The Chosen One (The First Book)

Chapter 24

Julian's cloak was on my chair.

It was not supposed to be there.

Neither, apparently, was the memory of his lips on mine.

There was no shelf in that room where it belonged.

It could not go in the press, because the press gets opened. It could not go out with the linen. I could not walk it back to him along a corridor with a hundred windows in it.

It was a thing that had no business being in my room.

So was the rest of it.

I got it folded eventually and put it flat under the mattress.

That took the shape out of it, and gave me something to look at every time I made my own bed.

⸻

They put us through the assessment that afternoon, which nobody had warned us about, which I assume was the point of it.

One at a time, into the small audience room, in front of all of them. The King in the middle. The Queen on his left. Amara at the end of the row with her chin on her hand, bored in a way I found comforting. Cassian was standing rather than sitting, because the room had been arranged for four and there were five of them. Julian was by the window.

I was sixth. By the time they called me, Rosalie had come out looking pleased and Isabelle had come out looking as though she had survived something.

"Miss Vale."

The Queen looked down at her list.

"There are two villages in the north. The winter stores will feed only one of them. Which do you choose?"

"The one farther from the river."

"Why?"

"Because the other has fish."

The Queen looked at me.

"And the first village goes hungry."

I thought about that for a moment.

"I wouldn't be sure about that."

She waited.

I looked around the room without meaning to. The carpet beneath my boots was thick enough to sleep on. There were silver goblets on the table. The King's ring caught the light when he moved his hand.

"If I were making the decision, I'd make sure neither village went hungry."

The King leaned forward slightly.

"It isn't that simple."

"No," I said. "It isn't."

I remembered my father counting grain after a bad harvest. My mother counting the money she had made from mending clothes. The numbers had never worked. Not for three mouths.

That was the winter I first understood what going without meant, and that understanding it wasn't the same as accepting it.

"I know what it is to have too little," I said. "You find another way."

The King watched me.

"If a girl with nothing could find one, I'd expect a ruler to find more."

The Queen's pen stopped.

"And if there is no other way?"

I looked at her.

"Then I'd choose the larger village. Fewer people starving is better than more people starving."

I straightened my back, pushing the memories further back.

"The smaller one would know why I made this decision. That would not feed them."

I looked at the King.

"But neither would pretending the decision was fair."

Julian laughed.

It was one short sound, and he cut it off almost immediately.

Every head in the room turned toward him, then back.

"Thank you, Miss Vale."

On my way out, I caught the Queen looking at the King.

Her face gave away nothing pleased and nothing displeased. Only that she was thinking.

That was enough.

⸻

Julian caught me up in the passage outside.

I had gone up for the cloak the moment the assessment ended. With the whole household still gathered outside the audience room, it was the safest chance I was going to get.

I held it out.

"That was quick."

"It's been under my mattress since five this morning. Take it."

He took it. He did not put it on. He stood there in the corridor holding his own cloak like it was a problem.

For a second he just stared at me.

Then his mouth twitched.

He looked down at the cloak in his hands.

"You really kept it there."

"I didn't have many options."

He folded the cloak over his arm, but did not move.

I waited.

His eyes found mine again.

"You're thinking too much."

"About what?"

He hesitated.

"Whether I'm going to do it again."

His eyes dropped briefly to my lips, then came back to mine.

"I hadn't decided," he said.

"I know."

He looked at me for another second.

Then he turned and walked back the way he'd come.

⸻

At dinner Eliza sat where she always sat, next to me.

She talked about her sisters. She asked whether the assessment had been awful, then laughed when I described Isabelle's face coming out.

Then, halfway through, easily, the way you mention weather.

"He said he'd come and find me before the end of the week."

I had not decided, he had said to me.

I know.

"Did he?" I asked, my focus on my chicken soup.

"He said it in that voice. You know the one." She was smiling at her plate. "He never says when. He just says he will, and then he does."

I had known her long enough to know when she was hopeful, and this was that.

I had known Julian just as long.

I looked down at my soup.

I knew what he was to her. I also knew how little three weeks was.

I ate another spoonful and let the thought go.

Then the wine went round for the second time.

I looked at it for a moment.

It was not the dry Verrian Cassian had started sending me weeks ago. This was darker. Almost red enough to look black beneath the candles.

I lifted the glass.

I took a mouthful.

It was sweet.

Not like the southern wine. Sweeter. Thick on the tongue, almost floral, with something underneath it that I could not place.

I swallowed.

For a second, nothing happened.

Then a warmth settled at the back of my throat.

I put the glass down.

And looked up the length of the table.

Nobody was looking at me.