Chapter 9 #3
I turn, expecting a smile, but her expression gives me pause. There is concern there instead of laughter. The sternness of it makes my own smile falter, as though she has reached behind a curtain and exposed the fragile mechanisms holding it in place.
I look away quickly, before my eyes can betray me.
“Life at court has been more difficult than I expected,” I admit, my voice catching. “Being apart from my family, the constant chatter, the intrigue…it has all taken its toll.”
Aileen places her hand over mine and squeezes gently.
“I understand. But…” Her voice trails off.
“But what, Aileen?” I ask softly. “Please, speak plainly.”
She draws in a slow breath and lowers her voice even further.
“I was wondering if everything is all right between you and Charles. You have always spoken of him in the best of terms, and yet…” She hesitates. “I’ve been watching you. Sometimes your eyes tell a different story. I only want to be sure you are well taken care of.”
My heart tightens painfully. I know exactly what she is sensing—because I feel it too, on certain days, in quiet moments I never speak of. Charles can be commanding, intimidating even, and I understand how easily that might unsettle someone who does not truly know him.
“He is misunderstood,” I say carefully. “But he is good. I didn’t realize you were worried about me.
Please believe me when I say I am happy.
He would fulfill my every wish if I asked it of him.
You’ve not spent much time with him privately, so I understand your reservations—but he is a good man, and he loves me deeply. Never doubt that.”
Aileen sniffs and pulls a handkerchief from her pocket.
“I hope you’re not upset with me,” she says as she dabs at her eyes. “I only worry because there seems to be so much weighing on you.”
I want to tell her everything. About my father.
About why I was sent to Acheron in the first place.
That I am here to search for the loose stones in Charles’s carefully built chapel—to help my father pry them out one by one and watch a kingdom crumble.
I would have to admit that I cannot choose a side.
That one day I will be forced to betray either my family and everything my father has worked for, or my husband—the man I love more than anyone else in this world.
I cannot even admit that to myself.
So I remain silent.
Eventually, our conversation drifts back to safer ground. We laugh at the dancers swaying far out of rhythm, some of them clearly too deep in their cups. I am tipsy myself; the beer here is stronger than I am used to. When a new song begins, Aileen jumps to her feet with a delighted squeal.
“Oh, I love this melody! Come, dance with me!”
She pulls me up from the bench and into the middle of the square.
I don’t know the steps, but Aileen takes charge at once, guiding me with firm hands.
One step left, tap. One step right, tap.
A small hop, a twirl, then another, and suddenly we are back in rhythm.
I catch on quickly, only stepping on her feet a handful of times.
She is radiant—eyes bright with joy, or perhaps it’s the liquor. I laugh more freely than I have in days.
Then, without quite knowing why, the feeling changes.
It begins as a prickle at the back of my neck. A sense of being watched.
He stands apart from the celebration, leaning lazily against a stone wall at the edge of the square, arms are crossed over his broad chest, one leg bent casually over the other. He looks entirely at ease, as though he has all the time in the world.
The Broker.
For a heartbeat, the noise of the square seems to dull. I stop dancing. When our eyes meet, he does not smile. He only inclines his head slightly, a small, knowing nod, before pushing himself off the wall and disappearing into the shadows between the buildings.
I cannot see where he goes.
My stomach twists.
“I want to go home,” I say suddenly.
Aileen glances back at the place where he stood. “I saw him too,” she says, breathless. “Who was that?”
“The Broker,” I answer quietly.
Her eyes widen. “The Broker?” Awe creeps into her voice. “I’ve heard so much about him. I never imagined he’d be so…handsome. And mysterious. I think I’d love to make a deal with him, just once,” she giggles. Yes, she’s clearly had too much to drink.
Her excitement only deepens my unease. “What would he be doing here?” she continues. “Do you think the King summoned him? That would be strange, wouldn’t it? Charles is still away.”
I don’t answer.
Because I know he is not here for the King.
He is here for my father.
A memory surfaces: my father’s office, the heavy scent of ink and wax, my breath held as I listened from the shadows. The Broker’s voice, smooth and measured, remarking that I was too young, too innocent. The words had stung at the time.
Now, I understand what he meant.
As we make our way home through the dim streets, that strange, familiar feeling settles once more in my stomach. A quiet, growing certainty that I no longer know who it is I need protection from.