Page 40 of The Midnight King

He can fix it. He can fix all of this.

“Tear off the pearls and scatter them,” orders Gilda.

My fingers find the pearls, and threads snap as I tug them free. They rain to the floor as I excoriate the dress, raking my nails over it, ruining it.

I’m crying silently. No sobs, only tears.

“Rip the skirt more,” Gilda commands. “Good. Now take this.” She hands me a rough, dry sponge from the kitchen. “Scour your arms and legs with that until I tell you to stop.”

Teeth gritted, I rub my limbs with the harsh sponge until little dots of blood begin to rise all over my skin.

“Now rub your face with it,” she says. “All over. Hard.”

Killian will fix this. He can help me.

The sponge feels like sandpaper on my face. I don’t bother pleading with her or asking her why she’s making me do this. Questioning or begging always makes the punishment worse.

“Enter the ballroom several minutes after my daughters do,” my stepmother says. “If anyone asks what happened to you, tell them you did this to yourself. No matter what the Prince says to you, reply to him only with insults, curses, and rude words for the entire evening. He’ll think you’re mad. He’ll want nothing to do with you after tonight. Now stop scrubbing yourself raw. We can’t have you appearing with no skin at all.”

I throw down the sponge. “I hate you.”

“Oh, I know you do.” She smiles grimly. “You tried to outwit me, Cinders. You need to understand that this isn’t a game you can win. Your fucking father may have escaped me, but you never will.” She lifts my chin, inspecting the damage I’ve done to my face. “You’ll be with me, anklet or not, until the day you die. I’ll make sure of it. Now put on a cloak and go to the carriage. When you step into the ballroom, take off the cloak and reveal what lies beneath.”

I don’t respond. I merely obey.

Outside, the cold air bites the chafed skin of my face so painfully I want to scream. When I climb into the carriage, Amisa and Vashli stare at me. Amisa looks aghast, but Vashli gives me a slow smile of malevolent satisfaction.

“What happened to you?” exclaims Amisa.

“I did this to myself,” I say mechanically.

“God, Cinders,” she says, shifting away from me. “You’re very disturbed, you know that?”

“No shit,” I mutter.

After Gilda climbs in, Worden clucks to the horses and we begin to move.

If Worden noticed my injuries when I approached the carriage, he said nothing. I shouldn’t be surprised. He has said and done nothing to help me for seventeen years. I know he relies on this job to survive, and he can’t risk falling out of my stepmother’s good graces—but the fact that he has never once defended me still hurts.

I sit in my personal cloud of pain, suffering in silence. I don’t dare shed more tears or make a sound. Being in such close quarters with Gilda is dangerous. Even with her daughters present, there are subtle commands she could give to make my existence worse.

The carriage drops her off at a stately townhouse for her party with the other mamas. Only then do I allow myself to breathe a little more freely. But the pain is such that I don’t dare shift my position, or my chafed skin will scream at me.

When we pull up in front of the palace, Worden helps the two girls out of the carriage and leaves me to get down alone. He climbs back up to his seat and drives away toward the lawn where the other carriages are parked.

“Now for your perfume,” says Amisa, with less enthusiasm than she showed earlier. She removes a tiny bottle of brownish liquid from her reticule and looks down at it doubtfully. “Vashli, don’t you think she’ll be embarrassed enough?”

“Remember what Mother said,” Vashli replies in a low tone. “We are to inform the Prince that she is deeply unwell, sick in the head. That’s why she stayed home last night. We didn’t want to bring her tonight, since she is in the middle of an episode, but we obeyed his command. We have to sell the idea that she is mad, so she needs to smell like she soiled herself.”

“But…” Amisa hesitates, wincing.

“Give it to me.” Vashli snatches the bottle and sprays me liberally with liquid that smells like horse-shit. “There. It’s done. Cinders, are you wearing that ugly watch around your neck?”

“Yes,” I say tightly.

“Wait ten minutes and then follow us.” She turns away, drawing Amisa with her. Amisa glances back over her shoulder, and for the first time in her life, she looks both regretful and sympathetic.

Maybe there’s hope for her yet.