is an expansive and ever-growing enterprise. It has many members at many levels and many moving parts that need attending to. I am the one who brings them all together. I am the one who gathers the sheep and makes sure that none wander from the flock.”
“And you’re here because … ?”
“Because right now, you are a wandering sheep.”
She looked pointedly around the room. “That’s funny, because I feel penned in.”
“Oh, no, I don’t mean it that way,” he replied. “I mean that you haven’t yet been drawn in to the flock, incorporated into our plan. There are some outstanding debts to be paid, questions to be answered.”
“I’ve done what I was told to do,” she said, folding her arms across her chest in defiance, but also to conceal her shaking hands. “The conditions of our deal were clear—I would speak only to the Monad about what I know.”
“I’m the Monad’s chief adviser,” the Shepherd told her. “You can speak to me. I’ll relay any message.”
“That’s not what we agreed on.”
“Janus had no authority to make such a promise. He knows very well that the Monad doesn’t consult with outsiders.”
She laughed. “Is that what you call him? Janus?” She paused to appreciate how apt it was. “The god with two faces.”
“Sometimes our names are chosen for us, and sometimes we choose our own.”
“I’m not telling you anything,” she insisted once more. “If you want what I have, you’ll bring me to the Monad.” She was no ordinary person; she was the princess of the Commonwealth, much as she loathed the position, and she wasn’t going to trade secrets with a mere lackey.
“You’re going back on our bargain, then?”
“And what if I did?” Sometimes she wished she could. Sometimes she felt that her freedom— or, rather, the promise of it—had come at too high a price. How could she have betrayed her country for something as transient as personal happiness—and only the potential of it, at that? Other times, she knew that she could have done nothing but what she had done. It had been her only way out.
He stared at her baldly, something she was unused to. Very few people had the temerity to look her in the eye. It had been that way ever since she was a child—even her stepmother avoided it if she could. That was one of the reasons she’d taken to Thomas; she could tell from the first day he was assigned to her detail that he wasn’t afraid of her. At first, she’d thought it was because he hadn’t the sense to be afraid, but after a while she realized it was because he wasn’t much afraid of anything—except, perhaps, the General. Gloria was another, and her childhood nanny, Miss Bix. Her mother and her father. And the dreaded General. That was all.
“That’s a very good question,” the Shepherd said. “We couldn’t return you, of course. Janus made it clear that once you took the bargain, there was no going back, did he not?”
“He did,” she said. She felt as though she wanted to cry, but that was something she simply never did. Her mother had been very strict on this score; she considered it unbecoming of royalty to act as a flesh and blood mortal. It was one of the things Juliana despised about the way her stepmother was raising Simon and Lillian; either of them was liable to dissolve into hysterics, to sob and rage and carry on for hours at the slightest provocation. She had a temper herself, but she had been taught to control it, and to channel it into more useful avenues. She had her moments, but she tried to follow her mother’s advice whenever possible and keep things private.
“Then, you see, if you were to withhold the information you promised, you would leave me no choice. We’ll have to dispose of you.” He spoke of her death as if it was a matter of taking out the trash, and she remembered with great clarity the fear that had washed over her when news of her father’s shooting reached her, the tiny voice in her head that had whispered, You’re next.
What have I done? she thought wildly. It had been monstrously foolish to throw her lot in with Libertas, to take their devil’s bargain and consent to betray her country for some small measure of personal safety. What had possessed her to do it? But even as these thoughts whirled through her head like a tornado, she knew very well why she had done it. It wasn’t just that she didn’t want to die. She wanted to live. And she could not call what she’d been doing for the past sixteen—almost seventeen—years living. Her mother hadn’t wanted her to be a flesh and blood mortal, but she was one, and she couldn’t imagine another sixty years of being a pawn in someone else’s game.
“You’ll kill me, then.” It wasn’t a question. His meaning was clear. There was no use mincing words about it. She had always been a very straightforward person, and for some reason saying the words out loud had bled her of all feeling. She was numb.
“That would not be the ideal outcome,” he told her. “But yes. It would be the only way, you see.”
She’d never thought of that possibility, that they would kill her, and gladly, but it wasn’t as though she was surprised by it. They hated her—not just Libertas, but the people. They hated the monarchy and that which it stood for. Not all of them; she was sure that there must be some loyalists still. But the Shepherd was right—Libertas was growing, their influence strengthening with every hour. She had made this deal with them to escape death, but perhaps that was her fate. Perhaps it was the only thing left for her. But she wouldn’t welcome it.
“Yes,” she said. “I see.” That was something else her father had taught her, to know when she had been beaten, and to accept defeat with grace and dignity—if only to save her energy for the next fight. And the truth was, she had been beaten, the moment she decided to leave the Castle forever and put her life in the hands of the fiends who wanted to depose her and all of her kind. But it was done. “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything. Just, please—help me.”
The Shepherd smiled. “So you’ll cooperate?”
She took a deep breath and reached into her bra, where she was keeping her bargaining chip. It was the last thing her father had ever given her. The night before he was shot, he summoned her to his office, quite unexpectedly near dawn. He’d been frantic, and he’d given her this sheet of paper without explaining, only telling her to keep it close and show nobody. What is it? she’d asked, yawning. Gloria had woken her from a deep, heavy sleep. Maybe nothing, he’d said, although she could see from the expression on his face, the dark circles under his eyes, that “nothing” was the last thing it was. But for God’s sake, don’t ever let the General know you have it, he’d warned her. Don’t ever let him know you’ve seen it, Juli. Promise me.
I promise, she’d said. And now here she was, handing it over to Libertas. She asked herself for the thousandth time why she was doing this. Because the General tried to have my father murdered, she thought. She was certain of this, as she had never been certain of anything in her entire life. And if this is a secret he wants to protect, then it’s something that can be used against him. She didn’t know how, for she didn’t understand what it was she held in her hand, but she wanted the General taken down, and she was glad to let Libertas do it. They wanted the end of the monarchy? That was fine with her. Because if the monarchy crumbled, so would the General’s hold on the country—and then, maybe, peace would have an actual chance. And she would have an actual life.
The Shepherd tried to snatch the paper from her hand, but she held it back. He narrowed his eyes at her, no longer smiling. “What are you playing at?” he snarled.
“I have one more condition,” she said.
“What is it?”
“You cannot hurt my family,” she insisted. “You will not hurt them. My brother, my sister, my father—if he lives long enough—even my stepmother. You won’t harm a hair on their heads, do you understand me?”
“Yes, yes, all right,” he said, impatient. “Now give that to me!” He lunged for it, but she kept it out of his reach.
“I’m not finished,” she said. “My secretary, Gloria Beach. You’ll keep her safe, too. And my
