Page 9 of Born for Silk

I frown, my fists curling in tight at my sides, when Cairo appears from the corner of the room, his fingers making a pyramid at his waist.

My pulse thrashes.

He smiles at Tuscany. “I do hope you enjoyed yourself tonight,” he says. “You must be elated. You’re so close to Meaningful Purpose, my princess.”

“What is this?” I ask, nodding at the room, the candles, the ointment, the women. And you!

Why are you in my sister’s room?

“Rome.” He offers me his attention. “I was checking to ensure everything is prepared for her and up to my standards. I will take my leave now. You both need to sleep.”

He strides toward me, but I refuse to budge, forcing him to fit through the space between my shoulder and the door frame. He does and says nothing.

It feels very wrong.

I glare at Cairo’s back, scorching him, wanting answers to my suspicious mind. My guts twist and turn as he walks down the hall.

Tuscany’s finger touches my frown, smoothing the crease. “Go to bed, Rome. I think you need rest as much as I.” I return my gaze to her, a place it likes to be. “Come to me in the first-light. Early? As soon as the fire turns orange. I will tell you about the chanting and foot massages, and you can tell me about The Cradle. Deal?”

I sigh. “Deal.”

Doing a little dance in place, she closes the door. I hover outside for a moment, feet not wanting to move.

Noise from Turin’s Collective and guests still whistles through the hallway. Their gathering, the drinking and feasting, continues.

Staring at the door, I shake the discomfort away. Tension pours through my veins as I turn to leave, the weight of my first campaign stacking rocks on my shoulders.

What would have happened if Tuscany saw the outskirts of The Cradle today? The babies being taken and the dead woman with the Silk Girl tattoo? What if she smelt the cooked flesh in the old abbey and felt the phantom of carnage still crawling along the walls after the raid?

I can’t allow her to see the truth.

I storm into my room, reeling over the message. The lesson from Turin. To be the king means keeping secrets from the one person I love. To keep her pure and innocent means my emotional isolation.

And that is Turin’s first lesson.

I lie down and look at the ceiling. Glare.

I spend the night memorising it, unable to sleep and less able to relax. Eighteen, and I feel the weight of a hundred tonight.

I toss and turn.

My body suffers, open and raw, like holding the truth inside is akin to capturing a wild animal within me. It shreds at its enclosure.

It burns and rips.

I don’t know when it happens, but first-light crawls along the floor and up the walls. It is barely time to rise, and my eyes have had no rest, but I stand, pull my pants on, throw a robe around my shoulders, and wander down the dim hallway.

Paranoia twists inside me.

At the end of the long passage, I see my sister’s door is open. The artificial light from inside shines, making shapes on the dark hallway wall opposite. Suddenly, a shadow blocks the light. Turin leaves the room with a glass vase in his hand, and I- I-

I stop in my tracks. My muscles refuse to move, not an inch, too tight like a coiled band.

Then they snap.

I take off down the hall.

Something is wrong.