Chapter 7
As she stepped into the mahogany-paneled justice room, Magdala donned a furious scowl to match the rest of the royal guard. Her heart beat a circus march in her chest, and her palms left a sweaty smear on her skirt as she waited for the inquest to begin.
She’d debated all morning what to wear; there wasn’t a dress code for accusing the crown prince of murder in a court of law.
She’d wanted to opt for her simple black guard uniform, but her father wouldn’t allow it.
She was born a duchess, he said, and so she should dress like one.
They’d fought about it all morning, Magdala’s nerves and anxiety coming out in waves of furious words.
In the end, she settled on a heather and brown plaid skirt and a brown blouse that buttoned to her neck.
She wore it with a belt and a pair of low-heeled boots.
Then she wrestled her hair into a braided crown.
Her father wanted her to wear lip stain and eye powder, but she refused.
“My face will be covered, and it will smudge,” she had protested, and her father reluctantly surrendered. “Will you come?” she asked.
“Of course not,” Seamus had grumbled. “Lowly stone masons are not permitted inside the courthouse.”
Now, sitting in the straight-backed wooden pew, staring at the judge’s raised desk, Magdala regretted every decision she’d made in the past five years—from joining the royal guard to accusing the prince of murder to the blasted skirt and blouse.
She thought she resembled a secretary or a schoolteacher. No one would take her seriously.
Beside her, Huxley sat rigid, his jaw clenched.
He was breathtaking in his black suit, with his golden hair combed, and his face dark with tragedy.
His family ranged around them, all the gorgeous Davenports with their sharp jaws and steely eyes.
Among them, Magdala was like a wild bird in a peacock’s coop.
The doors swung open, and a stream of summer sunshine poured into the musty room as Angelonia entered, her high-heeled, pointed-toed dragon leather boots echoing off the vaulted mahogany ceiling.
She wore her hair swept up in an elegant coil, her sapphire eyes sparking with tears. Her black column dress was so tight that Magdala could make out the jut of her hips and the indentation of her navel. Her lovely iridescent wings hung down her back like a bridal veil.
She looked both provocative and frail, like a woman in need of a protector. She was weeping, but in a tragically beautiful way.
Magdala had been excused from work in the week since Julian’s death and had not seen her charge.
She was glad. Angelonia’s grief grated on her like sandpaper.
Standing all day watching this woman weep over the man who had thrown Magdala down the stairs—it would have been torture.
Every second, she would have wanted to shake her and bark, “Julian was vile, and he would have been just as vile to you!’
To Magdala’s dismay, Angelonia stopped at their bench. “May I sit with you?” she asked.
“Of course, of course,” Huxley said.
A sinking dread settled over Magdala. Was it possible that someone else killed Julian? Someone from his past, or a jilted lover? If so, then the prince was telling the truth, and she was about to go on the stand and swear before the Only and a court of law that he was a murderer.
But she wasn’t lying. She had seen him, in that room, skulking in the corner, all covered in blood.
A new wave of panic washed over her. What if the prince mentioned that she had threatened Julian only moments before his death? Like he said, she was a much more convenient suspect than Asherton. What if this turned into her trial and not his?
Angelonia let out a conspicuous sob.
“How are you doing?” Magdala asked politely.
“I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I’m going mad,” Angelonia said in her low, alluring voice. “I was supposed to be on my wedding journey today, not at my betrothed’s inquest so we can ask questions everyone already knows the answer to.”
“I’m sure justice will be meted out,” Magdala assured her, but her stomach twisted.
“Are you?” One perfect little tear spilled down Angelonia’s cheek. “And what if it is? Will I get him back?”
Without a ready reply, Magdala squeezed Angelonia’s hand. “It will help you lay him to rest.”
“We won’t get justice today,” Huxley growled. “The queen-regent’s bastard son will never face his crimes. That’s the privilege of royal blood. By summer’s end, my brother’s murderer will be sitting on the Allageshan throne.”
Angelonia let out a weak little sob and pressed her handkerchief to her nose. “Then let the curse do what the court will not.”
Magdala wondered again how she would act if she was Angelonia and her betrothed had been killed.
She doubted she’d have the composure to sit in a pretty silk dress and cry quietly.
If she really loved a man, she wouldn’t let him get killed in the first place, unless she died with him, and if somehow she didn’t manage that, she’d probably scream the stars down with rage and then go break his killer’s neck.
A door opened behind the stand, and the judge entered, followed by a guard and a woman dressed in a flowing white robe. The judge sat in a large, leather armchair, and the woman fastened a black blindfold over his eyes.
“All stand for the judge and Lady Justice,” the guard barked.
Everyone stood. Angelonia clasped her hands to her chest.
“We are here today,” the judge said in a sonorous voice, “to untangle the tragic and untimely murder of Julian Davenport, killed in his prime at the palace in Largotia. Julian Davenport was stabbed with a long knife that pierced his lung, but not his heart. Death was not instantaneous.”
Magdala puckered her brow.
Then where did all the blood go?
Angelonia sobbed softly again. On edge, Magdala had the urge to tell her to either fall into hysterics or be quiet.
“Justice will now bring Prince Asherton Ageric to the stand.”
Magdala’s heart hammered her ribs as the woman in white—Lady Justice—opened a door in the dark paneled wall and led the prince to the stand.
Magdala stifled a gasp. The prince’s eye was purple, the bruise dripping down his cheek.
A laceration slashed his left eyebrow, and another his upper lip.
Mottled blue and green painted his jawline.
One of his arms was cradled in a sling. From the state of him, she marveled that he had been able to stand when she met him in the palace.
He wore a faded green velvet coat over a black shirt. His neck was bare. He sat in a creaking wooden chair and Lady Justice covered his eyes. It must have hurt when she tightened the blindfold over his bruises because his nostrils flared from the sudden pain.
A pew creaked, and Magdala noticed the valet slip into an empty seat two pews behind her. He was so rigid, she imagined a light breeze could snap him like dry kindling.
The examiner stepped up to the stand, his eyes also covered. The judge, the prince, the examiner…all blind. Only Lady Justice could see.
“Your Highness, could you please explain to us why you were fighting with Julian Davenport on the night of his death?” the examiner asked.
The prince took a deep breath. “Julian disliked me and I disliked him. It was a mutual dislikeship, and we fought whenever we met.”
“Why did you so dislike one another?” the examiner pressed.
“We were at school together. He hated me because I am half Ashkendoric. He made it his special mission to torment me and tried to kill me once but was prevented.”
“And how was he prevented?”
A faint smile played across Asherton’s lips. “I discovered I had a brother at school. Older by five years. My brother was a peaceful man, but he was a warrior from his youth, and Julian couldn’t stand up to him and his Ashkendoric cunning. My brother sent Julian Davenport running.”
Huxley chuffed. “Liar.”
“Who provoked these altercations?” the examiner prodded.
“Julian,” Asherton said. “Always Julian. Violence bores me. My brother was the same.”
“And where is your brother?” the examiner asked.
Asherton swallowed. “Dead. Three months ago in battle.”
The room fell silent, and the examiner steered the questions away from Asherton’s past. “And how did you come to be in the room with the deceased?”
The valet leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his heel tapping the floor. His lips were drawn into a tight line, and he appeared ready to pop like a kernel of corn in a frying pan.
The prince shifted in his seat. “My valet went to fetch the coach, and I slipped into a dark room to catch my breath. I was … unsettled by the crowd and the party. Julian followed me.”
Magdala glanced around guiltily, wondering if their meeting had driven him into that room.
The examiner's voice echoed. “Could Miss Magdala Devney please come to the stand?”