"Let go!" I spat, jaw clamped and teeth bared against the palm that held my skull like a hinge. A bowl slammed into my hands. Heat reeked from its rim. Dark broth sloshed close to my lips. "Drink," the Regent said. His voice was plain, and plainness here meant danger. I tasted iron before I drank. They shoved the cup again. A guard's fingers dug into my wrist. "Hold her," Grayson ordered. "Make this quick." "I won't—" I choked. The bowl hit my teeth. The taste went metallic and sour. My tongue swelled. The room tilted. Someone laughed low. "The Mistress will take it for the child," the head guard said. "Do as the Regent says." I spat into the floor. The Regent's hand tightened. His thumb pressed against my cheek; I could feel the pad of it, rough from work or cruelty. My hand found his wrist. I struck. Hard. They did not expect that. My palm connected with bone and skin. The sound of it scraped the air. For one terrible second the room had the stunned silence of people who had seen their rules broken. "You are a fool," Grayson said. His face did not change. His jaw worked like an engine. "You are worse," I said. "You try to kill me in my bed and call it mercy." "A child in a house of the Regent is a danger," he said. "Better safe." "Better to kill the wrong child," I returned. "Better to