Chapter 6 Charlotte
Chapter six
Charlotte
Drip. Drip. Drip.
It was going to drive her mad, that dripping. It was the only sound down here, echoing in the dank darkness of the dungeon. Aside from the occasional squeak, which she chose to ignore. There were no mice lurking in the shadows. No rats.
She repeated the lie to herself like a mantra until she almost believed it.
She had always been so terribly good at lying—even to herself. Even when she had been mere eighteen-year-old Charlotte Dufort, the vapid, na?ve little puppet tasked by her family with one mission and one alone:
Seduce the Crown Prince of Drakmor.
Except Aldric Hargrave had been immune to her wiles from the very start.
Thankfully for her family, his father was not.
How prestigious it had been for all her kin to be related to the king’s mistress. Never mind the fact that her own reputation had been ruined. Never mind the fact that she had become an object of scorn for all of Drakmor.
Until the day she became pregnant. Until the day she convinced vile, old Warwick to divorce his first wife, Rosa, and marry her instead.
“He will be a son. A perfect, well-formed son. I know it.” That was what she had promised Warwick in her desperation. Those were the words that had condemned Queen Rosa to her fate—divorced and packed off to damp, dirty Castle Blackrun in all her disgrace.
Charlotte had wept back then. Big, fat, ugly tears. Mourning for poor Rosa. Mourning for herself and what terrible fate might await her, too, if the child she carried turned out to be a girl rather than the boy she had promised. Or worse.
What if he was stunted like her stepson?
But no. Edmund had been perfect, just as she had hoped he would be. A beautiful, plump baby, spoiled from the very start. Given everything he could have ever wanted. He grew to be tall. Strong. Handsome.
And vile, just like his father. The sort of man who would throw his own mother in the dungeons to satisfy a witch.
Charlotte released her mounting anger on a slow breath and stared at her filthy hands from where she huddled in the corner of her cell—the corner opposite the bucket in which she had to relieve herself like some animal.
She could not remember a single time in her life when she had ever been… dirty. But she was certainly dirty now.
Her stench had stopped bothering her days ago, but her hair still caused great offense. It framed her face in thick, oily strands, having tumbled free of its hairpins long ago. She had stopped trying to fix it. It was pointless.
And at least with her hair down, the back of her neck was protected from the ever-present cold. The cold that nipped at her dirt-smudged fingers and seeped into her bones. The cold that gnawed at her day and night, stoking her anger higher. Hotter.
Her anger was all that kept her warm these days. That distracted her from her hunger and that incessant dripping. Her anger was the only friend she had left in this wretched court.
Well, that and Hews. Odious, loyal Hews.
The screech of metal on stone reverberated off the walls, drawing her attention upward toward the floating pool of light approaching from the right. The torch illuminated the handsome, masculine features of the dead-eyed Arathian guard—the witchsworn—who always brought her her one meal of the day.
If one could even call a pitiful bit of broth and a slice of stale bread a meal.
She moistened her chapped lips and croaked, “Lovely to see you again, Igor.”
That wasn’t his name, of course. She hadn’t the faintest idea what his true name was. The man never spoke.
Perhaps he had no tongue.
With a grunt, the great, tall brute crouched down and opened the hatch at the bottom of her cell door that was just wide enough to allow the plate containing her pitiful dinner through. Water. Broth. Bread. No knife. No fork. Not even a spoon.
Her traitorous stomach rumbled at the sight of the broth sparkling in the torchlight. But still, she refused to lunge for it. No matter how hungry she was, she would never appear desperate.
Not until Igor left, at the very least.
For some reason, though, the witchsworn lingered on even after he straightened to his full height. His arm lifted the torch higher, sending the light spilling across her face and the damp corner in which she sat. She blinked and looked away before the light could blind her completely.
This was unusual. Igor never stayed longer than he had to.
A spark of paranoia flickered to life within her heart. Did he somehow know about her plan? Had idiotic Hews given himself away? Her son’s simpering secretary would never betray her. Of that, she was certain.
But he was stupid enough to make a mistake that might foil everything.
Pushing her dirty hair back from her face and lifting her head once more, Charlotte put on her brightest smile for Princess Mariana’s dog. “You seem to be staring, Igor. Shall I call for an artist so that I might sit for a portrait for you?”
The man narrowed his eyes.
Her pulse quickened.
Swallowing down her pride, Charlotte scuttled closer to the plate of food.
She snatched up the slice of bread and tore into it like a savage, chewing with her mouth open and smacking her lips.
“Oh, thank you, Igor,” she loudly declared in between chews.
“More stale bread? This is just what I was craving.”
Her nauseating display had the desired effect. Disgust rippled across the witchsworn’s usually impassive visage as, without a word, he turned on his heel and tromped back the way he had just come, leaving her alone in the dark.
And just in time, too.
“Your Majesty?” That whisper unfurled from the shadows off to her left, just beyond the bars of her cage. Soft. Inquisitive. Nasally.
Hews.
“Of course, darling,” she answered, sopping up her broth with what bread she had left. “Were you expecting someone else?”
A fresh squeak made her skin crawl until she realized it was just Hews opening the hatch at the bottom of her cell door.
The man slid a cloth-wrapped parcel within.
“We must move quickly, Your Majesty. I have a horse waiting for you. It’ll carry you to the coast, where you can book passage to Lothmeer. ”
Charlotte shoved the broth-soaked bread into her mouth, no longer caring what she looked like. Hews could not see her anyway.
After chewing and swallowing, she asked, “And what about the other horse? I asked for two, Hews.”
“But I—I can’t go with you, Your Majesty—”
“Not for you,” she hissed, unwrapping the bundle of men’s clothing he had brought her. The cloth was rougher against her fingertips than she had expected, more like a burlap sack than linen. Perfect. She had always wanted to dress like a peasant. “For Edmund.”
She could nearly feel Hews balk. “But…but His Majesty…”
“Is my son,” she finished for him. “No matter what that wretched boy has done to me, he is still my son, Hews.” Her joints ached when she pushed herself to her feet, reminding her of just how long she had been sitting there, waiting for this moment.
The moment she could finally escape from this dreadful place.
Either with Edmund or not at all.
The corridors were quiet. Still. Empty. More like a tomb than a royal palace.
Charlotte frowned and tugged the cap she wore lower, shading her eyes. She had assumed she would blend into the evening crowds—just one more servant weaving between the courtiers stumbling from one gathering to the next.
But there were no crowds. No one moved through the halls except for herself and Hews.
Despite herself, she shivered. “Where is everyone?” she whispered, casting her unwilling companion a sidelong glance.
Within the light cast by the lanterns, Hews’s pudgy features looked even more sallow than usual. His jowls quivered when he paused before one of the windows lining the corridor and twitched the heavy velvet drapes aside. “Out there.”
Out there? In the courtyard? Why would anyone be in the courtyard at this time of night?
Charlotte squinted out into the darkness, trying to understand what Hews was talking about. She saw them at once—the shapes swinging from ropes, draped upon the inner walls of the palace courtyard like macabre Wintertide decorations.
Inhaling sharply, she glanced away.
Dead. They were dead. Her ladies-in-waiting. Her guards. Her friends.
The ambassador from Elmoria.
The images branded themselves on her mind. Her stomach churned.
She was going to be sick. But beyond that, she was going to kill Hews.
She grabbed the little man by the collar of his shirt, eliciting a quiet squeak from his throat like the rat he was. “Why did you not tell me?” she hissed, giving him a shake.
Before he could answer, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled, stealing the breath straight from her lungs. Someone was watching her. But when she glanced over her shoulder, she found no one there. The corridor was just as deserted as it had been a moment ago.
Heart hammering out a staccato rhythm against her ribs, she dragged Hews toward the closest servant’s stairwell and ducked inside.
“I’m sorry,” he whimpered the moment they were inside. “I’m so sorry.”
She tightened her grip on him, ensuring he couldn’t escape her grasp. He was going nowhere until she had some answers.
Questions flew from her lips in rapid succession. “Why were you spared? Are you her creature? Is this all a trap?” Narrowing her eyes, she asked further, “Are the great lords mounting a rebellion? Has the Queen of Elmoria yet declared war?”
She never thought she would be happy that her assassins had failed to kill the Elmorian queen, but at that moment, a spark of hope ignited within her. For all of her faults, Queen Seraphina was a de la Croix.
And a de la Croix would never let an insult like the death of their ambassador stand.
Hews violently shook his head, dashing her budding hope to the wind. Both of his hands wrapped around hers, clinging. His skin was cold and clammy, like the scales of a dead fish.