by Laura Kenyon
She needed to sit down.
“Look. Even if Angus remembers what I told him eleven years ago,” Davin said as she backed into the hammock, “I doubt he suspects those feelings remained. He saw us both at Griffin’s party, and he knows I have a business arrangement with your husband, but that’s the end of it.”
Dawn nodded mindlessly. “Sure. You’re probably right,” she said, her words barely audible because she knew they weren’t true. Davin may not have set out to do anything underhanded, but Angus was pulling his strings. “Does that mean you aren’t going to team up with him and steal Hunter’s company?”
She regretted the question immediately—the stupefied look on Davin’s face giving her all the answer she needed.
“Wow,” he said, unable to rectify the headstrong girl she used to be with the paranoid woman she’d become. “It might be easier for you to paint me as some sort of villain here, Dawn. But trust me, it’s going to take a lot more than losing you to convince me to sell my soul.”
“I know that,” she said, standing back up and shaking her head. “I’m sorry. I just … I just had to ask.”
“If you truly knew,” Davin said, his voice cold and unfamiliar, “you wouldn’t have had to ask. I took this deal because my company needed it—because it was the right move. Your husband is the one who wanted Selladóre negotiated in somehow. He’s the one who agreed on giving Angus that four percent stake. I could just as easily worry about them teaming up to vote me out. But I believe in the general decency of most people. I see we differ on that now.”
“I’m sorry,” she repeated as the sound of voices rose up from the first floor of the castle. She sprinted to the window. The square was packed. Umbrellas were raised. And the only thing flowing faster than the rain was the line of people shoving their way into the front of Selladóre Castle.
“You should go,” Davin said, nudging her toward the passage. “I’ll wait a few minutes, then head down through the kitchens. We shouldn’t be seen together … not alone, I mean.”
“Okay. I’ll go out through the east drawing room,” she said, the escape plan kicking in like second nature. “It’s closer to the bathrooms in case I need an alibi.”
Davin nodded and, for a split second, a flicker of amusement crossed his face. Perhaps this reminded him of old times, with her evading her mother and him evading whatever girl was chasing him that week. He lowered his gaze to the parquet floor. In the silence, she felt a bit of their old comfort returning—their childhood comfort, before puberty and curses and duplicitous politicians messed it all up.
She flashed him a sad attempt at a goodbye smile before scrambling back into the darkness. She’d neglected to ask if he had any idea where Elmina Goodman might be hiding, but the answer was most likely no anyway. Evidently, the reclusive pureblood hadn’t felt today’s spectacle was worth breaking her quarantine. Dawn couldn’t blame her.
She only made it a few steps when the sound of shoes and voices forced her to peel off into her father’s study—or what used to be her father’s study, anyway. Now, instead of a clutter of animal heads and beer steins, it contained only a fireplace, a few places to sit, and an old mahogany desk holding two books and a marble bust of her father’s favorite philosopher—whose name neither she nor history ever remembered. She held her breath as a pair of giggling kids passed by, then carefully ventured back outside.
Hunter was waiting in the ballroom when she emerged, both hands in his sport coat and eyes glued to the ceiling. He looked like a man who’d just returned from war and was nervously awaiting his next orders.
“You okay?” he asked as she appeared, a bit of genuine concern seeping out with the contempt.
“Fine,” she chirped, feigning a shy smile. “You know ladies’ rooms. Always a line.”
Hunter nodded but kept his eyes straight ahead. Their hands brushed twice as they walked, but he made no effort to take hers.
“How do you think it went today?” she asked, struggling to make conversation as they exited the castle, huddled beneath his umbrella, and headed toward the ferries. Being this close to him made her uneasy for more reasons than she could count.
“It was fine,” he said as a crowd of people shuffled by, moving erratically to avoid the puddles. “Thanks for coming.”
Dawn perked up. A thank you? “Of course,” she said, before realizing he’d been talking to the tour group heading in the opposite direction. She scowled and increased her pace. How long was she expected to take this?
Hunter increased his pace as well. “Is something else on your mind?”
She rolled her eyes to the side. If only he knew. What wasn’t on her mind? “I just can’t stand these publicity events,” she said. “You know that.”
“I know. But you just got your kingdom back. Doesn’t that make you a little happy?”
She grabbed his hand and stopped. “It does,” she said. “It is. Thank you. I’m sorry. I just wish my parents could have been here. Or Elmina. I thought there was a chance this would have drawn her out.”
A clump of Hunter’s golden hair peeled off in the wind. He pushed it back with his whole hand and looked at her. “Maybe she was, you just didn’t see her,” he said, attempting to temper what he couldn’t fix. “She is a pureblood fairy, after all. And you know she likes to keep a low profile.”
Dawn started to give a half-hearted smile at his effort, but then realized he was right. She’d forgotten purebloods could change their appearance. Perhaps she had been there. Perhaps all she had to do was ask loudly enough. Or perhaps that just proved she would never, ever find her. She would fail Belle, fail the triad, and fail Marestam in general.
When they finally reached the dock, Hunter handed Dawn over to a pair of men in black suits with squiggly wires coming out of their ears. He said he had some business to finish on the island, but they’d make sure she got home safely. Oh, and don’t hold dinner.
As the ferry pulled away, Dawn felt a million emotions swell up inside of her—every one of them awful. Watching the water stretch before her and the walls surrounding Selladóre shrink, she thought about how trapped she and Davin used to feel inside of them. She thought about how desperately they wanted to know what lay beyond, and how badly the adults wanted to stop them.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” an old man asked as he slipped into the molded plastic seat beside her and adjusted his scarf. His “Selladóre Gift Shop,” tote overflowed with postcards, guidebooks, brochures, and a strange wooden toy that was absolutely not historically accurate. “Congratulations on finally getting it back.”
Dawn tried to force a smile, but it wasn’t convincing. The man pulled out a postcard showing Selladóre from the middle of the river—almost exactly where they were right now—and squinted.
“What do you think?” he asked, pressing the postcard into her hand. One of Hunter’s bodyguards made a motion to come forward, but she pushed him back with her eyes.
Dawn tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
He gave her a sly sideward glance and—unless she was seeing things—winked. “Which is better? What we see with our eyes, or what history wants us to see?”
Dawn opened her mouth but didn’t have an answer. “Do postcards count as history?” The old man nodded. “Well, then I think the two are impossible to compare. Only one is the truth, as inconvenient as that might be.”
The man nodded and smiled. “Smart girl,” he said, the skin around his neck bunching up against his collar. He had an odd-looking birthmark at the back of his left jawbone. “It takes some people a lifetime to figure that out—or longer.”
They sat in silence for another two minutes, then he pushed his palms into the edge of his seat, sighed, and wobbled to his feet again.
“Where are you going?” Dawn asked as he hoisted the canvas bag to his chest.
“Oh, my dear. Appreciate the days when you can make a twenty-minute crossing without needing to use the facilities.”
She smiled and held
out the postcard, but he held a flat palm up and shook his head. “Keep it. Please. I meant to get five for each grandchild but made a slight miscalculation. They’ll be even more thrilled to know the Queen of Regian and Selladóre has something I gave her hanging on her refrigerator—or, you know, sitting in her trash bin. No hard feelings.”
Dawn chuckled and wished him a pleasant day as he disappeared back into the cabin and below deck.
She didn’t look at the card again until she was in the back seat of the limo on her way back to Regian Castle. She started at the realization that he’d written something on the back. Had he given her the wrong card? Was this a message his grandchild would never receive?
Then she looked closer … and gasped.
I hear you’ve been looking for me, it said. Please meet me on Thursday, ten o’clock, at Sugar Showers, 1456 Bellview Blvd, Regian. Oh, and bring your sweet tooth. Auntie E.
Chapter Ten
BELLE
“Really, I can walk on my own,” Belle said, craning her neck around so Kirsten could hear her. “You know I’m capable. And I don’t need a babysitter.”
“I know you can. And you are. And you don’t,” her nurse replied as the wheelchair rolled through the corridor—one long, monotonous road of speckled nylon, bound on both sides with walls the color of cream. “But hospital policy says those feet don’t touch the ground till you’re outside our walls or in your room. So unless you’re planning on checking out any time soon, you should just get used to being carted around. I would say it’s the royal treatment, but…”
She trailed off, leaving room for Belle to give a sarcastic laugh or shake her head at the hokey joke. But humor had no place in her thoughts right now. That’s because her wheelchair was going to start slowing down any second now, and Kirsten was going to make a sharp right turn into the Harold Charmé Conference Room (named for Aaron’s great uncle, a Marestam General radiologist for forty-seven years). And when that happened, Belle was going to come face to face with Donner for the first time since his violent, maniacal rampage four days earlier.
She pumped her fists beneath the blanket and tried to steady her heartbeat. She had no idea what to expect. She hadn’t been to a courthouse since she was a child, when her father was filing for bankruptcy and her mother was filing for divorce. And although she’d overheard the word being applied to her father many times back then, she’d never even witnessed a “criminal” trial before—let alone been a part of one. Her knowledge of these types of proceedings were limited to television shows and sad, lonely photos on the front page of the Marestam Mirror.
She couldn’t help but wonder: Would Donner be wearing an orange jumpsuit? Would he be shackled? Would Gray be there? She hadn’t seen him since Saturday, and he was an eyewitness, after all. What about anyone from Riverfell? Would Carter dare leave Kiarra’s bedside for twenty minutes to catch a glimpse of the man who put her there? Or would that be too emotional? Would the lawyers try to make Belle cry or enter her baby bump as Exhibit A—demonstrating just how tragic his rampage could have been?
The left side of the wheelchair squeaked as Kirsten slowed to turn and the nearest painting—a basket of pale blue irises—angled out of view. Belle clutched the blanket as she stopped at a closed door with a thin vertical window.
“V.I.P. coming through,” Kirsten sang, pushing the door open and causing two dozen heads to whirl around. The man guarding the door nodded first toward Kirsten, and then at her cargo. He was wearing a plain black suit with a striped black tie and matching black earpiece. Belle was surprised he wasn’t wearing sunglasses too—until she saw them sticking out of his chest pocket.
Bypassing the center aisle, Kirsten wheeled Belle to the right side of the room. Ivory molding wound around the entire space, just like in the hallway. But rather than a comforting shade of yellow, the walls were painted a cool, sterile gray. In the front, a single chair sat behind a long, narrow table facing two smaller tables and five rows of chairs. The audience contained an assortment of men and women with overstuffed briefcases at their feet, veteran journalists shooting the breeze, and novice reporters scribbling wildly into their notepads.
Belle recognized Matilda Holt right away. She looked exactly the same as she had on the steps of Marestam General several months earlier—frizzy brown hair, sharp eyes, and a laminated press pass strung around her neck. But there was something different about the way she carried herself—something confident and self-assured. Perhaps that’s what happened when unknown beat reporters landed a story as big as Belle’s pregnancy.
She’d liked Matilda back then. If she hadn’t, she would have dropped her pregnancy bombshell on someone else. But now, all she saw when she looked at her was her arm-twisting mother-in-law, and all she felt was pressure.
“Please rise for the honorable Judge Kendall Ford,” a strong voice called, causing a clump of lawyers in the first row to disperse—and unblocking Belle’s view of the defendant. Her breath stopped as she took him in. He wasn’t wearing an orange jumpsuit. She couldn’t tell if there were handcuffs around his wrists. And if it wasn’t for Donner’s massive frame, sunken shoulders, and apparent obsession with the carpet, she might not have discerned him from any of the other men in designer suits.
“Good morning,” Judge Ford said, resting her elbows on the table and lacing her fingers into a dainty but calculated arch. She was a fierce looking woman with a premature white streak in her otherwise brown hair. Belle recognized her from the papers. She’d made headlines years back for holding a twelve-year-old boy in contempt and jailing him for four hours. “I imagine most of you know who I am and how I conduct my courtroom. But for everyone else, please don’t mistake my informality for weakness. I may ignore a few rules of procedure here and there.”
Her hands spread apart as she panned the conference room and explained that it wasn’t customary to move a criminal arraignment for the convenience of a witness. Nor was it customary to even have a witness at an arraignment. “But nothing about this trial is customary.” At this, a few of the prosecutors snickered, turning Judge Ford’s rhythmic voice into ice. “Forget that at your peril, Mr. Garrett. Respect me, and I will do the same. Act out; show up late; avoid a question; speak, snicker, or so much as sneeze out of turn … and you will find yourself counting floor tiles in a prison cell. Make no mistake, I wear the crown in my courtroom. And don’t let the cushy chairs or pretty artwork fool you. Be it on Capitol Boulevard or in a hospital conference room, so long as I hold the gavel, this is still my courtroom.”
Belle clenched as Judge Ford narrowed her eyes at Donner and asked about waiving his right to have the full indictment read. He was standing now, but still in a vacant trance. The half of his face Belle could see was surprisingly clean, and his dark hair wasn’t dangling over his eyes the way it had been in recent months. It was a classic Noel Madison move. The go-to defense attorney for the stars, whose teeth shone as brightly as his bleached dress shirt, had probably figured a dapper Donner Wickenham might counteract the perception that he was more beastly monster than human being.
But not even a full-body spa treatment and the finest wardrobe in existence could conceal what Belle saw when Donner finally looked up and gave her a clear view of his eyes. There was no confidence to be seen. No outrage over being ordered around by an unmarried female with no royal title. None of that typical self-assurance that told the world he was better than all of them, and would end up getting off scot-free. All she saw in those black, tortured eyes of his was shame.
Belle hated herself for the wave of pity that immediately crashed over her. He’d nearly killed her, after all. No. More than that. He’d nearly killed the innocent child she’d wanted more than anything in the world. Cursed or not. Husband and father or not. Those facts remained.
“Mrs. Wickenham?”
Belle twitched as the judge called her name and everyone but Donner turned to look.
She twisted a bit in her four-wheel prison and thought about telling K
irsten to make a run for it. Screw Hazel’s “deal.” She’d help break Donner’s curse even if Belle didn’t testify on his behalf, wouldn’t she? Worse come to worse, she could tell her about her grandson. In the end, which was worse: Allowing Hazel to thrust Rye into the limelight, or swallowing what remained of her pride and giving Donner yet another chance?
“Yes, your honor,” Belle replied, attempting to look as regal as possible in her rolling chair. “But it’s Ms. Middleton now.”
Judge Ford frowned as a dozen pens began to scribble. “I don’t see here that you’re divorced.”
“Oh, we’re not,” she said. “But we’ve been sep—”
“Mrs. Wickenham,” she said again. “I understand that you’ve been briefed as to the reason for your input today. This is not a trial. You are not under oath, but your cooperation here will reflect upon your credibility as a witness, should you be called as a witness at your husband’s trial down the road.”
Belle nodded.
Judge Ford whispered something to the bailiff, then summoned her forward with her hand.
Kirsten promptly pushed the wheel lock up with her foot and charged forward. Belle felt like a pig being carried to the slaughter as she squeaked past the prosecution’s table, halted in front of the judge, and rotated to face the audience—and Donner—head on.
Their eyes caught for a half second before pulling away. But two breaths later, as the judge flipped through her notes in silence, Belle’s eyes returned. So did his.
I’m so sorry, she imagined him trying to say. But that was the old Belle again—the old Belle who was so forgiving, so easy, so naive. She shook her away and refocused on the judge. Finally, the papers stopped shuffling and the questions began.
Question one: Was she here of her own free will, with no coercion or manipulation?
Belle swallowed hard, then said she was.
Question two: Was Donner present at the Phoenix on the night in question?
“Yes,” she replied, hoping all the questions would be this easy. “Yes, he was.”