I fling myself at the door, shoving against it. The bar and the lock hold firm. I wrap my hands around the window bars and jerk on them, uselessly. “Desmia, you don’t understand,” I say. “I came to save you! Didn’t anybody ever tell you the truth?” She’s backing away from the door, toward the stairs. She lifts her head, regally, looking down her nose at me. “They told me to beware of pretenders to the throne,” she says. “They told me that I have enemies, that I must always be on guard—” “No, no, that’s not the truth,” I say, shoving against the door again. It doesn’t budge. “I mean, there are enemies, yes, but you and me, we’re on the same side. They’re enemies to us both. You are the pretender, but you’re doing it to help me, the true princess, and—” “Who’s wearing silk?” she asks, her words practically a hiss. “Who’s wearing rags?” “Desmia, this is ridiculous,” I say. I try to think if Sir Stephen taught me anything about how to handle subordinates who are insubordinate, but all my royal textbooks were sketchy when it came to talking about sedition.
