Once An Eve Novel

things any worse. “Because they were going to kill him—Caleb. Agreeing to marry Charles was the only way I could stop it.”
    Clara walked toward me, her head cocked slightly to the side. “So help me understand this. You would leave the Palace right now if you could?”
    “Of course,” I said softly. “But I can’t even leave my room. Everywhere I go someone is watching me. When I step into the hallway, Beatrice will be waiting there with the soldier by the parlor. Charles escorts me to every meal.” I glanced at her window, which was open just a crack, the curtains billowing in the breeze. “Haven’t you noticed I’m never alone?”
    We stood there in the quiet room, facing each other. She looked more hopeful than she had in days. I straightened up, realizing I did have something to offer her, after all. “So if you want to tell Charles,” I went on, “or the King, or your mother about that message, then fine. I’ll marry Charles in a week and that will be it. But if you want me gone, those codes are my only chance.”
    I could see her considering it, weighing what she had to gain by outing me against what would happen if I escaped. She pursed her lips. “You don’t love Charles?” she asked. Her eyes were clear when they met mine, the resentment in them diminished.
    “No,” I said. “I don’t.”
    She walked over to a porcelain piggy bank on her nightstand. Its paint was chipped in places and one eye was nearly rubbed off. She held it up, a faint smile crossing her lips. “I’ve had this since I was three.” She shrugged. “I wouldn’t move to the City without him.” She flipped it over, pulling a broken piece of cork out of the bottom. The ripped newspaper was inside, my writing scribbled in the margins. She handed it back to me. “You have my promise, then. I won’t tell anyone.”
    I ripped the square into the tiniest pieces I could, tucking them away in the pocket of my jumper. She’d given it back. She’d said she wouldn’t tell. And she had no reason to—it would guarantee that I could never leave the Palace. She opened the door for me, and I started down the hall, turning over the scraps in my pocket, finally able to breathe.

thirty-five
     
    THAT NIGHT I COULDN’T EAT. I SAT AT THE DINNER TABLE , thinking of Caleb in prison. I saw the gash on his forehead, a soldier landing another blow on his back, twisting his arm so it met his shoulder blade. They would want names. I knew they would. It was only a matter of time before they gave up, realizing he would never give them the information they needed. How much time did I have before they killed him?
    “What’s the matter, dear?” the King asked, glancing at my plate. “Did you want something else? We could have the chef prepare whatever you like.” He reached out and put his hand on my arm. My entire body tensed at his touch.
    I took a deep breath, trying to calm my voice. “I’m not hungry,” I said. The roast chicken on my plate repulsed me.
    The table was full. Clara and Rose sat next to the Head of Finance. Clara chatted happily with him now, her eyes meeting mine as she peppered him with questions about a new business venture. Charles was sitting beside me, talking to Reginald, the Head of Press, about an upcoming opening in the City.
    “I’m glad that you two are getting along so well.” The King offered a slight nod in Charles’s direction. “I always thought you would.” He squeezed my arm, then turned back to his plate.
    I had the sudden urge to pick up my glass of water and throw it in his face. To plunge my fork into the soft flesh of his hand. He had lied. He thought I would never know, that I would walk through the wedding procession with a lightness in my step, content to imagine Caleb alive somewhere in the wild.
    The King pushed away from the table and stood, signaling that he was ready to leave. I felt the piece of paper in the pocket of my cardigan, running my fingers over its blunt corners to comfort myself. After my conversation with Clara, I had gone back to the parlor and picked out a wedding dress. I chose the next one I tried on, not bothering to look in the mirror to see how it fit. I followed Beatrice back to the suite, stopping in the upstairs parlor to throw the ripped newspaper into the fire, watching as the advertisement and the message it contained twisted in the flames. Then I sat down at my desk and wrote.
    I was careful with each word I chose, puzzling out the sequence so