Chapter 52
“Your majesty, someone left you…”
Winnie’s voice trailed off as she entered my chambers, a bouquet of crocuses clutched in her hands.
The delicate purple flowers were tied with a familiar leather cord—the sort Quinn used to keep his hair back.
Their meaning wasn’t lost on me as I stared at them, still feeling the ghost of him on my fingertips.
I got out of bed, taking them from her and inhaling their scent. Tucked into their center was a small bottle of cologne.
“Shall I put them in water?” Winnie asked, picking up on the unspoken truth.
I didn’t trust myself to speak without breaking. I managed a nod, at least.
Winnie busied herself with a vase while I stared at the door behind her, half-expecting him to reappear. But the castle felt different already.
“Where’s Flor—” I started, catching myself in the middle of it.
Winnie’s shoulders dropped. She took the flowers with care, placing them in a vase of glass, and set the arrangement on my bedside table.
“Winnie, I need you to do something for me,” I said. My choice had crystalized overnight, reinforced by the memory of all that was lost.
“Anything, Your Majesty.”
“The duke… I’m dismissing him today, sending him back to Greene.” My hands fumbled at my sides. “I want you to go with him.”
Her face went slack. “What?”
I went over to my writing desk and began drafting a letter, formalizing the decision. Winnie placed her hand over mine.
“Alana.” She used my name, a first in a long while. “Why?”
The scratch of the quill on parchment felt louder than it should have been.
“You’re sending me away after losing Florence and Quinn,” she stated, confirming that she was well aware of who had left the bouquet. Her arms crossed. “Either something has happened, or something’s about to.”
“Just go, Winnie. Please.”
Winnie planted a hand atop the parchment. “I’ve been with you from the beginning. If that means anything to you, then please at least have the grace to provide me with an explanation.”
I stopped writing, meeting her eyes. “I’m taking over, Winnie.”
My friend stared back. “Taking over what, exactly?”
“Everything.” I handed her the note. “I intend to weed the garden, and then I shall properly groom what remains.”
“Weed the garden? Speak plainly, Alana: what are you planning?”
“I intend to kill someone.”
Winnie swallowed, narrowing her eyes.
“I don’t want the duke here for what happens next,” I went on. “He’s a kind man, and I want you by his side, safe and happy. You’ve been hurt enough.”
“Damn it, Alana!” Winnie cried, tearing the paper in half. “You cannot send me away. Send the duke to Greene, but I’ll never leave you. Kill away! Let me lie for you again. I would lie a thousand times over if it meant that I could stand by you through whatever comes next.”
The torn paper fluttered to the floor between us.
“You would stay, after everything?” I whispered.
Winnie put her hand on mine and my breathing sputtered. I fought to keep control of my features, but there was no hiding the way my bottom lip stuck out.
“I’m going to kill Angharad.” The words were stark and simple. “She got Florence killed for nothing but petty spite. She would destroy me, if I let her.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“I’ll swear you were with me the whole time when you do it,” Winnie said. “So, what’s the plan? Poison?”
In a manner of speaking. But first, I had one more song to sing for the marchioness.
Siere Marceline accompanied me to the Tharons’ private estate, her steed flush with Kante as we arrived at the manor’s front entrance. A pair of young children ran unsupervised around the yard, hardly seeming to mind either one of us while they played.
Marcy must have sensed that I was up to something unpleasant. As she tied off the mounts, she returned quickly to my side and put a hand on the hilt of her blade.
“Let no one inside,” I said at the door. “Including the children.”
The ground rumbled beneath our feet. Another tremor in a series of them; they were commonplace today, like something deep below the ground was waking from a thousand year slumber.
I waited for it to stop before I knocked.
It wasn’t Angharad who answered, but her exhausted husband. He startled at the sight of me and bowed, taking a step back from the entrance. “Y-Your Majesty. Forgive me, I was not expecting you. Did my wife send for you?”
“Hello, Trefor.”
I spoke decisively. Behind me, Marcy made a sharp sound of alarm as the marquis’ eyes went impossibly wide, pupils dilating into dark pools. His mouth fell slack and his bow deepened until he’d nearly folded in half, trembling from the weight of the curse.
“My,” he breathed. My fingers twitched beside me, trembling with the rush of control. “Forgive me. I’m not sure what’s come over me. You look beautiful today—gods, what am I saying?”
“It’s quite all right,” I replied to him and to Marcy, easing her with a motion of the hand. I could hear her sword returning to its scabbard. That small statement hit Trefor Tharon like a punch to the gut. He dropped down on one knee. “Where is Lady Angharad?”
“Lady who?” he answered, then cleared his throat. “Ah. She’s resting. Shall I fetch her? I don’t mind; I’ll drag her here still asleep, if you wish. Or we could leave her there, perhaps, and go on a stroll around the family estate. It would be my pleasure to give you the tour.”
“Stop.”
The word cut through his fever. This was what I’d been protected from all these years, then? This was my curse upon the common man, weaker to their urges than Nicolas had been. The once-proud marquis now closely resembled a mutt begging for table scraps.
“Take me to her.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. Anything for you.” He scrambled to his feet, tripping over himself in his haste. “This way, my radiant queen. I am your humble servant. If I may—”
“Quiet.”
He pressed a hand over his mouth, but his eyes still worshipped me as he led me through the manor.
It was in quite a state. The children made a mess of their toys, but that was negligible; the more distinguished mess was the assortment of abandoned, emptied bottles and the red stains that blotted every carpet we passed.
Angharad’s bedroom reeked of stale wine and sweat. She was propped against her throw pillows, hair in disarray, and looked up at me through bloodshot eyes.
“Your Majesty?” she asked, jolting upright and wincing. “To what do I owe the pleasure? I was not expecting your company. Forgive me, the house is…”
I watched her struggle to end that sentence, wondering how she might lie to relieve some of the guilt. When no words came, I smiled. “I thought we might share a drink and some conversation, Lady Angharad. I find myself parched.”
I gestured to the little table by the window. Confusion flickered across her face, but the prospect of wine got her moving. She stumbled from her bed, throwing a robe over her nightdress. “Trefor, bring the white from Sunhill.”
“Trefor,” I said, cutting him off mid-nod. “Strike that. Bring us whiskey.”
“Yes. Right away,” he replied, eagerly disappearing from the room. Angharad studied me, sniffling, and wiped her nose.
“I thought you had some vow of silence around men,” she noted. My eyes were drawn to her shaking hands; were they always so unsteady? I didn’t remember her penchant for drink ever being this bad.
I said nothing until Trefor returned with a bottle and three glasses.
“Oh, only two will be necessary. Pour for us, Marquis. Then kneel beside the table.”
He did as he was told, filling our drinks and then dropping to all fours next to my chair. Angharad’s glass froze halfway to her lips. “Trefor, what on earth are you doing?”
Angharad’s face went white as I kicked my legs up onto his back and took a sip of whiskey.
“What have you done to him?” Angharad asked. Her gaze turned accusatory as she set down the glass. “You… You’re the witch. Not Florence, it was you, wasn’t it—”
My laugh cut her off. Trefor trembled at the sound, caught between humiliation and twisted ecstasy. My hand went into my satchel and produced a small, blue vial.
“Put this into Lady Angharad’s drink, Trefor.” I took my feet from him, and he sat up. Angharad widened her eyes and lunged for him, but I kicked forward and stopped her. “You stay in your chair.”
Angharad collapsed back into her seat. She watched her husband take the vial with shaking hands, uncorking it and tipping its contents into her whiskey.
“Alana, please—” she tried, cutting herself off as I sipped my drink. Her gaze turned frantically to her husband. “Trefor? I don’t know what she’s done to you, but you must think of our children. You cannot do this.”
“Give her the glass.”
He put it in her hands. His fingers trembled, some small part of him fighting against my command, but my voice hollowed him out.
Angharad stared hopelessly at her husband, then at me. “You can’t.”
“Can’t I?” My eyes narrowed. “You went to Taran. You’re the reason Florence died. For what?”
“She was a witch!” Angharad yelled.
“You had her burned alive because she humbled you.” I leaned forward. “Drink.”
“My children!”
“Trefor.”
He lifted the glass to her lips. “Please, Angharad.”
She shook her head. The marquis took hold of her face and forced her lips open, pouring the drink into her mouth. The whiskey disappeared, its empty glass clattering to the table.
Angharad clutched her throat, staring at me with wide eyes.
“Good. Let’s talk,” I said.
That broke her. She lurched forward, claws out, but Trefor held her back, confining her to her seat. She screamed like a wildcat. “Fuck! I should have killed you myself!”
“Angharad—” Trefor attempted, but she thrashed so violently against him that he struggled to form words.
“I should have taken matters into my own hands! Some upstart, some nobody, claiming the throne?! Claiming Nicolas?!” She nearly escaped Trefor’s hold, but he pinned her arms behind her back and pulled her into the seat.
“How did you do it? With the same spell you’ve used to curse my worthless husband? ”