Free Once by Anna Carey

him, refusing to look away. Finally he turned and pressed a button on the wall. “Beatrice, please come now,” he said, his voice low. He brushed a piece of lint off the front of his suit jacket. “You’ve had a trying day, to say the least. You must be tired. Your maid will see you to your room.”
    The door opened. A short, middle-aged woman came in, clad in a red skirt and jacket, the New American crest on the lapel. Her face was lined with deep wrinkles. She smiled when she saw me and curtsied, a “Your Royal Highness” escaping her lips.
    The King put his hand lightly on my arm. “Get a good night’s rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    I started walking to the door, but he grabbed my hand and brought me into a hug, squeezing me close. When he pulled back his expression was soft, his eyes fixed on mine. He wanted me to believe him, that much was clear, but I steeled myself against it. I thought only of Arden’s bound ankles, her body writhing as she tried to free herself.
    I was relieved when he finally dropped my hand. “Please show Princess Genevieve to her suite and help her out of those clothes.”
    The woman looked at my tattered pants, the blood on my arm, the bits of dried leaves tangled in my hair. She smiled sweetly as he disappeared down the hall, his shoes snapping against the shiny wood floor. I stood frozen, my heart loud in my chest, until the room was silent, all traces of him gone.

twelve
    â€œAND THIS IS WHERE YOU’LL HAVE YOUR AFTERNOON TEA,” Beatrice said, gesturing at the massive atrium. Three walls were all windows, and the glass ceiling exposed the starless sky. We had passed the formal dining room, the sitting area, the locked guest suites, and the maid’s kitchen. It had all gone by in a blur. He is your father , I repeated to myself, as if I were a stranger delivering the news. The King is your father .
    No matter how many times I turned over the thought, it seemed impossible. I felt the hardwood floors beneath my feet. I smelled the sickeningly sweet cider boiling on the stove down the hall. I saw the sterile white walls, the polished wooden doors, heard the clack clack clack of Beatrice’s low heels. But I still couldn’t believe that I was here, in the King’s Palace, so far away from School, Califia, and the wild. So far from Arden, Pip, and Caleb.
    Beatrice walked two steps ahead of me, telling me about the indoor pool, rattling off the thread count of the sheets. She went on about the fresh meats and vegetables that were delivered to the Palace daily, the King’s personal chef, and something called air conditioning. I didn’t listen. Everywhere I looked I saw a locked door with a keypad beside it.
    â€œAll the doors need a code to open?” I asked.
    Beatrice glanced at me over her shoulder. “Only some. Your safety is obviously very important, so the King has asked that I not share the code. You can call me on the intercom if you need anything, and I’ll take you wherever you need to go.”
    â€œRight,” I muttered. “My safety.”
    â€œYou must be relieved to be here,” Beatrice went on. “I wanted to say how sorry I was about all you’ve been through.” I watched as she punched in the code to the suite, trying to catch as many numbers as I could. She pushed open the door, exposing a wide bed, chandelier, and a serving cart with a covered silver platter. The faint smell of roast chicken filled the room. “I’ve heard what happened in the wild—how that Stray took you, how he murdered those soldiers right in front of you.”
    â€œA Stray?” I asked. The photograph of my mother trembled in my hands.
    â€œThe boy,” she said, lowering her voice as she led me into the bathroom. “The boy who kidnapped you. I guess it isn’t public yet, but the Palace workers have all heard. You must be so grateful to Sergeant Stark for bringing