“I won’t argue with that,” he said. “Ah, Lainie? Could I talk to you for a minute? In private, Jess.”
They walked a short way down the hall toward Jeffy’s room. “I thought you should know,” he said. “At the end there, before they sent me away, I talked to Garrett, you know, trying to figure out how you thank someone for saving your life. And I told him…I didn’t know what to say, Telaine. I don’t understand why you were there or what you did while you were up there, and I don’t know if you lied to them or not. I told him I love you and I trust you and asked him if he didn’t think he could forgive you for whatever it was.” He couldn’t meet her eyes. “I think I made things worse.”
She put her arm around his waist. “Jeffy, I’m never going to see him again. What he thinks of me doesn’t matter. And I love you so much for trying. Now will you stop thinking any of this is your fault? Go rest. Eat good food. Think of how all the girls will want to see your battle scar.”
He poked her in the side, making her squeak. “Think how close they’d have to be in order to see it.”
“I’m telling Aunt Imo you said that.”
She went back to her room to go through the latest pile of invitations. A folded sheet of paper rested on the mantel. She took it, realized it was two pages, and at the top of the first sheet read:
CASUALTY REPORT
Telaine held the papers tight against her chest and, eyes closed, folded the paper into its original creases so she wouldn’t accidentally see anything she couldn’t un-see. She opened her eyes again. She couldn’t do this in this over-gilded nightmare of a room.
She went to her bedroom and sat on her bed, too soft, then on the chair by the window. That was too angular. She went back to her bed and sat, cross-legged, the folded paper squared neatly on the counterpane before her. Before her heart could override her, her hands unfolded the paper and spread it out.
The first page was for deaths. The second was for serious injuries. Both pages bore far too many names. She wasn’t sure how many men and women of Longbourne had gone to war, but most of them had not come back unscathed.
She couldn’t delay any longer. She read down the column of finely printed names.
Albie Hooper. Mister Fuller’s stockboy.
Meg Landry. Longbourne’s baker.
Ed Decker. Ben’s favorite baritone singing partner and one of the first to be friendly to her.
And then, horribly,
Trey Bradford
Liam Richardson
She found herself crumpled on the floor without knowing how she’d gotten there, sobbing so hard it felt as if she were shaking apart. Oh, Eleanor. Poor Blythe. She remembered Trey greeting her on her second night in Longbourne, his joy the night of his wedding.
And Liam, Liam who was in almost as many of her memories of Longbourne as Ben, Liam lifting her to put the last touches on her tent of lights, Liam laughing as he pressed the button on his watch and heard her voice teasing him. She pressed her face into the side of her mattress and screamed out her pain. And they had died thinking she’d used them.
She almost couldn’t bear to go back to the list after that, but she had to know. She leaned against the bed, weak from crying, and made herself read the rest of the list. Too many friends. Too many she needed to mourn.
She already knew what she’d find, but she turned to the second list. Ben’s name was at the top.
“Serious injury,” it was titled, as if that were enough, as if people wouldn’t want to know exactly what kind of serious injury they should worry about or if it was something a person might die of. Without Jeffy’s story, her imagination would have tortured her with the possibilities.
She forced herself to focus on the list. There was her old adversary Irv Tanner. Both the Andersons. At least twenty other people she knew as more than acquaintances. Jack Taylor’s name was absent, and so was Isabel Colton’s. Small mercies.
She crumpled the pages, then smoothed and refolded them and put them on her bedside table. She went into her bathroom and washed her face, then stared into the mirror to see how ravaged her grief had made her. Her eyes were slightly red and puffy, that was all. It seemed unfair that someone like Liam Richardson could die and that loss didn’t show up on her face.
I have to testify, she silently told her reflection. The Baron did this. He killed Liam and Trey and Ed and all the others. His death won’t bring them back, but it might bring them justice.
The idea terrified her. She had seen trials, seen those pitiable figures sit in front of hundreds of their peers and be questioned and cross-questioned until they almost forgot their own names. She would be unable to hide behind the Princess’s mask, and the nobles of the entire kingdom would join Longbourne in hating her, though they would have better reason to do so, since the Princess really had manipulated most of them.
But what else could she do, and retain her honor? She was used to losing things by now. She’d lost Lainie Bricker. She was about to lose the Princess. It seemed she was going to find out who Telaine North Hunter was, because that would be the only identity left to her.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Graham Belcote’s office looked like a tidier version of her uncle’s, though the chief questioner for the Crown preferred landscapes in oils and his windows were smaller. Belcote was a small, fussy-looking man whose thin lips and prissy expression concealed a sharp mind and a kind heart. Telaine sat opposite him in a chair whose cushions were too soft to be comfortable and said, “Go ahead and explain, Mister Belcote.”
“The procedure is simple,” Belcote said. “You’ll sit before the grand jury, which includes the King and six randomly chosen men and women of the accused’s peers, and tell your story. Then I’ll ask you a few questions to clarify what you’ve said, or draw attention to something I think will be particularly damning. Then the chief cross-questioner will try to show holes or inconsistencies in your statement. After all the witnesses have testified, the grand jury will deliberate and return with a verdict.”
“If they find the Baron guilty, how long will it be before he’s executed?” Telaine asked.
“The sentence is handed down immediately. For a capital trial like this, it’s only a matter of days before it’s carried out.”
Telaine let out a deep breath. “I’m ready for it all to be over,” she said.
“There’s nothing for you to worry about. Evan Kirkpatrick is a ruthless cross-questioner, but you don’t appear easily rattled.”
“I hope you’re right. What worries me is that my testimony is going to be the key to the Baron’s conviction.”
“You’re not the only witness. Count Harroden can attest to the smuggling operation.”
“But you said the cross-questioner would tear him apart.”
“He’s weak-willed, true, but we’re working with him. Really, your Highness, you’ve nothing to worry about.”
She might not have anything to fear from the cross-questioner, but she could admit to herself in the darkness of her bedroom that she was terrified of facing the public barefaced, as it were. Having the Princess exposed as a spy wasn’t as hard, in most ways, as having Lainie Bricker exposed as a spy and a fraud. She didn’t care for most of the Princess’s acquaintances, though she did feel a pang at the idea of someone like Michael Cosgrove believing she’d made a mockery of him.
But the political repercussions…how many landed houses, how many noble estates, had she infiltrated in her career? How many people would now revile her for stealing their secrets, or assume she’d made such thefts when she hadn’t?
She’d had this discussion with her uncle two days before the trial. “I’m still not convinced it’s a good idea to admit I’ve been spying on them for so long,” she’d said. “Won’t that open you up to a possible rebellion? The fact that you don’t trust your nobles, I mean.”
“Not in this generation,” the King had replied. “Some of them will use it as an excuse to challenge me in the Council, which is a problem I’ll
deal with, and others will want me to reveal who my other spies are, which isn’t going to happen. What it opens me up to is a lot of noise and self-righteous chest-pounding. Everyone spies on everyone else, Telaine, it’s not a secret. They all know I have spies. They just won’t like the idea that you were one of them.”
“I hope this is all worth it. If Harstow gets away with this…I made promises that he’d receive justice.”
“It’s true, there’s a chance he’ll be exonerated. All I can tell you is that without your testimony, the possibility of that happening increases dramatically. It’s worth the political fallout.”
“I know you’re right.” But she still worried. It gave her no comfort to know the King was dealing with most of this; she would be facing the world naked, without her Princess’s mask to hide behind.
The day of the trial, she wore a new gown, fashionable but not frivolous, did her face with the bare minimum of cosmetics, and had Posy style her hair in an elegant fashion she hoped made her look self-possessed and confident. She looked in the mirror and saw, as if for the first time, neither the Princess nor Lainie Bricker but Telaine North Hunter. Herself.
The assembly hall of the Justiciary, dimly lit with traditional torches rather than Devices, was a steeply tiered auditorium that resembled a funnel, lined with unpadded benches. It wasn’t a comfortable place, cold and with a draft strong enough to ruffle Telaine’s hair. Despite the torches, which smoked somewhat, the room smelled of nothing, not even the perfumes and colognes the audience surely wore. A plain, unvarnished platform at the bottom of the funnel held seven chairs, ordinary armchairs with no padding, for the grand jury. There wasn’t even a throne; the King was one among equals for this, though Telaine guessed his opinion still carried extra weight.
To each side of the platform stood tables, again ordinary ones that might have come from someone’s kitchen. The whole thing looked so… ‘ordinary’ was still the word that came to Telaine’s mind. It seemed no one was encouraged to think of the job of determining someone’s guilt or innocence as glamorous or deserving of public acclaim.
But it was the chair in the middle of the platform her eye kept returning to. This one was padded, if lightly, and the ends of its armrests were a lighter color than the rest of it, as if people had gripped them tightly and worn the varnish off them over the course of many years. It was where witnesses sat—where Telaine would sit soon enough, to testify of the Baron’s guilt and to reveal her best-kept secret. It was only her imagination that it looked back at her.
Telaine looked around when she was led to her seat on the witness row, the lowest tier of seats; she didn’t see the Baron anywhere. He would be giving testimony first, but when he wasn’t on the stand he had to be isolated, so he could observe the proceedings but not put undue influence on the other witnesses. She hoped she could bear listening to him speak without leaping to her feet and denouncing him again.
It was worse than she’d imagined. The Baron’s questioner—not Belcote; legally he couldn’t question both the defendant and the witnesses against him—was a smooth-spoken, reasonable man who made the Baron’s crimes seem either trivial or nonexistent. Telaine’s name didn’t come up at all. The Baron was impeccably dressed in a pale blue morning coat and a cravat pinned with the same ruby he was wearing the first time she’d met him. He was poised and calm regardless of how pointed the cross-questioner’s inquiries were.
Master cross-questioner Evan Kirkpatrick, a tall man in his early thirties with a strong chin and fierce eyebrows, seemed not put off by this. Telaine had expected Kirkpatrick to rant, try to break down the witnesses with sarcasm and verbal violence, but he simply asked questions until the Baron’s self-control cracked and he began answering questions more rapidly.
Eventually Kirkpatrick dismissed him, though Telaine had no idea what he’d gotten out of the Baron, because it sounded as if he hadn’t been proved guilty of anything. Probably it was more important what the grand jury made of it.
The Count of Harroden broke down completely on the stand and had to be helped out of the assembly hall. Kirkpatrick looked almost sorry about it. He was definitely a ruthless cross-questioner, and Telaine determined he would not reduce her to tears, or even rattle her composure as he had the Baron’s. If the Baron, guilty as he was, could stand up to questioning, she certainly could.
The questioner’s assistant called her name. She heard a rustling of sound pass through the audience. Her presence was a total surprise. Uncle had done his work well.
Graham Belcote stepped forward and said, “Your Highness, will you tell this court why you are testifying today?”
She took a deep breath. “Master questioner, I am an agent of the Crown and I uncovered Baron Steepridge’s treasonous plot.”
There was a moment of absolute silence. Then the room erupted into argument and shouting at her. Voices challenged the King, those words tangled in one another into unintelligibility. The King allowed the furor to continue for half a minute, then stood and walked forward. Silence fell.
“Princess Telaine North Hunter’s role as an agent of the Crown is not the subject of this court. She has consented to testify in order that justice may be achieved. Inquiries regarding her status may be directed to the Crown at a later time. Anyone who cannot maintain silence now is invited to withdraw.”
No one left. They might be outraged, but they wanted far more to hear what she had to say.
Telaine told her story as rehearsed, which had included practice in not sounding rehearsed, and answered a few questions from Belcote, also scripted. Then Evan Kirkpatrick stood, placed both his hands on the cross-questioner’s table, and leaned slightly forward. “Your Highness, how long have you been an agent of the Crown?”
“Nine years. I was forcibly retired about three weeks ago.” Quiet gasps, a few murmurs from the audience.
“So you became incapable of performing those duties?”
“A spy whose identity is known is no longer a useful spy.”
“Your Highness, you have a reputation as a frivolous socialite. Up until now, in what way have you served the Crown?”
Telaine was prepared for this question. “Master cross-questioner, I am not at liberty to discuss the details of my previous assignments.”
“Then speak generally. Explain to this court what kind of agent you are.”
Here it came. “I listened to people. I visited homes to investigate rumors the Crown might need to be aware of. I flirted and danced with the right people and avoided the wrong ones. I shone in the foreground so no one would notice me moving through the background.”
People started calling out accusations, swearing and shouting. The guards moved through the audience and collected the disruptive. Kirkpatrick waited for the commotion to end. “Do you expect us to believe this background has prepared you to perform the kind of espionage you claim to have engaged in in Longbourne?”
“I have no expectations of this court whatsoever, except that the grand jury discovers the truth.”
Kirkpatrick rubbed his chin. “Will your Highness allow me to rephrase my last question?”
“I was not aware the cross-questioner required my permission.” A muted laugh ran through the hall.
“I repeat, what training does a frivolous socialite have to perform this kind of undercover espionage? What are your qualifications?”
“Master cross-questioner, I am not at liberty to reveal the details of my training. The King is responsible for determining whether I am qualified to perform a mission. That is, if he sends me, I must be qualified. And with all due respect, sir, the fact that you think me a frivolous socialite only shows how good I was at my job.”
She’d said it. She’d confirmed to everyone present that she’d been playing a game, that every interaction they’d had with the Princess must now be revisited and reconsidered. She had discussed this ploy with her uncle, and he’d been the one to insist on total openness. “Trying to conceal this will only make things worse,” h
e’d said. “Better to be honest now and weather the storm. And I think saying it will do you good.” He was right.
Kirkpatrick seemed thrown by her answer. It dawned on her she was not only holding her own, she was winning their battle of wits. She reminded herself not to become overconfident. Time enough for that when she was off the platform.
“Your Highness,” he continued, “isn’t it true your testimony is motivated by a vendetta against the Baron of Steepridge?”
That staggered her. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I think you should rephrase that as a question and not a cleverly disguised statement of guilt,” she said, playing for time.
“I beg your pardon, your Highness. Do you have a personal animosity toward the Baron?”
“I don’t like him much, but then I did have to rescue a twelve-year-old girl he planned to torture and then murder, so I imagine I have some cause.” Take that, Kirkpatrick.
“Only the Baron’s alleged treason is the subject of this court, your Highness, not any other crimes he may or may not have committed. Do you expect us to believe your personal antipathy toward him did not influence your testimony against him in the matter before the grand jury today?”
“Sir, I am here to testify to the facts. I have not invented those facts. I have provided the Crown with details that will corroborate those facts. My personal feelings don’t enter into it.”
“You have been unable to provide documentary evidence of the Baron’s collusion with the King of Ruskald.”
“Correct.”
Kirkpatrick seemed surprised she didn’t elaborate. “You don’t think that’s a flaw in your story? Much of what you’ve told this grand jury is circumstantial.”
“You have the affidavits of the soldiers at Thorsten Pass who saw the earth mover and heard Baron Steepridge claim ownership of it. You have the witness of the citizens of Longbourne that Archibald Morgan was absent from the valley all winter and the witness of Major Anselm that he did not return with them, which means he came back with the earth mover.”
Agent of the Crown Page 36