"You'll pay," the wheeled man hissed as his fingers tightened on my throat. "Release me," I said, because apparently polite begging counts when you're not sure whose body you stole. His thumb dug into my windpipe. Metal clinked somewhere—chains, maybe the little bells from the prince's attendants. I couldn't move my legs in the unfamiliar silk; the bed smelled of expensive soap and something sharp, coppery. "Who are you?" he snarled. "Do you have any idea what you did?" "Do you have any idea what you look like strangling a visiting noblewoman?" I said, because sarcasm came faster than my pulse. His mouth twisted. "Noblewoman? You attacked the prince. Guards will—" I fumbled for the hairpin in my sleeve. The hand I used wasn't mine. It was smaller, more delicate, but steady. "Stop," he warned. "Or what?" My voice sounded higher than I expected. The wheeled man laughed, a sound that wanted to be cruel and only landed on nervous. He squeezed. Pain shot through my throat. The world narrowed to the shape of his hand and the alarm in my own head: not mine. Not mine. Not mine. I jammed the hairpin into his palm. "Argh!" He let go with a strangled curse and staggered back. I sat up in a rush, silk whispering, and slapped him across the face. He looked stunned. His cheek was flushed and his hand—pink lines of blood spidered where the hairpin had dug. The slap hit