EMBER’S POV
“Ember.” Queenie’s voice fractures. “I don’t — I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t?” I tilt my head and study her, the way her hands have started shaking, the way her eyes dart to Nathaniel before she can stop herself — the tell she’s never been able to control, the involuntary reflex of a woman who checks with her husband before deciding how to feel. “Really, Queenie? Because your face is doing that thing it does. That thing where you look to Nathaniel for permission before you decide what you’re allowed to say.”
“That’s not — I’m not—”
“The nervous energy all trip. The way you can’t hold my eyes for longer than three seconds. The way you flinch every single time someone mentions the council trial.” I’m walking toward her now, slowly, and she’s backing up,
