Without waiting to hear the prisoner’s response, he took up his flagon of aquavit and, closing and locking the cell door behind him, headed back to his desk. Another book was on his mind. This book was not kept on his bookshelf but in a drawer just above his workbench, where it was always close at hand. He reached across and opened the drawer now, lifting out the precious volume as he hooked a leg around his grandfather’s old stool behind him, dragging it forward and sitting down.
The cloth-bound book was a notebook, filled with handwritten names that told their own particular history of Archenfield. Morgan continued turning the pages, smiling as he once again made the acquaintance of his grandfather’s, and then father’s, own script. Then he came to the pages completed in his own hand. Finally, he came to a blank page.
He reached back into the drawer for his grandfather’s pen and jar of ink. He dipped the pen in the ink and brought its scratchy nib to the current page of the book. There he wrote the following day’s date and then just two words.
Michael Reeves
Morgan Booth poured himself another slug of earthy aquavit, promising himself that would be his last of the night, and waited for the ink to dry.
DAY THREE
TWENTY
The Palace Gardens
ASTA PAUSED FOR A MOMENT, LOOKING UP IN wonder at the palace. it truly was a stunning building and looked all the more beautiful in the morning sun. The stone of the walls seemed to glow with an orange light, deepening into the flame-red expanse of Virginia creeper that enveloped much of the front. The east and west towers, with their crenulated rooftops, rose up high above the palace roofs, punctuated by mullioned windows and narrower loopholes. Asta’s eyes lingered on the balcony, curving out from the terrace, from where Prince Jared had made his impassioned speech the day before. The balcony was empty now but she could still picture him there still, a shiver running through her as she thought of his stirring words and the intense connection made between the new Prince and the crowd gathered below.
Yesterday, there hadn’t been more than an inch of free space as people had jostled for position to hear him. Now Asta was almost alone as she made her approach to the steps leading up to the palace terrace and entry.
Acknowledging the guards as she continued on her way, she couldn’t help but think of the journey she had made in the last year. It was as if Uncle Elias had stretched a well-meaning hand right across the fields and the fjords and allowed her to jump from her rustic home right into the beating heart of the Princedom. Asta felt keenly that she was indebted to him. Which made what she was about to do all the more inconceivable.
She had come this morning to request a private audience with Prince Jared himself, to talk to him about the official inquiry into his brother’s assassination and to share her conviction that the murder investigation had taken a wrong turn.
Her earlier confidence began to drain away. Who was she—a person of no rank or title—to question the official investigation? Suppose Prince Jared asked her for hard evidence? As yet, she had none. All she had were her thoughts and feelings. And Elias’s postmortem report, she reminded herself. For it was Elias who had raised the possibility of the two poisons and the multiple means in which either poison could have been administered. She wanted to be clear that Jared knew all this; that he knew how hard it would have been for a steward to obtain savin when the only place the plant grew was in the locked, walled Physic Garden. She also thought it important that he knew also about the hunting wound sustained by Prince Anders a week before his death and that someone—someone higher-ranking than a steward, with better access to the Prince—could have administered poison via that very wound. She knew the names of those members of the court who were on the hunting expedition with Prince Anders and, should his brother ask for that list, she would not hesitate to supply it. So, when all was said and done, all she was really doing was checking that the Prince was aware of the detail of the postmortem report. Surely, Uncle Elias couldn’t be angry with her for that?
She winced at the very thought. She remembered how flushed with anger Elias had become when he’d discovered her putting her questions to the Huntsman. This was ten times, make that a hundred times, worse.
The first challenge, of course, was whether the Prince would agree to see her at all. She was unsure of the finer workings of palace protocol and, of course, she hadn’t dared to question Uncle Elias, even indirectly, about this—in case he realized what she was planning. In her pocket was what she hoped would prove her ticket to gain admittance to the Prince’s rooms. To be more specific, in her pocket was a small velvet bag containing Prince Anders’s personal effects—his golden chain with three items attached to it, which they had removed during the postmortem.
She knew that Elias would have returned the chain to Jared at some point between the postmortem and the funeral, so she was just expediting the process, she told herself now, though she knew full well Elias would not see things in the same light.
She considered the three items—the vial containing a portion of Prince Goran’s ashes, a tubular locket bearing the tiny, rolled-up love note from Silva, and the third item, the mysterious key. The first item was, she understood, a long-held Archenfield tradition. The second was a love token between the Prince and his wife. But the third, the key, was more of a mystery. Was this too merely a token—another gift from Silva perhaps—or did it have a more practical application?
Asta reminded herself that she mustn’t preoccupy herself with these items—they were useful to her only as currency with which to gain an audience with the Prince.
Indeed, she felt almost guilty at having them in her possession. This guilt was not because she had taken the items from her uncle’s rooms but rather because she was carrying such private and personal objects, which had until mere days ago been worn against the beating heart of the dead ruler of Archenfield. Reframing this thought, she told herself that it was entirely right that she pass the late Prince’s precious belongings swiftly into the safekeeping of his brother.
These thoughts swirling in her head, she realized she had reached the palace terrace. Looking across at the main entrance, she took a breath. It was now or never. She dipped her head and made for the doorway leading to the Grand Hall.
Before Asta could make her way inside, however, she was stopped in her tracks by a figure heading out of the very same doorway. Silva! She was dressed very differently from their previous encounter, two days earlier, but looked as otherworldly elegant as ever. This morning, her pale gold hair was pulled smoothly back in a modish chignon. She wore a fitted jacket—predominantly cream but embroidered in golden thread with outlines of butterflies and honeybees, pale jodhpurs and long riding boots. She was accompanied by two white lurcher dogs, who moved with the same grace as their mistress. Seeing Asta before her, Silva’s face was instantly wreathed in a beatific smile.
“Good morning, my lady,” Asta said, just about remembering the correct form of address.
“Well, this is too perfect! We’re about to set out on a beautiful walk. Won’t you join us?”
Asta hesitated. It would surely be an impertinence to decline such an invitation but she couldn’t bear the thought of being distracted from her intended audience with Prince Jared. It had taken quite some nerve to get this far. She wondered if Silva’s sudden appearance might be a kind of sign—that it was a foolhardy idea to come in search of the Prince.
“I’ve decided to embrace a tradition of my mother’s,” Silva explained, striding out across the terrace as if she owned it—which, in a way, Asta supposed, she did. “Mother told me that, in the months before I was born, every day she took a beautiful walk through the landscape of Woodlark, in order that even before I left her womb I might feel something of the beauty of the world in general and Woodlark in particular.” Her hands now lightly resting on the balustrade that ran along the front of the terrace, Silva gazed wistfully at the distant blue-tinged mountains. “I can’t give my baby Woodlark just yet, but
Archenfield has its own beauty.” She spun around to face Asta once more. “So, you see, you must join us on our inaugural beautiful walk!”
As she said this, one of Silva’s white hounds inclined its head to nuzzle against Asta’s waist.
“You see?” Silva said. “Talitha wants you to join us too!”
“I would love to join you, my lady” Asta said. Inside her head, a voice told her to leave it at that, to accompany her new friend wherever she wanted to go. But that voice was displaced by another more insistent one and, before she knew it, Asta had added, “But I came here this morning to find and speak to Prince Jared.”
She regretted the words even before they departed her mouth. But Silva did not seem offended. Petting Talitha’s twin, she smiled prettily at Asta.
“You certainly won’t have any luck at finding Prince Jared at this time. There’s a meeting of the Twelve this morning and he’s bound to be busy preparing for it.”
“Oh,” Asta said, instantly deflated. “Is there someone I could speak to about seeing him? I don’t need very much of his time.”
Silva’s elegant head froze momentarily, her eyes locking with Asta’s. “Jared is Prince of All Archenfield now,” Silva said. “You can’t have any of his time. That’s how it works. Trust me, I was married to the last one.”
“Of course,” Asta said, her hand in her pocket feeling the outline of the key as though it might prove some form of talisman. “But I really only need five minutes with him. Ten at the very most.”
Silva shook her head. “Come along,” she said, looping her arm through Asta’s. “Goodness, doesn’t the sunlight bring out the copper tones in your hair? I’d kill for hair that color! You and I are going to walk down to the fjord together. I’m simply not taking no for an answer. It’s a glorious morning and…
Before she could finish speaking, the Woodsman’s Bell began to chime.
Silva frowned, raising a hand to her forehead. “The incessant bells of Archenfield really grate on my nerves. In my homeland, we have clocks and, as a consequence, far fewer headaches.” With a light laugh, she swept Asta away from the palace entry and down a flight of stone steps, leading around the eastern side of the palace to the gardens at the back. The two snow-white lurchers followed enthusiastically.
Silva led her companion along a gravel path that was bordered on each side by small patches of well-tended lawn and topiary bushes in pyramid shapes. Following Silva through its stone gateway at the end of the path, Asta found herself in another, larger formal garden at the back of the palace. Ahead was an elaborate ornamental fountain, its spouting waters iridescent in the morning light.
“Come along, ladies!” Silva declared.
Asta glanced around, looking to see if Silva was accompanied by her lady’s maids that morning. She had hoped they were alone—and indeed this proved to be the case. Feeling rather foolish, Asta realized that the “ladies” Silva had addressed were in fact her two dogs.
Silva sat down on the edge of the fountain, stirring her hand in small circles in the water and encouraging the twin lurchers to take a cool drink. Asta took advantage of the distraction to turn and look back toward the palace. She was not accustomed to seeing it from this angle.
“Which are the Prince’s quarters?” she asked, trying to make her inquiry sound as innocent as possible—but clearly failing, as Silva shook her head.
“I fear you are developing an unhealthy obsession,” she said. Nonetheless, she pointed up toward a line of mullioned windows in the center of the first floor. “That’s Prince Jared’s suite there, if you must know. Though I wouldn’t recommend throwing gravel up to attract his attention. Even if your aim is spot-on, that kind of activity is thoroughly frowned upon.”
Asta gazed up at the Prince’s windows, shielding her eyes with one hand to filter the intense sunlight that reflected off of them. She wished she could see into the windows but the light was so strong it made a mirror of the glass. She was about to turn away when, the light suddenly shifted and a figure was revealed at one of the very windows Silva had pointed toward. Asta’s heart began to race. It was none other than Prince Jared himself.
He was looking out into the gardens and now his attention seemed drawn by the fountain and the small gathering in front of it. Before she could stop herself, Asta found herself waving up at him.
Behind her, she heard Silva stifle a laugh.
But, to Asta’s amazement, Prince Jared lifted his own hand and returned the gesture. She couldn’t quite believe it. She had waved at the Prince. He had waved back. She stood, rooted to the spot, watching the window. Then Prince Jared moved away, as suddenly as he had appeared, to be replaced by another figure, whose had evidently also been drawn by the group.
“Is that Logan Wilde?” Asta asked.
“That’s right,” Silva said. “He’s probably cursing us for distracting the Prince for a precious moment.”
The Poet gazed at them for a moment or two more, then disappeared back into the room. A fresh ray of sunlight rendered the window mirrorlike once more. Asta turned back toward Silva, who had risen from her seat and was clearly ready to move on. “What exactly does the Poet do?” she asked.
Silva smiled. “It would be more apposite to ask—what doesn’t the Poet do? He’s the Prince’s right-hand man. I often felt that he spent more time with my husband than I did.”
“But what’s his actual job?” Asta pressed her. “Not just writing poetry, surely?”
Silva shook her head. “Once, it was just that. But the role has evolved over time. It’s very much about communications, now both within the court and to the world outside. The Poet writes the Prince’s speeches—he’ll have had his hand in the address Prince Jared gave yesterday—but his role is even more integral than that. He’s more of a political advisor, a diplomat, you might say.”
“Aha,” Asta said, realizing there was still much about the court that she didn’t know. Perhaps her fledgling friendship with Silva might help remedy some of that.
As they came to the end of this section of garden, they turned left and entered a long dappled avenue of saplings.
“This is pretty,” Asta observed. “It can’t have been planted long ago.”
“A year ago to be exact,” Silva said, some of the brightness departing from her voice. “It was for our wedding.” She stretched out her arms. “To the left are lime saplings—native to Woodlark—and a gift from my parents. To the right you can see Archenfield mulberries. The idea was to plait the two kinds of trees together as they grew—representing the strengthening bonds between my homeland and that of my husband. Eventually, it will be a shaded walkway.”
Quietly cursing herself for raising the subject, Asta struggled for a suitable response. “What a lovely idea!” she enthused.
“In principle,” Silva replied curtly. “It’s just a shame my husband didn’t live long enough to see these trees grow above shoulder height.”
“No, of course,” Asta said quietly, wishing she could erase all traces of the conversation and that it wasn’t such a long avenue.
Silva shrugged and sighed. “Anders didn’t live to see the trees reach maturity but at least his son will.”
“His son?” Asta turned to her companion. “How do you know for sure your baby is a boy?”
“Archenfield needs another prince,” Silva said, her eyes as blue as the mountaintops. “And I am nothing if not a good servant of Archenfield.” She smoothed a stray strand of flaxen hair behind her ear and continued on her way.
They walked along the line of saplings in silence, Asta desperately thinking how to restore her companion’s earlier cheerfulness. Silva seemed lost in thought and, from the set expression on her face, they were not good thoughts to be lost in. Asta felt a huge sense of relief as they at last emerged from the row of saplings and Silva opened up a gate that gave onto a path along the riverbank. As they stepped through it, Silva turned to Asta.
“I’m glad to have run into you this morning
. The last time we met, I fear I may have given you an inaccurate impression of my marriage.”
“How do you mean?” Asta was instantly intrigued.
“I think I gave you the sense that it was a marriage of political expediency, rather than romantic love. But while there was an element of pragmatism to our union, certainly in the beginning, there was much more than that. Anders and I did love each other, very deeply as it happens.” Silva shook her head. “It’s strange trying to explain your marriage to a third party.”
The two young women had reached a short wooden bridge that crossed over the stretch of river. They came to a standstill on it, while Silva allowed her two hounds to gambol in the waters below.
“It’s strange, but I somehow feel as if I must explain things to you,” Silva told Asta. “It’s as if you were apprentice to the Priest rather than the Physician. You are my confessor, Asta Peck.”
Asta smiled. “You don’t have to explain anything to me, my lady” she said. “You are the Prince’s Consort. I a nobody.”
“Don’t say that!” Silva responded. “You are my friend. At least I hope you are.” She reached out and took Asta’s hand in her own.
“Yes,” Asta said, surprised but pleased by the show of affection. “I am your friend.” As Silva withdrew her hand, she added, “But I already knew that your husband loved you very much.”
“You did? How?”
Asta took a breath, debating whether to follow her instinct or not. She decided that she must. Silva had opened herself up to her—she owed her this much. Reaching into her pocket, she took out the velvet bag she had brought with her.
“What’s this?” Silva inquired as Asta set the bag on the wooden balustrade.
“The reason I wanted to see Prince Jared this morning was to give him these three items,” Asta said, editing the truth just slightly. “They belonged to your husband. My uncle and I discovered them when we conducted our examination of the Prince.”
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