"It's fine," Ursula said. She looked at Josiah. "I'm beginning to understand the need to present the image the people expect."
"That's ridiculous," Gideon said. "No one believes that you and Uncle Killian had some undying love that transcends time. He had that with Aunt Charlotte."
"And it would be better to have her appear not to care about him at all?" Josiah spun to face his cousin. "She is the Queen, and if we want things to go smoothly at the coronation, the people have to accept her as that."
"I couldn't care less about the coronation," Gideon snapped back. His voice had grown louder and the murmurs of conversation throughout the chapel stopped.
"We're drawing a lot of unwanted attention," Ursula said. "I'll do whatever I need to today. We can discuss the coronation later." She drew herself up proudly, took Josiah's arm, and pushed past the other two men.
As soon as Ursula was settled on a bench in the family burial chapel, Josiah hurried back to the palace. No doubt, his haste to leave the Widow Queen was noted by the rest of his relatives who hovered around the chapel entrance, but he was too rushed to care.
He had to talk to Cynara before she heard about anything from his mother. Fortunately for him, Grand Princess Veronica had chosen to stay near the family chapel in case Ursula decided to leave before the customary hour of mourning was completed. Most likely, were that to happen, his mother would be more than happy to reprimand Ursula again about doing something inappropriate.
That would give him time to do what he needed.
Or at least he hoped it would.
The palace was empty except for a few servants who scurried around the public areas doing tasks they normally couldn't do during the daytime. Most of the courtiers and idle nobles who milled around the palace had taken to their rooms to avoid any appearance of not caring about Killian.
The servants all gasped and curtsied or bowed when they saw Josiah, but he ignored them, his mind on more important things.
The door to Cynara's room was open when he arrived, and he nearly knocked over a maid carrying a pile of gowns.
"Your Highness," she squealed, scrambling to hold onto the garments and curtsy at the same time.
"What are you doing here?" Cynara sat on the floor in front of a tall blonde wood wardrobe, a semi-circle of shoes and slippers surrounding her.
"The pink ones," she said to another maid kneeling next to her.
"But, milady, you love those slippers," the maid said.
"Yes, but." Cynara gave him a sidelong glance. "The Crown Prince gave those to me, and as I will not be his wife, I think it better to send them to the poor."
"I doubt some farmer's wife will want to wear pink fur slippers," Josiah said, dropping to his knees next to her. "They are a bit impractical."
"Then why did you give them to me?" Cynara didn't look at him, but when he tried to kiss the top of her head, she pulled away. "I will ask you again, Your Highness, why are you here?"
"I wanted to see you." Josiah sat back on his heels, at a loss of how to get past her anger. "My mother isn't in charge of my life, Cyn. Don't let her force you to leave."
"Your mother?" Now she spun toward him, her rich brown hair slipping over her shoulder to drape over the luscious curves of her chest. "When did she give up control of your life?" She raised her eyebrows and waited.
"She...uh, I'm going to be King, Cyn. I will rule Heyton."
"And she will be at your side, just as she was at Killian's side." Cynara shook her head and went back to sorting her shoes. "These should be packed." She point to three pairs, and her maid set them aside.
"I want you at my side." Josiah's voice sounded like a child's to his own ears. He was begging, but it was to the wrong person.
"Tell that to the Ministers' Council." She jumped to her feet, and Josiah's heart cracked.
Dalrymple had come here? Maybe it was true that he had no control over anything. He'd wanted to tell Cyn what the Council proposed himself, not have some minor noble with delusions of power inserting himself into the Exarch's life.
"I wanted to talk to you myself," he said, standing. "I had hoped the Council would have given me that much consideration."
"The Council did," Cynara replied. "Your mother, however, is another story. She took great delight in coming here as I was dressing for the funeral." She picked up a simple blue and gray dress with fur around the neckline and at the edges of the long sleeves.
"I would have worn this," Cyn continued. "I would have walked next to you, sat with you, and been the absolute image of the perfect Queen to be. I would have looked as elegant as any true-born Princess."
Josiah nodded. "I'm sure you would have."
"Your mother came in here, without knocking, I might add, while I was in my underthings." She threw the dress into the corner of the room. Her maid hurried over to pick it up.
"She informed me that my presence at her brother's funeral would be a scandal, given my sordid history. She said that it was, her word was tolerable, that I keep you company at night because, and again, her words, 'men seem to think they need that sort of thing,' and women like me are suited to that activity."
Cynara's brown eyes flashed as her voice grew louder and louder. "She all but called me a bed doll."
Josiah flinched at the pejorative term for a woman of easy virtue and felt his face grow hot at the thought of his mother saying that to Cynara.
"I'm sorry, Cyn."
"You've always been sorry, Josiah, but have you ever done anything about it?" She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. "Why don't you tell her that we're going to get married, and I'm going to be your Queen?"
"I have told her, but—"
She interrupted him. "But. But. Always with the buts. You are afraid of her."
"She's my mother." That didn't make it better, but he had no idea what to say to end this.
"So what? Are you going to be the King or not?" Then she threw her arms up in the air in a gesture of surrender. "You know what? It doesn't matter. Look, even if you weren't the Crown Prince, I would still want to be with you. You know that, but you don't feel the same way about me, do you?"
Ice water being dumped on his head would feel warmer and more comforting than this. What could he say? He loved her, but she wanted him to say that he'd leave the throne and the crown behind if she asked him to.
They'd had this conversation before, but always, he'd been able to get her mind off his mother's meddling with kisses, caresses, or presents. That wouldn't work today.
"I can't," he whispered, all the strength in his body draining into the floor. "I can't feel that way about you. I'm to be King."
"And that crown will keep you warm at night?" Cynara's voice lost the anger, and she sounded sad. "Or will you marry some frigid Princess from a tiny kingdom that needs an alliance with the great Heyton?"
"The Council wants me to marry Queen Ursula." Why not just get it all out in the open? If Veronica didn't tell Cynara this, then he had to.
"And you will do it? You will take your uncle's wife into your bed and do to her what you do to me?"
"Don't, Cyn. Do you think I want this? My life is not my own. I am Heyton. I have to think of the good of the kingdom."
To his surprise, she moved to him, wrapping her arms around his body, pulling him to her. "You're not Heyton. Not yet. Leave with me. Let Queen Ursula name someone else as heir. Anyone else. Even lame, weak Gideon if you want, but leave it all behind and run away with me."
For a moment, a lovely, grand moment, he thought about it. The two of them, ordinary people living as far away from politics and royalty as they could go. Out of Heyton, even. Somewhere no one knew them as anything other than young newlyweds, starting a life, a family, a home.
He imagined Cynara, heavy with his child, sitting next to him, leaning into him, as they watched the sun set over the ocean. No cares. No worries. No fear.
It would be wonderful. They could sleep together without one of them having to get up b
efore dawn and sneak back to his or her own room. They could take long walks without chaperones or make love under the summer sun.
But he could never be that free. He had responsibilities to the people.
By virtue of being born son of the Grand Princess of Heyton, his life was not his own.
"We don't have the luxury of deciding our own destinies," he whispered into her hair, feeling the silkiness of it against his cheek. "I could never be free, even if we ran to the ends of the world. I am not my own person."
Cynara pulled away from him with a jerk. "And you are too afraid to try?"
"Could you love me if I threw away everything I was raised to be? All the responsibilities I have to my family and my people?"
"They aren't your people," she cried. "Not yet. Not until the King's Widow declares it and the crown is on your head."
Josiah sighed. "I love you, Cyn, but I have to do what's right." He started toward the door.
"Why can't I be what's right?" she cried. "Why can't we?"
Without looking back at her, he said, "Because I'm the heir to the throne of Heyton, and that's all my life can hold."
Quickly, because he felt as though his entire body would shatter if he waited, he walked out of her room and closed the door. Her wailing tugged at his heart, but for the good of both of them, he kept walking.
Chapter 25
Servants were hurrying out of Uncle Killian's quarters, carrying bundles of clothing and crates of who knew what. Gideon stood at the end of the hallway, watching the activity and wishing he could be anywhere but here.
The funeral was over, and Ursula was sitting in the family chapel, surrounded by the bodies of people she didn't know, forced to appear the grieving wife, regardless of the truth of the matter.
She shouldn't be alone. He couldn't imagine how frightening it would be for her, but there was nothing he could do. Sitting with her, as he had with Oriana when her husband died, would cause more problems. Veronica would make sure of that.
So, rather than spending this time worrying about his Queen, he'd decided to get the Water Bowl from Killian's quarters. And here he stood, rethinking his decision and wondering if it were too late to head back to the university tonight.
"You said you wanted to get it," Dashiell reminded him.
"I know, but I haven't been in the King's Quarters since before he died."
"And you're worried about memories?"
"I probably shouldn't be." Gideon looked at his friend. "But you know how it is." Water Sensitives tended to feel emotions from other people, and Gideon had the added burden of feeling the residual emotions associated with a place.
Dash nodded. The valet had, more than once, had to care for the Prince after he'd found himself in an emotionally turbulent situation he hadn't expected.
"There shouldn't be much in the way of overwhelming memories there," Dash said, jerking his chin toward the door to the King's Quarters. "It wasn't like he had a wife to argue with."
"And it's unlikely he and Yamina spent a lot of time talking anyway."
"I'm sure that's true."
Gideon shook his head. "I'm being silly. I'll just go in, get the bowl, and get out."
"Sounds like a plan."
A moment later, the King's head of household, Gilbert, went past them, carrying a bundle of scrolls. Gideon knew the apartment would be empty now, as the older man would never have left any servants alone in there.
"Let's go."
As soon as he walked through the door, he stopped. "Something's wrong."
Dashiell was behind him. "What is it?"
Gideon turned. "I can't tell exactly, but there's no sense of disease or illness."
"No, that can't be right." Dash moved past him to walk to the center of the entry way. "The physician said his heart gave out because it had been overworked for years."
Gideon nodded. "I know what he said, but I'm telling you I don't feel illness. Even when someone doesn't know there's something wrong, the body does, and it gives off its own feelings. They are weaker than our conscious ones, but I can sense them. There aren't any here." He moved around the entry way, shaking his head.
"Maybe you need to go into his bedroom to feel it."
"Maybe," but that wouldn't make any difference. He'd known when King Lucius was dying weeks before anyone else did, but he'd been too young to know what his feelings meant. All he'd known was that being around his grandfather at that time frightened him.
He went into the room where Killian met with his visitors. The emotional memories here were muted and jumbled because so many people had spent time here, each with his or her own feelings and pain. Still, even here, there was no sense of impending death or overwhelming illness.
"Where would the bowl be?" Dash asked, opening a few drawers.
"In his office, through that door." Gideon pointed but didn't follow his friend. He'd reached the far corner of the room and the emotions here were less, but he felt a thread tugging at him like someone had wrapped a rope around his waist and was urging him in a specific direction.
He stood as still as he could, with his eyes closed and felt along the tugging sensation. The invisible rope dissolved into a pool of...
Hatred and anger.
The world tilted, and Gideon stumbled, knocking into a side table, rattling a crystal decanter and matching glasses.
"Gid?" Dashiell called as he hurried back into the sitting room. "What happened?"
The Prince leaned against the table as his head stopped spinning. "I'm fine," he said after a moment, by which time Dashiell had reached his side. "Just a dizzy spell."
"What did you feel?"
"Someone hated Uncle Killian."
Dash nodded once. "He was a King. That's not too surprising, is it?"
Gideon took a deep breath. "I suppose not, given the number of foreign diplomats who are in the palace at any given time, but..." He shook his head. "This felt different, more personal."
"So, what do you think it means?"
"I don't know." Gideon straightened. He didn't want to think about just how personal these memories felt. They belonged to someone so close to the King that they would have to be related, siblings. Closer even, but he couldn't focus on that now.
"It might not mean anything. After all, as you said, there are always those who hate the King. Let's just find the bowl and get out of here."
They went into the King's office. Gideon's leg seemed to be affected by the emotional memories as much as his mind. Pain radiated from his hip to his knee, and any time he put weight on it, he feared he would fall. Only his cane, and taking his time, kept him upright.
The sludge of emotions thinned out here, but that same tugging led him to a chair upholstered in flowers and strawberries in the corner of the room. He didn't want to investigate the feeling further, because he feared what he would discover, so he concentrated on searching for the bowl, ignoring his feelings.
"It's not here." Dashiell dropped into the King's chair and scowled. "I thought you said this was where he kept it."
"It is where he was every time we communicated with it, and you realize that if the wrong person saw you, you could be charged with treason for sitting there."
Dash grinned but stood. "I just wanted to try it out. I've always wondered if sitting in the King's chair would feel any different than any other chair."
"Does it?"
"No, but looking across that desk made me wonder how many times he wished he were somewhere else."
"Probably more than he would admit to." Gideon wanted to sit down as well, and every instinct told him that upholstered chair would be the most comfortable, but he resisted. "Let's look in his bedchamber."
"Are you sure you want to go in there?" Dash asked. "If the emotions out here bothered you, won't the ones in there be worse?"
"I can handle lust and desire," Gideon said. "They're out here, as well, and probably not just from Yamina. I suspect more than one woman wanted the King to invite her into the
bedchamber."
"Do you think he did?" Dashiell glanced at the closed door that led into the room in question.
Gideon shrugged. "Not my business, and frankly, I don't want to think about it."
"Understandable. Shall we look there?"
They went to the bedchamber, and Gideon braced himself for an onslaught of sexual emotions. When Dashiell opened the door, however, what Gideon felt was pain and regret, mixed with the same hatred and anger he'd felt before.
The feelings flowed over him until he felt as though he were drowning in the sorrow and fury.
The next thing he knew, he was staring at the ceiling of the room, with Dashiell kneeling beside him.
"What happened?" he managed to say, but his voice was barely louder than a whisper.
"You collapsed," his friend replied. "You hit your head on the floor, and I was worried you wouldn't wake up. I sent for the doctor."
Gideon did a mental inventory of his well-being, then tried to sit. "My head is fine, except for the darkness swirling around this room. Something bad happened here."
Dash nodded. "Yes. The King died."
"No." Gideon shook his head. "Well, yes, he did, but I don't think he died because he was ill."
"So what are you saying?"
"I'm saying that I think someone wanted Uncle Killian dead. There is a lot of anger and resentment in this room, and desperation, too."
Dashiell sat back on his heels. "You're not suggesting that someone killed him?"
The Prince took a deep breath. "Trust me, I don't want to say it, and I wouldn't tell anyone but you, but yes, that's what it feels like to me."
"Gideon, you need to be certain before you say anything. If there is a murderer in the palace, he or she is probably still around."
"I know," Gideon said with a nod, "and I'm going to figure out who it was before anyone else gets hurt."
The funeral was over, and Veronica felt as though a tight waist binding had been removed. She could breathe again. No one suspected that her brother had died of anything other than a heart attack, the kind of thing that often happened to monarchs who were bombarded by stress from all around.
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