A Game of Hearts and Heists: A Steamy Lesbian Fantasy Romance (Girl Games Book 1)

I hide in the alley opposite, waiting for her to realise. Quinn’s face is a picture. Fury frothing, features puckered. She barks at some poor old woman. Priceless. I laugh the entire way home.

I unlock the front door and drop the journal in my room. Our house is simple, an old servants’ quarters on one of my parent’s old friends grounds. The rent is cheap for a reason. The walls are paper thin which means the house is boiling in summer and freezing in winter. But it’s ours. And we’ve made it the best we can. Scrimped for the miss match furniture and wall hangings. Our beds are a little too hard and the sofa a little too scratchy, but it works.

I find Stirling in the kitchen holding her head in one hand, and the other shaking and spilling porridge as she tries to feed herself. Mascara smeared under her lids, her hair a matted mesh of grease.

“You look hideous.”

“A pleasant morning to you too, Scar.”

“It’s the afternoon. Hungover much?”

Her shoulders sag. “When will I actually learn that vodka and tequila, don’t in fact, mix?”

“Did you seal the deal?”

At that, she sits up, and a shit-eating grin spreads across her face. She folds her arms and raises a single, slightly smudged eyebrow at me.

“You really are insufferable.”

“Say that again tonight when we’re eating the most expensive sushi take out in the city.”

“Ah. Not tonight, we won’t.”

A frown passes across her forehead. “Oh?”

I give her the card. Her mouth forms a perfect ‘O’ as she reads the invitation.

“Yeah, that was my response too,” I say.

“But why? We’ve been banished from any royal property since—”

“I know. Something is up, clearly. I didn’t think the Queen would ever forgive our family. So whatever it is, it’s big.”

I pluck the card from her and put it on the table.

Stirling cocks her head at me. “Where have you been? You’re looking unacceptably pleased with yourself for this time of the day.”

My mouth falls unnecessarily wide open. I press a palm to my chest. “Why, what on earth could you mean?”

“Don’t give me that, you’ve done something… Or someone, please gods. Anything to lighten your mood. You’ve been monstrously foul recently.”

“I… I may have had some fun this morning.”

She rubs her face, smearing the mascara and eyebrows further. She looks like a child puked up a pencil case.

“Kill or fuck?” she asks.

I open my mouth to say neither and then remembered Avis yesterday. “Well. Umm. Actually, I ended up offing my last customer.”

“SCARLETT.”

“Terribly sorry and all that. But she was a disrespectful bint and I can’t have people getting away with that. Tarnishes my reputation.”

“And you wonder why your trade has dried up?” She shakes her head at me.

I glare at her. “Piss off. You know it’s The Poisoner’s doing.”

“Her name is Quinn Adams.”

“How do you—”

“—I know everyone.”

“You could have told me. I would’ve slit her throat weeks ago and not dealt with a decreasing income.”

“And did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Slit her throat?” She looks at me, expectant. “I’m assuming that’s where you were this morning? And… if I’m not much mistaken…” she scratches her head, yawning. “Miss Adams was also the furious woman from last night.”

I shift on the spot. I should have. Would have solved all my problems if I’d killed her already. I must be silent for longer than I realise because Stirling pipes up again.

“Well, shit. Would you look at that…” She leans back on her chair, her feet against the table so she’s tipped and rocking. “You really like her. Not often you pout.”

“Do fuck off, Sister.”

Stirling grins, the corner of her mouth curling into this deeply vexing smirk.

“You have a problem if you like her and want to kill her.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that. Anyway. The invitation,” I say, thrusting it at her, desperate to change the conversation.

“Indeed, this is a mystery,” Stirling says flipping the invite over, examining the gold foil embossed on the card.

“You’ve heard nothing through your network?”

“Not a word. And that is most unusual.”

“What do you make of it?” I say and snatch the card out of her fingers.

“The Sanatio emblem is the Queen’s personal seal as opposed to the sovereign magician seal. So whatever this invite is, it’s personal. It’s come from the Queen herself.”

“Most interesting. We’re going then.”

Stirling stands. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

“You better get dressed, then. You’ll need a few hours to scrub up,” I say and wink, just like she does.

“Hilarious,” she says deadpan, and disappears into her bedroom.

Eight o’clock and Stirling and I ride up to the palace grounds. This place used to be a regular haunt for us. While we’re not in the royal family, we are legacy magicians. Of high born lineage. We can trace our family’s ownership of lands a thousand years. Before the Border Lord destroyed my family, we were part of the Queen’s table.

We used to attend parties, and magician rites, ceremonies. My family was a part of the royal High Council. I would have been in line to be head of it one day, too. But all of that’s gone now.

“You ready for this?” I ask Stirling through the earpiece.

She clears her throat. Shifts in the pillion seat. “It’s weird.”

“It really is. I’m not sure I’m that comfortable seeing the woman who ordered our parents’ execution.”

“Me neither, but it’s not like you can refuse a queen’s summons.”

I can’t fathom why we were invited. I pull up to the gatehouse and lift my helmet off.

Stirling follows suit on the seat behind me. Two royal guards extend their arms, and a long spear made of fire shoots out from one of their fists blocking the way.

“Invitation,” the other one barks and holds his hand out.

I pull the invitation out of my leather jacket and pass it to him. The guard flips it and waves his fingers over the Queen’s seal. It dissolves, and in its place two shimmering heads appear. They’re translucent and identical to mine and Stirling’s faces.

The guard examines the heads and then glares at each of us. Then he nods to his counterpart, who withdraws his flaming sword and attends to the gate, opening it and indicating that we should pass through.

I flick the bike’s kickstand up, ready to drive up, when the first guard grabs my arm. His nails dig into my bicep. I glance down, my lip curling.

“Careful,” I snarl. “You wouldn’t want to lose those fingers.”

“Word of warning, Ms. Grey. Keep your thieving fingers to yourself. You’re being watched. Steal anything from the palace and I’ll happily sever this arm from its socket. You hear me?”

I lean in close, my helmet pressing against his ear. “You feel that?”

Between the slip of his uniform and the belt of his trousers is my blade. Angled so that if I push hard enough, it would sever his iliac artery. The blade hums in my grip, begging for me to inch it forward. I do, just enough the tip of my blade bites into his skin.

The guard sucks in a breath.

“That’s what I thought.”

I pull out Chance, flick her up, catch her, and open my hand.

NO.

Too bad.

“Guess it’s your lucky day. You touch me again and I’ll gut you before your pudgy fingers can flex.”

He releases my arm. Sneers at me, as if I were the rude one. I withdraw my blade. There’s a small bead of red on the point. The blade is hot where it touches my skin, weightier at the tip, almost as if it’s hungry for violence, as if it wants to pull me towards the guard and slice through the rotund flesh and let his guts spill out for being rude. The bead dissolves into the metal like the gold did on the invitation, and the blade settles.

The guard spits at my feet. I twitch, but Stirling touches my arm, urging me through the gate.

“Not tonight,” she says.

The guard grumbles curses at our backs, but I rev the bike engine loud enough it drowns him out as we ride up the driveway to the palace. It’s lined with trees that bend and curve over the path, twisted branches gnarled and knotted hanging drunk over the road.

We take a few minutes to reach the palace’s round courtyard. In the centre, is a patch of green grass and in the middle of that, a fountain. The Queen, her husband and their two daughters moulded in bronze, water flowing from their hands and heads. While the Queen and her husband’s faces are finely sculpted, the two daughter’s faces are smooth and featureless. The Queen is super protective of her children. She wanted them raised in normal circumstances, away from the public eye. Other than their birth photos, which were released a day after they were born, no one has ever seen or heard from the princesses. They must be in their twenties by now. It won’t be long before she has to introduce them to society to take up royal duties.

The palace building is vast. An endlessly large sandstone building, stretching almost further than I can see in both directions. Hundreds of windows dotting the front.

Turrets stretch periodically into the inky sky. Two more guards stand duty beside sandstone pillars lining the doorway porch. A majestic purple carpet extends from the front door. I park the bike in front of the carpet and kick the stand out. We leave our helmets on the seat, and I pocket the keys.

The other guard pushes open the arched, studded door, which groans in response. We step into a long foyer. The moment my body crosses the threshold, it’s squeezed. Pressure sliding from head to toe as the palace’s magic assesses me. It continues a moment after I step into the long foyer and then must decide I meet its requirements as the weight evaporates. The palace’s magic permeates the air. It leaves a clean smell. Mint cloys the air and under it a hint of lilac. It comes from the Sanatio Plant they protect in the centre of the palace, ancient thing it is. The palace was built around it. If you walk the corridors here, the plant has roots and branches that pierce the walls and climb the floors, leaving a trail of thorns and ruby-coloured blossom in its wake.

The foyer is decorated in uniform black-and-white tiles. Ancient oil paintings adorn the walls, the judgmental scowls of long dead magician monarchs staring down at us.

I shiver. I always hated this hallway. On the left and right are half a dozen state rooms; rooms dripping with jewels, the walls smothered in yet more oil paintings and antiquities worth enough to feed the entire city of New Imperium for a century. The wealth in this palace is obscene and I’m not sure if it makes me jealous, bitter or sad that we’re no longer a part of this world. Probably a little of all three.

What it does do, though, is make me wonder what the hell the Queen wants with us. As we near the end of the hallway, a guard nods to us and gestures for us to follow him. He leads us through a series of interconnected rooms and out toward the back of the palace. We pass the inner courtyard; the walls turn to glass and even though it’s night; the courtyard is lit up, lights shining bright. There she is, the oldest Sanatio tree in existence. That plant is the reason the monarchy reigns for so long. The Sanatio has healing qualities. It’s said it can cure anything, even death, though no one has ever proved that part. I doubt it myself. But it’s definitely responsible for keeping the royal family alive longer. Likewise, for the legacy magicians. Those born to money, wealth and power can afford to buy Sanatio and therefore live healthier, live longer.

We pass through an inner door and into the Queen’s private residence, a place that even when I was a legacy, I only frequented twice. Once at my acceptance into the circle, and once when I was kicked out of it. The further we walk through the palace, the more constricted my throat gets, a tightness smothering my entire body. How could she? How could the Queen do what she did to my parents? They were nothing but loyal.

Stirling’s wearing a bemused expression, her forehead all furrowed and wrinkly. She doesn’t speak, though. Finally, we arrive at the Queen’s war room. The guard opens the door and nods for us to enter.

“Well, shit,” Stirling says under her breath. “Look at that…”

And I do look. It takes everything I have not to let my mouth fall open. Inside is Stirling’s most dangerous colleague, Roman Oleg, and dozens of his gang members. The room is packed. But the odd thing is that we only met him after being ousted out of the magician’s circle. The monarchy might have all the legal jurisdiction, but it’s Roman who has all the actual power. He controls so much property that he can access an obscene amount of magic. He runs the underworld the monarchy pretends doesn’t exist. By all rights, the Queen should not be engaging with him.

Stirling is off before I can confer with her. She sidles up to him, his suit as smart and crisp as his manicured beard. Of all the gangsters in New Imperium, he’s the last person I expected to see here. He’s responsible for a multitude of high value bank raids in the last few months. Which is bizarre because he owns so much land he’s second only to the monarchy in terms of wealth and power.

A huge mahogany table fills the room. It’s oval and stretches most of the length of the room. In front of two chairs are brown packets with the Queen’s seal on it. They’re thick, but both remain unopened.

But I don’t see Qui…

I inhale sharply. I sense her behind me before I feel the press of a needle through my trousers. She spins me around, pressing me into the wall.

“If it weren’t for the fact I know you’re holding some kind of weapon to my thigh, I’d be highly aroused right now.”

She inches closer. As close as she can get without it looking suspicious.

“I’d be careful if I were you,” Quinn says. “This needle is full of my signature poison. If you don’t want to die a very sudden and tragic death, I’d give me exactly what I want.”

This makes me smile. She knows about the journal. “Ah, what do you need a dusty old journal for, anyway?”

She steps closer, her body warm against mine. I could simply slide my blade between her ribs and watch as she leaked claret all over the Queen’s plush carpet. But then, I’d be arrested and her thieving my patch would be the least of my worries. Alternatively, I could reach down, cup her jaw and pull those soft pink lips to mine. She’s a lot shorter than me, especially given she’s wearing flat shoes this evening. Several eyes have fallen on us, on her proximity to me.

“I think you’re the one that needs to be careful.”

Quinn stiffens and eases away, but her hand is still pressed against my thigh and the needle very much poking my leg.

“Journal. Now,” she growls.

“I don’t have it with me.”

She sags. Her hold on my thigh releasing.

I grab her wrist, twist her around and pin her against the wall, the needle in her hand, now caressing her neck. I try to look as relaxed as I can, as if I’m going to kiss her, with one arm holding hers. My grip is tight, my fingers clench her skin. She’s grabbed my other arm, her nails digging in so hard it stings. The hiss of heat in my skin pressed against her softness is glorious, like warm silk sheets and sexed beds.

Static hums beneath the surface—but I can’t tell if the static is from her or me. I inch closer, heat building between us, between my thighs. Her breath trickles over my skin. I could break her right here. Stab the needle in. Or I could suck those lips, bite a little too hard. Slide my free hand between her legs…

I shake my mind clear.

“Look like you’re enjoying yourself or the needle goes in your neck,” I say, my voice low.

She’s rigid under me, her body hard. Her evergreen eyes round and wide as they pierce my core. A faint quake shivers through her body. At first, I think it’s fear, and then her jaw flexes and I realise it’s not fear, it’s rage. My nipples harden instantly, my underwear wet at her fury. She doesn’t even realise how powerful she is when she’s angry. Magic billows out of her when she’s cross. It’s intoxicating, the heady scent of spice and burnt summers. My heart rate increases, the thudding a constant urge to take her, own her, devour her.

Her cheeks pull back, her teeth bared. Oh, she is delightfully pissed over the journal. A smile tugs at my mouth.

“Means that much to you, huh?”

“Why would you take it?”

I cock my head. “It’s just a game, baby. Cease trading poisons in my patch and you can have it back.”

She guffaws at this. “I’ll do no such thing. Those poisons are the cornerstone of my business.”

“Yes, and you’re destroying the trade of Assassins.”

“I do believe I’m destroying the trade of one Assassin. I can’t help if you’re not providing an effective service to your clients and they’re choosing me over you.”

A growl bubbles up into my throat. I push the needle into her neck. She goes rigid, her eyes flick to my hand. Her nails press into my skin hard enough I hiss. I want to let my eyes roll, the sharp sting, the closeness of her body pushing me towards the line of pain and pleasure.

Focus, Scarlett.

The guards open the doors, and Queen Calandra, along with her personal guards, enter the room. I pull the needle out and drop it into a bin, moving away from Quinn and toward the table. My muscles are still tense. Tense because of Quinn, because of Calandra, and because of the soul-deep rage I have.

I won’t lie. The thought of executing the Queen for what she did to my parents passed through my mind multiple times on the way here. It does again, now. The sweet thought of sliding a blade across her throat, the bubble and sticky red flowing like tears down her neck. It would be glorious. It would also be too easy. Where’s the retribution? The pay back?

Calandra’s wearing a suit. Faint stripes adorn the fabric, and it’s tailored to her voluptuous curves. Her hair is light, almost blonde, a sharp contrast to her olive skin. It’s quaffed in an elegant up do, the lines of the style as sharp as her power. She holds another envelope similar to the two on the desk and a notebook or journal that reminds me of the one I stole from Quinn.

I glance at The Poisoner, who’s flushed and adjusting her clothing. She gives me one last vicious stare before stalking to the other side of the room to lean against the wall, arms folded. Her gaze slides to the journal the Queen is holding. She purses her lips.

Stirling returns to my side, leans in and says, “What, dear sister, did you do to piss off The Poisoner?”

I smirk. “I believe you call it petty theft.”

“I see. And will this theft be causing us long-term issues? Is it about business? Or is this your twisted idea of flirting?”

I place a hand on my hip, my mouth a thin line. Of course, it was about business. Business… and maybe a harmless little game of wind up. Quinn is screwing with my clientele and I need it under control. Is a poxy little journal going to cause us bigger issues? No. Of course not. Who cares that much about a journal? But by the state of the violent glare Quinn is giving me, I underestimated the depths of her rage.

But flirting? Obviously not.

“Why would I flirt with someone I hate?” I say under my breath.

“Well, you seem to fuck her often enough.”

I throw Stirling an unimpressed stare. But before I can bark at her, Calandra clears her throat and opens her hand, signalling for silence.

“Roman, I apologise for our meeting being cut short. One of my daughters needed me. Thank you for attending, but as you can see, my next guests have arrived.” She glances at Quinn, Stirling and I.

He murmurs ‘your majesty’ in response, and he slowly leaves. Though he glances back not once, but twice at Calandra, something deep moving through his glance. Once Roman and his men have left, the room feels empty, like he sucked the magic from the room as he went. I shudder, wondering if he has a soul or if he’s just made of magic these days.

“Be seated,” she says, and Stirling and I take a seat and Quinn sits directly opposite while she confers with her guard.

Stirling glances at Quinn and then at me. She leans into my ear and whispers, “What, exactly, did you steal?”

“A shitty old journal. Worthless. I don’t understand the issue.”

Stirling looks up at me, her face puckered.

“Alright, I don’t exactly know why it’s so important. I saw her writing in it before I took it, but it’s blank. I checked this morning, the pages were empty. Clearly it’s important, though.”

“Clearly,” Stirling says, flicking her gaze to Quinn. Who fires her a stare so potent, Stirling actually shifts in her seat. Stirling would hate that. She wants everyone to like her. I, on the other hand, couldn’t give a fuck if Quinn hated me more than life itself.

Calandra indicates for him to return to his position. He settles against the wall behind her and she then takes a seat at the head of the table.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why you were summoned here this evening. You understand that because of your reputations, should you speak of this meeting to any legacy or council members, I’ll deny any knowledge.” She pauses, glances at each of us. “However, it is these very reputations that I come to seek this evening. I am in need of your help.”

Stirling grips my thigh under the table. I slide my hand over hers and squeeze. The Queen needs our help? Ours? It’s laughable. After what she did to us?

And yet, it stinks of opportunity. We were told after our parents’ execution there was no way back. Banished from our legacy status forever. But if Calandra requires our help… maybe… maybe we can get justice for our parents. Right the wrong done to them.

“I wish…” the Queen starts, interrupting my thought. “To heal our land.”

Quinn’s mouth drops. “But, how? I thought it was impossible,” she says.

“The other map is lost to us. How would we remove the Border?” Stirling asks.

The Queen raises her hands to silence our questions. “I will explain.”

We fall silent. The Queen opens the envelope and empties the contents onto the table.

“My husband is sick. He’s dying. It’s too far gone for the Sanatio to help. I’ve had medics in from three realms away. There is nothing we can do for him now but pray to the High Magician to take him to his next life.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, although for what it’s worth, I’m not sorry in the least. Not after what she did. But I want to hear out what she’s got to say. What this offer might be and how it can help Stirling and I.

Something about how Calandra said her husband was dying makes my mind return to the way Roman looked at her. As if he owned her… or wanted to. Court politics are beyond me, so I shut the thought down and concentrate.

Calandra tries to smile, but it doesn’t meet her eyes. “It is most unexpected. He’s… he’s requested that I try to repair the land before he dies. He would like to pass in our old home. And so,” she nods to the envelopes, “in front of you is a set of confidential information.”

The three of us turn to the envelopes. I open my packet, as does Quinn. Stirling lets a tiny slip of breath escape her parted lips.

“How do you have these?” Quinn asks. “I thought everything was lost to the Borderlands?”

At that, I glance at the Queen, keen to hear the answer too. Calandra’s eyes glimmer at Quinn, the lamplight in the room glistening in her pupils. “An excellent question.”

But she doesn’t answer. Instead, she steeples her hands.

“I am laying down a challenge. A job, if you like. It is a job not without risk, though.”

I pull the sheaves of paper out of my envelope and examine the pages, trying to work out why Quinn was so shocked by the contents. But all I see is a copy of the original Imperium map—the half that the Queen still owns. There are newer maps, structural building designs and schematics.

“These are the sister palaces lost to the Borderlands,” Quinn says.

Calandra beams. “That is correct. What I’m giving you is every confidential piece of information the High Magician Council has on the property and city inside the Border. You’ll find building plans for both of the palaces, maps, schematics and a selection of documents I think you’ll find useful.”

“What do you want us to do in the Borderlands?” Quinn asks.

I eye her, but her face is stony blank. Intentionally, no doubt, to hide whatever aspect of her reputation it is that brought her here.

“I think that’s obvious, Poisoner,” I say.

Quinn’s expression deepens from forest to fire, the black of midnight canopies and rotten mulch. “Watch who you’re calling Poisoner.”

“You’re quite right to ask,” Calandra says, ignoring our spat. She stands, waves her hand at the wall behind, and a screen drops. One map from the packet appears like a shimmering mirage on the screen. It’s a replica of the real map piece she holds in a secure vault.

“The Borderlands contain the missing piece of map. For reasons that remain unknown to me, my sister, when we tore the map a decade ago, did not retain her half of the map. Instead, it was trapped inside the Borderlands.”

Calandra turns to us.

“I want you to retrieve it. The High Magician’s Council has reason to believe that if we bring both pieces of map together and conduct an ancient rite in the heart of Imperium, we will be able to repair them. Once the map is whole, the world should, in theory, heal itself. That is your mission.”

“Sounds great, but there’s no way I’m making a deal with the Border Lord, not after what he did to us,” I say, frost threading through my tone.

Calandra laughs. “You think the Border Lord would accept negotiations? My dear sweet child. The reason I am laying this challenge down is because the Border Lord will unleash the full force of his power to prevent you from retrieving that piece of map. It is wholly in his interests to keep the maps apart.”

“Of course,” Quinn says quietly. Her cheeks heat and it makes the green of her irises pop. I flex my jaw, wondering why I’m even noticing things like that.

“If you heal the Border, the Border vanishes and so does his ability to tax the trade routes,” Quinn mumbles.

“Precisely,” Calandra nods, her smile deepening. “We’ll all be better off if the Border is gone. Everyone, that is, except him. This challenge… the mission, if you like, will be incredibly dangerous. Not only will you not be able to walk freely into the Borders, you will be on your own once you are in there. If you’re spotted, the Border Lord will send soldiers to attack. If you make it to the palace entrances, you’ll face tighter security than even I had when the palaces were ours. You’ll have to pass guards, magic rune reinforcements. No doubt the Lord will have booby trapped the map itself, which is harboured in the heart of the palace.”

“And then we still have to get out without being caught,” Quinn says, kneading her forehead.

“Exactly. A difficult mission, to say the least. And precisely why you’ll need a team,” Calandra says.

“Will the crown support us and provide resources?” Stirling says, shifting in her seat.

Calandra’s lips pinch, her eyes turning down. “I’m afraid not. The reason I’ve invited you three specifically is because this mission requires a certain…” she waves her hand in the air. “Set of skills and a particular mindset that would be frowned upon coming from the crown. I’d have to use the Assassin’s guild who would want planning and to follow the rules and… well, it would take too long, and we all know the Border Lord won’t follow those rules.”

“So we’re completely on our own.” Stirling leans back in her chair, blowing a long sigh.

“More to the point, I’m afraid the crown needs plausible deniability. I’ve hand picked you, precisely because you are the last people the crown would work with.”

That hangs in the air, stagnant, thick with the knowledge that we are banished. The Queen washed her hands of our family five years ago. If we’re caught and claim to be working for the Queen, no one would believe us.

“Then why should we bother working with you? After what happened to us, the injustice of our—” Stirling kicks me under the table.

And I get it. I’m taking a risk speaking to the Queen like that, but also, fuck her and the crown. Why should we work for her after we were abandoned and banned from the High Council with barely a trial?

Calandra looks down and fiddles with her cuticle. “A fair question given your history. But should you bring me the map, I will reward you handsomely. We can discuss past misdemeanours and what the future may hold.”

Before I can stop myself, the words tumble out. “What exactly does handsomely mean? How handsomely…?”

At this, Calandra glows, “I will grant your team one royal favour.”

The three of us draw a collective breath. A royal favour is the highest honour in New Imperium. We could ask for anything. A royal favour can overturn execution sentences, bestow millions in coin, land, titles… it can restore legacies to banished magicians.

“Shiiiiiit,” Stirling whistles under her breath. “That is a handsome prize.”

“Indeed, Stirling. Your reputations precede you. You are highly skilled. Highly dangerous, and, unless I’m deeply mistaken, the only magicians I know that are capable of pulling off the feat. And the magicians with the most significant grudge against the Border Lord. You have motive, needs and, I suspect, desire.”

“What’s the catch?” Quinn asks.

“Aside from the fact that if you’re caught, the High Magician’s Council, the Sovereign crown and the entire legal system will deny any knowledge of such a mission and you will be subject to the laws as a subject of New Imperium you mean…?”

Quinn pales. “Uhh, right, that. Is there a deadline?”

“You have four weeks from tonight. I’ll be hosting a royal ball. I’ll extend an invitation to my sister and to the kings and queens of the surrounding realms. Four weeks from today will be the greatest ball seen in five decades. It is a Peace Ball, for political negotiations. I am determined that we heal our land for the greater good of all our peoples.”

“What are the rules? Restrictions? Is there a line we can’t cross?” I say.

Quinn’s eyes narrow. She scans my face, probably trying to figure out what line I want to cross.

Calandra claps her hands. “That’s the wonderful part. There are no rules. The crown has no knowledge of this mission, remember?”

“And if the Border Lord suffers a fatal accident along the way?” I say, making sure every word is sharp and clear. I want to know exactly how much revenge I can exact.

Quinn has gone still, her face expressionless, except for a tremor that washes through her eyes. Perhaps she hates the Border Lord as much as I do. It would make working with her easier.

Not that I will.

“Let me be clear. Should someone deliver the missing map to me, I can assure you the crown would look over any unsanctioned executions. However, if you or anyone in your party is caught… you’re on your own. If you or anyone in your party is injured…”

“We’re on our own?” Stirling finishes.

“Which is why you’ve brought Quinn along as a medic?” I say.

Calandra’s fingers skim the journal. She taps it and then nods. “It is. You will need to take a medic, and what better than one who can also provide sleeping draughts, poisons, gases, and other delights that will help you through the palace?”

At that, Quinn and I both glance at each other. There’s no fucking way. None at all. Absolutely not in a million years. Stirling, however, nudges my foot under the table. Oh, you have got to be kidding me.

“She’s the best there is, Scarlett,” Stirling says. “You know it. Her Majesty knows it… Quinn knows it.”

“No,” I growl.

But as soon as I protest, I know that I have to take this mission on. If we break into his palace, then we can find the evidence we’ve always needed to prove our family’s innocence. And then we can take our legacy back and still be rewarded.

This is… This is the perfect mission. The perfect reward.

“I’m in,” Quinn says.

I glower at her.

Calandra beams. “Excellent. Well then, four weeks ladies. No more, no less. I will send each of you an invitation to the Peace Ball. And I hope, very much, to see you holding the map in a month’s time.”

She walks to the door, places her hand on the frame, and then turns to the room.

“Be safe. And good luck. You’re going to need it.”

And with that, she vanishes, and the three of us gawk at each other.