Snow Like Ashes(59)

“Why does he think he can pull strings and make us dance around like this?” I growl.

Theron doesn’t say anything.

When we get to the ballroom I soar down the stairs. Halfway across the floor Theron realizes where I’m going and flings himself in front of me, walking backward because I don’t stop.

“Meira, this isn’t going to fix anything—”

“Don’t care.”

“I’ve talked to him every day since he announced the engagement; if I can’t change his mind—”

I grit my teeth. “I. Don’t. Care.”

Theron stops walking and I dart around him. I don’t think; I don’t do anything as Noam’s study looms in front of me. All I know when I pound my fist on the closed door is that I am so, so tired of this. So tired of Noam and Herod and Sir and Angra and all these arrogant, puppet-master men who hold all the strings and refuse to give them up. Life could be so easy if they would just let it go, if they would just let me go, because I am so tired of this….

I slam my fist on the door again. “Noam!” I shout.

No answer.

I try the handle. Unlocked. Stupid king.

“Meira, wait—”

Sir has finally caught up to me, as has everyone behind him, all staring like I’m an escaped animal from Bithai’s menagerie. Sir takes a step forward and I snarl. Maybe I am an escaped animal, and maybe they should look at me with that little flicker of fear. This is who I am, isn’t it? The untamed, unpredictable, useless orphan girl. I don’t want to hate them this much. I don’t want to blame them for this. But I do, and that hating and blaming makes my chest burn until I think I might incinerate from the inside out.

“Congratulations, everyone,” I announce as I open the door to Noam’s study. “You’ve finally broken Meira, the crazy, orphaned soldier-girl. She’s snapped, all thanks to the mention of floral arrangements.”

Dendera whimpers but I put her behind me as I step into the study. Noam isn’t in here. No one is. A desk sits directly in front of the door with tall auburn bookcases all around, mimicking the dark and cozy aura of the entryway just behind me. Papers and quills and ink jars clutter the top of the desk, books sit on stacks of other books and a ledger leans open on a stand.

“He’s not here, Meira,” Sir says behind me. “Leave this—”

He puts a hand on my arm, reaching over the threshold to me.

Don’t you dare touch me.

I snarl at him. “You can’t order me around. You aren’t my father, Sir.”

I slam the door on him before he responds. Before anyone responds. Before they realize I’ve locked the door and barricaded myself in Noam’s study and my little tantrum just went from little to really, really big.

“Meira!” Sir shouts from the other side of the door. He slams his fist against it and jiggles the knob and slams again. “Open this door right now! Do you have any idea of the consequences of breaking into the Cordellan king’s study—”

Alysson and Dendera start shouting too. I swear I hear Finn, Henn, and Greer chuckle, but I could just be imagining it in my delirious tantrum state.

I drop into Noam’s chair. What am I doing? I do know the consequences of breaking into the Cordellan king’s study and locking myself in here, because if he finds out—when he finds out—I’m pretty sure my time in Cordell will be spent in prison, if anything. Not that Noam’s helping us now.

Or is he?

I grab the ledger off the stand and flip through it, looking for some clue that he might actually be helping us, but the only entries are calculations for crops and trade amounts. I drop it back on the stand and look over the nearest stack of papers. Correspondences with a duke in Ventralli, complaints from a farm on the outskirts of Bithai that got flooded. I shove it all aside and start pulling open drawers. Extra quills and blank papers and—

The top left drawer is locked.

I pull again. It holds tight. I grab a letter opener off the table and break the lock just as a new voice joins the fray outside.

Noam.

“She what?” he bellows. “She’s your charge, William; your responsibility. I give you shelter and aid and allow you free rein of my palace, and this is how Winter repays me? By Cordell’s golden leaves, I swear I will—”

I rip open the drawer to papers, lots of papers, and grab the first one. Calculations for iron? The next looks similar but shows estimates for precious gems. Another is a map of—mines? Winter’s mines, dozens of lines swirling through an aerial view of the Klaryns. And then …

A letter.

Every bit of frustration, the tantrum I just had, floats up out of me. All that’s left is the steady pulse of realization, the dull, empty thud that echoes through my chest with each word on each page of this letter.