The palace was a minefield. Usually, the servants moved with the precision of a clock, but today they scurried like mice in a house with a very angry cat. Blake sat at the head of his massive oak table, staring at a plate of cold eggs. He hadn't slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard a woman's voice barking like a dog or felt the sting of a "mosquito" slap on his cheek.
"Your Majesty," Ramsey whispered, stepping cautiously into the dining hall. "The Minister of Finance is here to discuss the..."
"Tell the Minister of Finance to go jump in the river," Blake growled. He didn't look up. He was busy stabbing a sausage with unnecessary force. "In fact, tell everyone to stay at least fifty paces away from me or I'll start handing out death warrants like party favors."
Ramsey cleared his throat, his face pale. "I'm afraid the news has spread, Sire. The merchants are talking. There is a... a rhyme being sung in the market. Something about a key and a royal belly."
Blake finally looked up. His blue eyes were bloodshot, his silver hair a mess because he'd chased the royal barber out with a letter opener earlier that morning. "A rhyme? About me?"
"About the Empress, Sire. It's quite catchy, unfortunately."
Blake slammed his fist on the table. The fine china jumped, and a glass of wine tipped over, spreading a red stain across the white cloth. "I am the Emperor! I lead armies! I have conquered three territories in five years! And I am being defeated by a girl who thinks a 'cheeseburger' is a real thing!"
He stood up, his chair screeching against the floor. Every guard he passed seemed to be hiding a smirk. He reached his study and found his mother, Eleanor, sitting in his chair.
"You look terrible, Blake," she said, sipping tea. "I heard you locked her in the North Tower without food. It's a bit dramatic, don't you think? The girl has a head injury."
"That 'bird' slapped me!" Blake yelled, pacing the room. "She humiliated me! And she has the only key to the royal dungeon sitting in her gut! I'm not punishing her, Mother. I'm waiting for my property to be returned."
"She is your wife," Eleanor reminded him. "And the Grand Duke is asking questions. If she dies of hunger, we'll have a civil war before lunch."
Blake stopped pacing. He leaned over the desk, his face inches from his mother's. "Then she should have thought about that before she swallowed the lock. I want that key. And I want the old Imogene back. The quiet one."
"I think that Imogene is gone, dear. This new one is much more interesting."
Blake stormed out, heading for the North Tower. He told himself he was going there to break her spirit. He reached the heavy wooden door and ignored the trembling guards.
"Open it," Blake ordered.
"But Sire, you said no one enters until..."
"OPEN IT!"
The guard fumbled with the latch and swung the door wide. Blake stepped into the small, sunlit room, ready to roar. He expected to see her crying, or perhaps begging for mercy.
Instead, the room was empty.
The window, a narrow slit high in the stone wall, was open. A long, braided rope made of torn strips of white silk...her wedding dress...was hanging from the iron bars, swaying in the breeze.
Blake ran to the window and looked down. At the end of the silk rope, dangling halfway down the tower, was a pair of lace-trimmed silk stockings and a note pinned to the stone. He reached out, his heart hammering, and snatched the note.
It was written in messy, bold charcoal.
Hey Blakey,
The tower was boring. I went to find that cheeseburger. Don't worry about the key...I'll send it back to you in a few days. You know how.
P.S. Your guards are idiots. Tell them I said hi.
Blake stared at the note. He looked at the empty room. He looked at the silk rope made of the most expensive dress in the empire. He realized she hadn't just escaped; she had literally shredded the symbol of their marriage to do it.
"RAMSEY!" Blake's scream was so loud it was heard in the village at the bottom of the hill.
He turned to the guards, his face a terrifying shade of purple. "Find her. I don't care if you have to tear down every house in this city. Bring me that woman!"
"But Sire," one guard stammered, "she's wearing a maid's uniform she stole from the laundry chute. She could be anywhere."
Blake gripped the charcoal note until it crumbled in his hand. He wasn't just angry anymore; he was fascinated. No one escaped his towers. No one talked back to him. And no one...absolutely no one...left him holding a pair of silk stockings as a goodbye gift.
"She thinks she's a thief?" Blake whispered, a dark, dangerous smile finally spreading across his face. "Fine. Let's see how she likes being hunted by an Emperor."