quick grin. “Hatmakers. They lived—live, I guess—in Ameranzi Province. I don’t know much about them. They’re not dirt-poor, more middle class, but I haven’t seen them since I was a child. Belai strongly discourages visits, but I remember them trying to see me.”

“Mine never tried.” There was no note of sadness in this sentence. It was a statement of fact.

“You don’t know that. They may have tried many times and were turned away without your knowledge.”

For a moment, he thought he saw pain cross her face. But then she settled back against the wall and said, “I’m going to try and rest now.”

“Yes. You should. Tomorrow will be eventful.”

He suspected what would happen. Gregorio Vikhin had gotten exactly what he wanted, exactly the result he’d sown for so many years, but it had come with a brutal twist. Anatol could hear the voices in the street, the jubilance, the drunkenness. The people had what they wanted and now they were elated, power hungry . . . and frightened. They were excising hundreds of years of life under an unfair yoke.

There would be bloodshed and it would be legion.

Tomorrow the steps of Belai would run red with the murders of the royals, the nobles, and the J’Edaeii alike. There would be no mercy. The people would wrap themselves in the wise words of Gregorio Vikhin, but those words would be viewed through a haze of hatred and revenge.

Anatol saw the truth of things. He knew it would come to pass.

And where was Gregorio Vikhin tonight? Undoubtedly, he was mortified to see his dreams running so out of control. Anatol just hoped the great man could find a way to stem this tide, bring the people back to their senses and get some real work done. But that wouldn’t happen tomorrow.

Tomorrow would be day one of the nightmare. This illness would need to run its course, work itself out. Until then they would just have to find a way to survive.

He pulled Evangeline closer to him.

He let the curtain fall back and stepped away from the window. They wouldn’t come into his town house. They wouldn’t steal his furniture, or drag him off to the steps of Belai to be executed. No, they gave him respect. Respect he didn’t deserve.

This was his fault.

He pressed the heel of his hand to his eye socket and sank into a nearby wingback chair. His ideas. His words. His fervor that he’d whipped from one end of Rylisk to the other. But not like this. He’d never meant for it to happen like this.

He wondered what Kozma Nizli would make of this.

But maybe this was the only way. Clearly, the royals and their cronies hadn’t been listening to anything they had to say before now. Perhaps bloodshed and chaos were the only way to get change in Rylisk.

After all, it wasn’t like the royals were ever going to give the people a say in their governance without violence. Blessed Joshui, the royals had been deaf and blind! Lost in a fantasy of their own making, heedless to the danger they created for themselves with every tax hike.

Most would say they were getting what they deserved.

Yet, there would be innocents who would be hurt in this mess. The J’Edaeii, for example. Most of them were already victims, having been forcibly taken from their families at a young age. Brainwashed into thinking they weren’t prisoners. Used as a breeding pool to infuse the royal bloodline with the magick their pride had lost through inbreeding. Though they came from common peasant stock, they would be swept up in the bloodshed along with the guilty.

Magick would leave their world because of him. His words. His ideas.

Yet he couldn’t help but feel proud as well. After all, now the people would have a say in their lives. There could be a new order. Fairness for all. Democracy in governance. They would set up a new system of government, hold elections, have debate. The people would no longer starve as they had in the past. They would no longer be used as mules, whipped by their “betters” until they were bloody.

He had done that. His words. His ideas.But, yes, there would be a price to pay. Innocents would pay it. He would feel every one of their deaths to the center of him. Their shed blood would weigh him down forever.

That would be the price he paid.

Emotions pierced and prodded and tangled her gut. And they weren’t the removed, watered-down emotions of the crowd she felt, these were her emotions. If she allowed herself to taste the feelings of the people around her it wouldn’t be horror, revulsion, fear, and disbelief she would sense. It would be jubilance, victory, and pride. Their emotions would match the expressions and actions of those around her—the smiling faces and pumping fists. No, these were her emotions coursing through her in a flood right now, so hot and so hard that no wall she could build could stop them. Like a tidal wave of feeling, it crashed over her head, stole her breath, squeezed her heart. All the defenses she’d built up around her for so many years were just gone.

Gone.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so much. She was reminded of why she’d undertaken the task never to do so. Feeling. There was nothing but pain in emotion.

“Anatol,” she whispered.

“I see.”

But she was sure he wished he couldn’t. Just as she did. Deafness and blindness would be welcome right now. Heads were rolling on the steps of Belai, and they were heads she and Anatol both knew. Aleksander Edaeii had gone first. He’d hung low and precariously on the Edaeii family tree, but he’d been a royal.

They were killing the royals. The idea of it was so alien to her, so unbelievable, that she kept thinking—hoping—this was a nightmare. However, the roar and jostling of the crowd assured her it was not. The happy cries of the observers grew louder as they saw the blood getting bluer.

Her hand flew to her mouth as they brought out the next people slated for the guillotine, and she turned her face into Anatol’s chest. Annabelle Bellama, a noble, and Sorcha J’ Edaeii, a magicked woman who was only a year older than Evangeline.

Anatol thrust her away. “Look amused or we die. They’re already suspicious of us.”

“Look amused?” She glanced around the reveling crush around them. Indeed, a few were casting long looks their way. Anatol looked grim and resigned, and she was sure she appeared pale and shaken. “Let’s get out of here, then.”

He gave a pointed glance around him and raised his eyebrows. “Impossible.”

He was right. The crowd had them pinned against the gate. They had front row seats for the show and if they left now it would only make them look more suspicious. Her knees were weak, bile burned the back of her throat. Wooziness nearly overcame her for a moment and she wished it would—anything to escape this—but Anatol held her up and she remained horrifyingly conscious.

Her gaze fixed on the next victims being led out from the palace dungeons. Oh, Blessed Joshui, no.

Tadui walked down the stairs followed by Borco, both flanked by peasants turned executioners. Heads held high, the men stood with hands tied behind their backs and their toes just touching the large bloodstain on the pavement made from those who’d gone before them. A wagon filled with headless bodies was parked nearby, yet neither man batted an eyelash, or showed a moment of fear. Tadui stared out into the crowd, his proud, accusatory gaze settling on individuals of his choice. The Edaeii line had more courage than she’d presumed.

One of the big farmers muscled Borco up to the slab. Borco looked impassively over the heads of the crowd as if he were about to be served tea, not have his head severed from his neck. Evangeline was too afraid to probe with her magick and taste Borco’s emotions. She was too much of a coward. There was resignation in his eyes, however, and defeat.

The executioner forced Borco to kneel and place the side of his face down on the cold slab. Then, almost as if the executioner were bored, as if he worked in a factory and this were only his next-in-line, a simple job, he stood and pulled the mechanism that dropped the blade.

Evangeline jerked in Anatol’s arms at the juicy thumping sound that could be heard prior to the explosion of cheers from the crowd. She turned away at the last moment to avoid seeing the cut, then turned back.

Borco’s head rolled across the concrete at the base of the steps.

“Oh, Blessed Joshui,” she breathed.

Tadui had taken a step backward. Now she saw reaction in the royal’s eyes. Tadui, such a harmless, nice man. A man who had been as close to a friend as she’d ever had in Belai, save Annetka. Oh, Tadui.

The executioner grabbed him roughly by his bound arms and forced him down on his knees. Evangeline’s body tightened, grief clogging her throat and pricking at her eyes. And anger! Hot anger poured through her, made her want to scale the iron fence she was pressed up against and charge the stairs, free him from this fate.

But she could do nothing. Helplessly, she watched the executioner force Tadui’s head down to the chopping block. Tadui’s eyes searched the throng desperately—looking for a friendly face?—found her and locked his gaze with hers as his head came to a rest on the platform that was sticky with the majordomo’s blood. His gaze was vacant, confused—shocked—yet he recognized her. She read that clearly in his gaze.

Unable to stop herself, wanting to try and share his pain if she could—she tasted his emotion. Cold terror slammed into her. Fear of what would happen to him after his head rolled. Was this it? Was this the end forever? What would happen after he died? How could this be happening? Questions and confusion roiled through Tadui during these last moments of his life. Her face was a comfort to him, his only one.

Knowing she was taking a risk, she cast out into the crowd, swimming through the nausea-inducing elation and excitement, searching for . . . calm. Finding it in some faceless person at the back of the throng, she drew a thread and exchanged it for Tadui’s horror. Immediately, Tadui’s face slackened with peace.

The stained brown blade hoisted high, the small clean part gleaming in the bright sunshine. Evangeline drew a shaky breath, vowed not to turn away, but to hold Tadui’s gaze until it was over. She owed him that much.

The blade dropped. Wet chunking noise.

Tadui’s head rolled and then came to a stop. His gaze still held hers, but now it was dead.

Her gorge rose.

She turned, hand to her mouth and pushed her way violently through the crowd, forcing people to move. People made way for her, not wanting to wear her breakfast—little of it she’d had—on their persons. At the perimeter, she bent over and retched into the gutter. Someone touched her back. Anatol.

Closing her eyes against the sting in her throat, she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and forced herself to stand. A distance away, some of the peasants were watching them a little too intently. “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t.”

He took her by the upper arm and guided her away, calling out behind him with a smile, “Too much celebrating last night. Girl can’t take all the excitement.” His accent was dead-on perfect to pass for a low-born.

They walked down the street, leaving the press of the crowd and their gruesome festivity behind them. The fragrance from a vendor selling smoked turkey legs made her stomach rumble and her gorge rise in quick succession, and Anatol turned, leading her down a narrow alley instead.

“You used magick, didn’t you?” His voice was a low, angry whisper. He shook her by her upper arm as they walked. “Didn’t you?”

Mute, overcome with heavy grief, she could only nod.

“Hey, hey you!”

Anatol squeezed her arm until pain shot up it. “Keep moving,” he growled.

“Hey, stop, you two!”

Footsteps running toward them. Men’s voices. This was the second time in twenty-four hours they were being pursued by a gang of men. They weren’t doing so well on the streets so far.

Anatol cursed loudly, dropped her arm, and turned. Evangeline stopped and turned as well.

There were three men in front of them, all of them working class. Two brunettes, one blond—all of them dressed in ratty clothes and hats with holes in them. She would give any amount of money to never see a working-class lout again in her life and here she was surrounded by them.

The blond smiled, revealing rotting teeth. “Where do you think you’re going with such a sweet little thing like that? Even with that black eye she’s pretty. How much does she cost?”

Evangeline opened her mouth in indignation. He thought she was a whore! She may have had sex with individuals to obtain something material in the past—all right, that was the only reason she’d ever had sex—but that didn’t mean she’d do some ill-mannered, ugly lout in an alley for a few crowns.

“She’s not a prostitute, she’s my sister.” Anatol used that same perfect accent, stepping forward. “And if you keep calling her one, I’ll have to take offense.”

The man held up his hands. “Sorry, my mistake.” He narrowed his eyes and leered at her. “You don’t look much alike, though.” He poked Anatol in the chest.

“Listen, you imbecile,” Evangeline said, stepping beyond Anatol. “You’re dreaming if you think I’d ever lay hands on you, not for all the money in the world.” She gave him a sneer and a once-over designed to find him lacking. She’d perfected that look at court. “I wouldn’t touch you for anything.”

The man bristled and his friends swelled with manly indignation. The energy of the alley tensed with violence. Evangeline could feel the emotion of the men imploding. They wanted to teach her a lesson for being a female with a smart tongue and they were going to do it by pounding her flesh.

“You ain’t his sister,” the blond man spat.

“You calling me a liar?” Anatol pounced on the blond before the man could take further action. His fist connected with the blond’s cheek and he went flying backward. Pivoting to the side, Anatol caught the second in the gut, turned and kicked the other in the side of the head. It was over so fast, Evangeline could only stare.

“Where . . . where did you learn to fight like that?” she stammered, watching the three men scramble back away from him and then turn to limp down the alley.

“That was not a fight. They didn’t have the will. They didn’t really want it. They were just men out sowing their oats. It was easy to discourage them.”

She blinked, frowning. What he called discouragement, she called lots of blood.

Anatol rounded on her, cradling his hand. “Listen, princess. You need to take off your tiara right now. That attitude will only get you killed on these streets. I will only be able to protect you for so long. That’s twice now. Three times if you count Belai.” He turned and kept walking, shaking his hand once like it hurt and swearing.

She stopped and stared at Anatol’s back. Rage coursed through her veins at his reprimand, but she knew he was right. These were not the treacherous, back-biting halls of Belai. These streets were a different kind of vicious, the sort she was not groomed for. She needed to find a new set of armor, new weapons, but she was at a loss as to how to construct those things. She knew how to survive palace life. That was all.

She had no idea how to survive on these streets.

Her rage turned to cold fear and she marveled at the change in her emotion. How long had it been since she’d felt actual emotion—her own, not someone else’s? It was strong. It was horrific. She didn’t want it.

“Evangeline?”

She blinked and looked up, seeing that he’d backtracked to find her staring at a puddle in the alley, lost somewhere in her head. “You’re right.”

“What?”

“You’re right. I’m not prepared for this. I don’t know”—she motioned at the alley—“this. Oh, Blessed Joshui, I’m afraid.” She swallowed hard and pulled the frayed cuffs of her ugly dress over her hands. “I’m filled with grief and terror in equal turns. So much emotion. I can’t remember the last time I felt anything and now I’m feeling everything.” She drew a ragged breath. “I hate it. I hate it.” She shook her head, closing her eyes for a moment. “I can’t remember the last time I had enough emotion of my own to hate so much.”

He stood there, looking stunned.

“Anatol, don’t look at me like I just grew another head.”

He blinked. “You did.”

She swallowed hard. “I’ll be fine.” Lie. Nothing would ever be fine again. Her stomach roiled.

Anatol only kept staring at her.

Scowling, she reached out and took his hand, looking at the already-blooming bruise and split skin on the back on his hand where he’d punched the man on her behalf.

“It’s all right.”

“It’s not.” She frowned. “It needs to be washed and disinfected.”

He glanced around them. “Not much chance of that.”

She held on to his hand, warm, broad, and strong in hers. “It will give us a goal. We need something to concentrate on other than what’s going on in front of Belai.”

He drew his hand from hers. “We have another goal—finding food and shelter.”

“Yes, there is that.” Her stomach still wasn’t sure if it wanted food or not yet, but give it a couple hours and she’d be starving.

“You can feel now,” said Anatol with wonder in his voice.

“It was the beheadings.” She glanced to the side and pressed her hand to her stomach. “Or, I don’t know, it’s all this. I used to have beautiful strong walls up all around me. Now they’re gone. Now I can feel.”

Anatol smiled. “I’m happy for you.”

She licked dry lips, her breath puffing white in the cold. “I’m not. It’s a curse.”

“It’s a gift. It just might take you some time to see it that way.”

She shook her head. “No, Anatol. You don’t understand. I don’t remember much from my childhood, but I remember emotion. I remember feeling.” She paused, catching the tail end of a memory and then losing it before she could close her mental fingers around it securely. “Emotion almost killed me as a child. Grief. Loss. Rejection. The walls I built saved my life and now they’re gone.”

Anatol took her hands, making her flinch. “You’ll adapt. Eventually you’ll see this for the advantage it is.”

She met his gaze and held it for a long moment. She didn’t believe what he was saying, but she couldn’t find the words to reply to him. Using just the thinnest threads of her power, she reached out to touch his emotions. Hope had bloomed in him. He liked her. Blessed Joshui, Anatol was fond of her.

Footsteps on gravel drew their heads to the mouth of the alley. Evangeline’s blood chilled at the sound, expecting more trouble, but it was a finely dressed woman who stood there instead of a group of men. She wasn’t a noblewoman, that much was clear. Someone from the middle class, Evangeline assumed. The middle class had mostly been left alone by the mob. Evangeline shivered, jealous of the woman’s expensive coat.

The dark-haired woman blinked once, slowly, her jaw locking as she took them both in. Then a smile spread over her lush, red lips. “Who do you two think you’re fooling?”