Chapter 10
As I return to my chamber, a letter is waiting for me on my pillow. Quickly changing out of my dress and into something more comfortable, I jump onto the bed and eagerly open the letter.
My dearest daughter,
I trust this letter finds you well. It gladdens my heart to hear that the long winter months are drawing to an end in your part of the kingdom as well. Here at home, spring has already taken hold. Our apple trees are in full bloom, and their blossoms are as beautiful as ever.
Do not trouble yourself over not being with child yet.
Your time as a mother will come when it is meant to.
The King already has an heir, so there is no cause for you to place such pressure upon yourself.
I confess I have worried, having not heard from you in some time, and I hope my letters have reached you safely.
I must keep this one brief, as your father insists on carrying it to Acheron himself and grows impatient with my lingering, as you well know.
I do hope to visit you soon. I long to see the magnificent woman and Queen, I am certain you have become.
Be careful, my darling, and know that you are dearly missed.
Your loving mother
Tears blur my vision, this is the first letter I have received from my mother since Christmas.
And it was delivered by my father himself, so he must be near.
The ache in my chest takes me by surprise.
My father and I had never been particularly close, but to know that he is here, even if he only made the journey to pull information out of me, makes me happier than I thought I would be.
There is no note from my father, though. I turn the letter around to look for any hidden instructions, and feel something light touching my naked foot.
A small purple flower, half-dried and wilted.
The herb garden.
* * *
I move quickly to my wardrobe, grabbing a long cloak and a pair of fresh slippers. I tie my hair back without bothering to brush it; after all, my father is not here in any official capacity. Closing the bedroom door softly behind me, I slip into the endless hallways of the palace.
Guards stand posted at various intersections, but I manage to avoid them; the months I’ve spent wandering these corridors finally pay off.
When I reach the lowest level—where the entrance to the gardens lies—I slow my pace.
I’ve only ever seen the gardens once, when fresh snow had blanketed the grounds, and Aileen convinced me to run outside and make snow angels.
I stop in front of a heavy wooden door and press my ear against it. Wind rushes faintly on the other side, a low, hollow swoosh. This must be it, the door leading outside.
Just as I reach for the bolt, something shifts behind me.
A hand clamps over my mouth, and I’m yanked backward into a solid chest. I try to scream, but no sound escapes me—not even a muffled cry.
Panic floods my limbs as I struggle, but the grip holding me is unyielding.
In one swift motion, my captor pulls me into a dark room, closing the door with careful precision.
His hand loosens just enough for me to breathe.
I try to scream. Nothing comes out.
I am starting to panic, cold sweat now coating my skin. I lunge toward where I think the door should be, but in the pitch black, I lose all sense of direction, stumbling blindly.
“Remain calm, Your Majesty,” a low, gravelly voice murmurs close to my ear. “It’s me. Ashford. I am here on your father’s orders.”
Lord Ashford? Why would the Broker kidnap me?
My thoughts scramble to catch up, drowned out by the frantic pounding of my heart.
Before I can respond, voices echo outside the door. Two male voices are approaching, laughing and joking. Probably guards patrolling the grounds.
I freeze and hold my breath until their voices fade and their footsteps retreat down the hall.
“You knew they were coming,” I whisper at last.
A quiet chuckle follows. “I did. My apologies for the…less than gentlemanly handling of the situation. I was given explicit instructions not to interfere with the guards.”
“Are you here to take me to my father?” I ask.
“Yes. He is waiting for you. Head left when you exit the room—three doors down. The guards won’t return for another half hour. Good luck, Your Majesty.”
I hear the rustle of fabric as he rises. Before I can say another word, the door opens, and he slips out, silent as a shadow.
Curiosity gets the better of me. I follow him quickly, wanting to see him properly—to thank him—but when I step into the hallway, he is already gone.
I stop three doors down and lift my hand to knock, hesitating just long enough for doubt to creep in.
The hallway is too quiet. Every sound feels amplified—the rustle of my cloak, my own breathing.
I glance over my shoulder, listening for footsteps, for voices, for the scrape of armor.
Ashford said the guards wouldn’t return for another half hour, but my mind is playing tricks on me.
I knock softly.
The door opens almost immediately.
For a heartbeat, my father simply stares at me. Then something in his expression shifts into relief. Before I can react, he pulls me inside and wraps his arms around me.
I freeze in surprise before returning the embrace. He hasn’t held me like this in…ever. We have never been that kind of family, never comfortable with affection. The unfamiliarity makes my chest tighten.
He pulls back, his hands coming up to my face. He turns my head gently from side to side, his touch careful and searching.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
I laugh softly, overwhelmed by the concern in his voice. “Of course I am,” I say. “I’m fine. And I’m glad to see you.”
His shoulders relax, but the worry doesn’t fully leave his eyes. “I was beginning to fear something had happened. I haven’t heard from you in a long time.”
“I’ve written,” I say, frowning. “Several times.”
He turns away slightly, lowering his voice even though we’re alone. “Then Charles is intercepting our correspondence.” He writes something down on a piece of parchment.
My first instinct is to deny it—to tell him he’s wrong—but the words never leave my mouth. The doubt has been there for weeks, getting more persistent over time. I swallow it down and say nothing.
He looks back at me. “How have things been?”
I give him a careful account of the past weeks—the marriage, the isolation, my gradual return to court—keeping my voice even. He listens without interrupting.
“And Charles?” he asks when I finish. “Has he been kind to you?”
“Yes,” I say immediately. “He has. He loves me. And I love him.”
The room goes still.
My father stares at me, his expression unreadable. For a moment, I think he might argue, or warn me, but whatever he wants to say never comes.
“Are you still willing to give me information?” he asks.
“Yes,” I answer. “Though I don’t know how useful I can be. He kept me away from court for a long time. He doesn’t show weakness easily.”
My father nods.
“There was a council meeting,” I add. “With the clergy. The Pope is growing restless. Charles isn’t doing enough to stop the attacks in the North.”
He begins to pace the room, hands clasped behind his back. “Good. If the clergy doubts him, we can deepen that uncertainty.”
“Charles is allowing me to take on a more active role,” I say quietly. “I’ll be able to learn more.”
He slows, then stops. Turns to look at me with a faint crease between his brows.
“You still trust the girl at your side?” he asks. “Aileen.”
“I suppose I do,” I say. “She’s been with me since before the wedding.”
“Yes,” he says, as if that explains everything. “And she’s been…useful to the cause.”
I frown. “Useful?”
He studies me for a moment, clearly surprised by my confusion. “I assumed you knew,” he says mildly. “Given her family.”
I draw my brows together in confusion.
“Her family?” I repeat.
He waves a hand, dismissive. “The connection was never meant to be hidden from you. Only from the court. Her father has been working with the opposition for years.” A pause. “Much like his daughter.”
The room seems to tilt, just slightly.
All at once, the careful listening, the way Aileen asks questions without seeming to, how she steers conversations away from danger, how she is always there when I need her falls into a new pattern.
“You placed her near me,” I say slowly.
He nods. “I made sure you were not without allies. Especially when I could not be near you myself.”
A strange warmth spreads through my chest. Is it relief?
“So I can trust her,” I say.
He inclines his head. “You always could.”
I let out a breath. “She’s been trying to help,” I say softly. “With the staff. Listening.”
A hint of approval flickers in his eyes. “Good. Then she’s learned quickly.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. “Thank you,” I say at last.
“I’ll be in touch,” he replies.
We embrace again, briefly this time, and then I slip back into the hallway. The corridors are eerily empty on my way back, not a single soul in sight.
Sleep refuses to come.
I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts tangled and restless.
Somewhere between fear and resolve, I understand that I’ve made a choice tonight—one that places me firmly between my father and my husband.
But now, at least, I know I am not standing there alone.
And still, I don’t know how long I’ll be able to hold without breaking.