It was only after the soldiers were safely away that she collapsed to the floor and wept.
Rune had spent the past two years trying to make amends for that night.
But Nan was right: turning her in had proven Rune to be as loyal to the New Republic as the rest of them. More loyal, even. After all, what kind of person betrayed their own grandmother? A person who hated witches above all else.
The lives of countless witches now depended on that ruse.
Rune’s trembling hands squeezed Lady’s reins, and the leather strips bit through her deerskin gloves as she scanned the foggy streets of the capital. If she was lucky, the Blood Guard would detain Seraphine at a holding location. The Guard would wait until they hunted down a few more witches before transferring them to the palace prison together.
If Rune was unlucky …
The thought of the alternative—Seraphine already imprisoned beneath the palace, waiting to be purged—made a sick feeling surge in her stomach.
Rune pushed her horse harder, trying to outrun it.
That’s what she needed to learn tonight: whether Seraphine was still alive, and if so, where the Blood Guard was keeping her.
As she and Lady arrived in the city center, a massive domed structure arose out of the gloom, rivaling the palace in magnitude.
The opera house.
There would be witch hunters within, not to mention Tribunal members. Some of them were bound to know where the new holding location was.
The opera house’s copper-domed pavilion, where carriages dropped off patrons, came into view first. Five massive columns, each one rising to five stories in height, bordered the pavilion.
It always surprised Rune that the Good Commander allowed it to remain open. Shortly after the revolution, patriots ransacked the opera house, stripping it of much of its previous splendor. Paintings, statues, and other decor hearkening back to the Reign of Witches were smashed, burned, or thrown into the sea. But the interior, with its gold leaf and red velvet seating, remained—a stark reminder of the decadence of the witch queens.
As they entered the pavilion and Lady slowed to a trot, an elderly stable hand dressed in a trim black uniform stepped forward from the entrance arch.
Rune dismounted. As her silk flats hit the stone walkway, her legs nearly buckled beneath her. Every bone in her body hurt from riding so hard to get here tonight.
“Citizen Winters. You’re mighty late this evening.”
Rune winced internally at the familiar voice. She preferred the younger stable hands to this old patriot. The young ones stood in awe of not only Rune’s wealth and connections, but her reputation as a hero of the revolution.
Carson Mercer, however, remained unimpressed by Rune, and his low regard unsettled her. Did he suspect her, or was he just a miserable old man?
“The opera’s half over.”
At the disapproving tone of his voice, Rune stepped into her role. Pushing back the hood of her fine wool cloak, she shook out her hair, letting it fall in a sea of rust-gold waves. “I prefer to miss the first act, Mister Mercer. It’s so tedious, otherwise. All you really need to know is how it ends. Who cares about the rest?”
“Indeed,” Carson said, narrowing his eyes. “One wonders why you go at all.” He turned to lead her horse toward the opera stables.
Not liking the edge in his voice, she called after him: “For the gossip, of course!”
The moment he was out of view, Rune anxiously tapped the secret pocket sewn into her gown, where her vial of blood lay hidden. Comforted, she forced the curmudgeonly stable hand out of her mind and entered the opera house—where members of the Blood Guard would be gloating about their recent capture. All Rune had to do tonight was keep her ears open and ask the right questions, and by the time the curtain fell, she’d have the information she needed to save Seraphine.
She passed several children begging for coins or food on the way in. By the marks carved into their foreheads, she could tell they were Penitents. The descendants of witch sympathizers. Meaning someone in their family had refused to inform on a witch, or had hidden one from witch hunters.
Instead of executing or imprisoning the descendants of witch sympathizers, the Good Commander carved the Penitent symbol into their foreheads, letting everyone know what they’d done. It was a warning. A way of dissuading others from helping witches.
Rune’s fingers itched to dig into her money pouch and drop several coins, but it was illegal to directly aid a Penitent. And with Carson nearby, she didn’t dare. So she only smiled a little. The children’s echoing smiles twisted her heart with guilt as she passed them by.
Inside, Rune discovered Carson was correct: the opera was half over. Before her, the ceremonial staircase—divided into two divergent and interwoven flights of steps—was mostly empty. But the cacophony of voices coming from the grand foyer far above was an unmistakable sign that intermission was well underway.
Pressing her hand to the cool marble balustrade, Rune pushed the Penitent children out of her mind and started upward. She felt aware of the men around her as she ascended the stairs, their attentive gazes lingering on her long after she passed, reminding her of a recent conversation she’d had with her friend Verity.
Don’t you think it’s time you picked one?
A suitor, she’d meant. One of the many eligible young men who lined up to take Rune’s dancing ribbons at balls, invited her out on romantic dinners, and took her on long carriage rides. It wasn’t Rune who tempted them. Sure, a few might genuinely be interested in the pretty face she presented to the world. Most, though, were after Nan’s fortune, her profitable shipping business, and her vast estate. All of it “gifted” to Rune by the New Republic for her heroism during the revolution.
Rune had been stringing the useful ones along for over a year—all from well-connected families with access to secrets she needed. Secrets she could often get them to spill in dark corners and shadowed alcoves.
But she couldn’t keep doing it forever. Their patience was limited, and Rune couldn’t afford to make enemies of them.
Verity had made a list of the most valuable suitors and left it on Rune’s pillow the morning after their talk.
She would need to choose one, and she’d need to do it soon.
But not tonight, she thought, hurrying up the steps. Tonight, she would mingle with the sons and daughters of the revolution, stealing whatever secrets she could.
When Rune arrived at the top of the interwoven staircase, the grand foyer stretched out before her, full of opera patrons dressed in muted silks and frothy lace, with cream-colored pearls strung through their hair, all of them illuminated by a dozen pairs of winking chandeliers hanging down the massive hall.
“Rune Winters,” said a voice that stopped her in her tracks. “Sneaking in late, I see. Out on a tryst with one of your lovers?”
Several scandalized giggles followed.
The voice belonged to Verity de Wilde—Rune’s best friend.
Verity stood beneath the lights with her hands on both hips and a playful smile tugging at her mouth. Wispy brown ringlets framed her white face, and her eyes were dark behind her spectacles. She wore a dress the color of sunflowers, with white lace sleeves and a low-cut back—one of Rune’s hand-me-downs from last season. It had originally been sleeveless, but since sleeveless dresses were out of fashion now, Rune had enlisted her seamstress to add them before gifting it to Verity.
Flanking Verity was a group of their fashionable friends. Young men and women who’d dined at Rune’s table and danced in her ballroom hundreds of times—and would do so again tonight, at her after-party.
Friends was perhaps too generous a term, since not one of them would think twice about turning her in if they knew what she was.