THE SECOND SHADOW SOCIETY
It was, perhaps, inadvisable to empty a teapot over the Queen of England’s head. But since Guinevere could no longer argue against Her Majesty, she felt the need to grasp some form of rebellion.
The queen did not seem to notice Guin’s ire.
After she’d checked Guin’s first objection to acquiring a guard of the husbandly persuasion, Queen Victoria had taken up a position of silence, sipping her tea, eating her scones, and watching the clouds move across the sky behind the plate glass of her conservatory.
She appeared no more than a young girl at a garden party.
But this girl’s glare could cut, and Guin had suffered enough attacks that day.
So she did not empty the teapot, but she did venture to say, “Perhaps I shall take my leave.”
The queen raised a single brow. “Not yet.”
“I should start on your potion this very moment, ma’am. There’s much to research before I even pick a plant and—”
“Not yet. We’re waiting for someone. And before they arrive, I must tell you about the Second Shadows.”
“The… second shadows? I’m afraid I’ve never heard of such a phenomenon.”
“That is rather the point. The Second Shadows are not a natural phenomenon. They are a crown secret few possess, not even the wives of members know of their existence. I need my best knights keeping you safe, and they are the best.” She gave a little shrug then sipped her tea.
Guinevere had more than one question, and they gathered all at once behind her eyes to produce a megrim as acute as it was sudden. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Is my husband, perchance, a member of this secret society?”
“I do like how quick you are, Lady Braxton.”
“Guinevere. Please, if you do not mind, call me Lady Guinevere.”
The queen seemed to consider for a long while before saying, “Very well. If I can choose my name, you can choose yours.” She stood and meandered along a line of plants, stroking one petal and twitching one leaf.
“Your husband, before he became Braxton, was born a second son to a second son of a quite old family. He never should have inherited. He went, as spares do, into one of the accepted occupations.”
“I thought that was the law. Or the clergy. Or the—”
“Military? Consider the Shadows a secret extension of that common avenue for second sons.”
“Ah. And what do these Shadows do?”
“Acquire a target. Stick to that target like a second shadow, and either protect it or kill it.”
“I feel grateful to fall under the first category.”
The queen laughed. “As you should. My predecessor was not so sure you did not deserve to be in the second.”
“Ah.” Impossible, but the conservatory seemed to grow hotter.
“So you see, your husband is the best person to protect you. He is a duke, and so is an acceptable escort to one of my chosen female companions, but he also possesses the proper kind of warrior knowledge to keep you alive.”
Guin shook her head. That made no sense.
He’d always seemed a shy fellow, not at all the type to swing a sword or slit a throat.
Yet… the one time they’d laid together, when she’d found the courage to touch him as intimately as he’d touched her—a graze along his shoulder, a gentle touch to his abdomen—he’d been hard and tight, lean with muscle he knew well how to use beneath the glamour that had stayed firmly in place.
A glamour could hide everything. But it couldn’t save him. Only she could do that. “Your Majesty, as much as I appreciate your thoughtfulness, it is not safe for Braxton to—”
“Oh, here he is now!” The queen almost bounced in her seat but soon controlled the urge, the monarch tempering the girl.
Guin turned slowly, gripping the top of the back of her chair to keep her hands from shaking. She could do nothing about the fine hairs on the back of her neck, along her arms. They would stand on end—in anticipation… or warning.
Two men strode toward them down the conservatory path.
One a stranger, dark and lethal looking, the other bright and golden and graceful in a powerful, prowling sort of way.
Her husband, lean and perfectly tailored in cobalt blue, his cravat crisp, and his expression giving nothing away.
One of the benefits of wearing a glamour.
The old familiar panic welled up. The last time she’d seen him had been the night of the fire.
He’d appeared out of nowhere, glamoured and beautiful and worried and acting like he had a right to touch her.
All she’d been able to do was yell at him, send him away because if something she loved as much as her potion shop could fall beneath the curse, so could he.
She was standing before she knew she’d moved, and backing away from the table, away from him.
She’d rather meet a stranger with a blade in a back alley than sit next to her husband.
But there he was, striding closer, and she had nowhere to retreat unless she toppled the plants pressing into her back.
The wedding ring she kept on a chain always around her neck seemed to burn like the flames that had consumed her life’s work, sizzling a scar into her skin.
As if his presence had somehow brought it to life.
His eyes were golden and glowing, intense, and they’d caught her, trapped her until he stood right in front of her and took her jaw in his hands.
A gentle touch that contradicted the angry angle of his jaw, the thin, disapproving line of his lips.
Not a single waver in his glamour. It was entirely opaque, almost entirely real but for the sparks of gold around the edges.
Beneath the glamour, he wore no gloves. How odd that what she felt—warm, rough skin—put a lie to what she saw—the finest gloves of an almost blinding white wrapped around elegant fingers.
He brushed his thumb over the curve of her cheek, and something like a growl rippled past the glamour. “What is this?” Voice low and controlled, every word clipped and precise.
“Wh-what is what?”
“I assume he’s objecting to the scratch,” Queen Victoria suggested. “You never did clean up the blood.”
“Who do I have to kill?” he asked, voice low as the rumble of a storm in the distance.
“It was nothing,” Guinevere said. “A small attack on my way here. My guard and I made short work of the fellow.” She stepped to the side, away from his touch and sat back at the table, whipping up the serviette and dipping it into her tea.
Uncouth, but she needed desperately to wipe away the mark that drew her husband’s gaze.
He sat roughly beside her and yanked the serviette out of her hand, caught up her chin again and pressed the cloth to the scratch. He cleaned it gingerly, his glamoured face passive.
Queen Victoria clapped. “Oh, wonderful! I knew I was right. No one better than a husband to protect his wife.”
Braxton released Guinevere, dropping the serviette to the table, atop the scones. He may have looked polished and perfect, but his manners gave the lie to his glamour.
“Pardon?” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Not to insinuate that you are anything other than perfect, ma’am, but I am a bit slow. Could you clarify your meaning?”
“You do not know, dear husband?” Guinevere said, proud of that note of levity, turned just right. She only wished she could see what effect it had on Braxton. Damn glamours. “You’re being given an assignment.”
“And that is?” he asked the queen.
“Her!” Her Majesty nodded at Guinevere.
Slowly, Braxton turned to consider Guin as the queen continued her explanation. She needed a potion, so she needed Guin, and many wanted Guin dead, so Guin needed a guard, the best guard because of the potion.
“And he must be a Second Shadow because no one must know about this potion,” the queen finished. “It only makes sense you take the position. It’s yours by rights.”
In the ensuing silence, Braxton’s gaze built a little cage around Guin’s tongue. She couldn’t shape a single syllable, even if she could figure out which ones were the right ones to lay down before a queen. And a husband.
Finally, he blinked and faced the queen. “I accept, Your Majesty.”
The little queen clapped. “Of course you do!”
Guin couldn’t escape a royal command, and it seemed her husband didn’t wish to escape it. She put a hand to her temple to steady the spinning world.
“Mr. Grant,” the queen said.
The other man, whom Guin had entirely forgotten, stepped closer to the table with swift militaristic precision. His hair, dark as a raven’s wing, waved back from his forehead, and his eyes were silver and blank. “Is there anything else I might do for you, ma’am?”
“Do greet the Duchess of Braxton.”
The dark-haired man bowed. “Your Grace.”
“And Lady Guinevere,” the queen said, “this is Mr. Hesperus Grant.”
“Grant…” Guin looked for a resemblance, found it almost immediately. “Are you perchance related to the royal alchemist, Temple Grant, husband to the Marchioness of Fordham?”
“He is my elder brother, Your Grace.”
“An alchemist Shadow?” Braxton drawled.
Grant’s gaze grew lethal. “We’re becoming more common.”
“And with good reason,” the queen said. “Alchemists make the Shadow blades, after all. Why not include them in your ranks. And to cement the partnership between transcendent and alchemist Shadows, I should like for you, Grant, to assist Braxton with his current assignment. You will be his second in command as he guards my potion maker.”
“Over my dead body,” Braxton snapped.
The corner of Grant’s lips twitched up. “That can be arranged.”
The queen glanced between them. “Is something amiss? Surely, Braxton, you are not one of those who despises alchemists. I would not have guessed it, considering your usual stances in the Lords.”
“No, Your Majesty, that is not it,” Braxton said. “It’s only that Mr. Grant tried to slit my throat earlier.”
Guinevere tightened a fist in her lap. Of course his jugular had made close acquaintance with a blade because of her.
“Oh.” The queen’s dark brows drew together. “Do not do that again, Grant. Yes?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Another bow.