“Lady Queen,” said Froggatt, suddenly anxious, “are you really all right? Your advisers can tell when you’ve been crying.”
Bitterblue had, indeed, been allowing herself a lot of tears recently. “I’m recovering from an ordeal, Froggatt,” she said, remembering the word Katu’s doctor had used. “The last few weeks have reminded me of a lot of old things. Sad things. You understand?”
“Yes, of course I do, Lady Queen,” said Froggatt, who’d worked in her father’s court before he’d ever worked in hers.
“It’s productive crying,” she said. “I’m making progress. Though if I’m being honest, my head and neck ache from it.”
“Have you been remembering to stretch before crying?” said Giddon.
Froggatt turned to regard Giddon with an indignant and incredulous expression.
“It’s also good to do a little warm-up cry before you go all out,” said Giddon, which sent Bitterblue into giggles and finally brought her up out of her chair, taking his hand and announcing she had things to do, because (she didn’t announce this part) she wanted to get into bed with him.
Froggatt watched them together, a kind of aggrieved confusion on his face.
* * *
—
The next challenge surprised Bitterblue. She wasn’t surprised that in her meetings with the Ledra elite, more than one Industrialist casually mentioned Benni’s upstanding character, even expressing that it was hard to believe he would build an illegal weapon, imprison his own brother-in-law, kill a boy, or abduct a queen.
“And yet he did,” she would respond calmly.
But she was surprised at what one person asked: “Did you ever see him, Lady Queen? According to the parts of his defense that I’ve heard, you never actually saw him.”
“Certainly I saw him. Most recently, I saw him trying to hide evidence in Torla’s Neck,” Bitterblue replied.
But later that night, as she waited in her bedroom for Giddon to arrive, Bitterblue considered that in fact, she hadn’t seen Benni hiding any evidence. She’d stabbed him before he’d had a chance. Nor had she seen him during her kidnapping. She’d been unconscious when his airship had snatched her out of the sea. She’d been unconscious from a drugged drink—given to her by Ferla’s guard—when he’d murdered that poor boy. The fox had told her Benni was guilty, and she believed the fox. But the fox’s involvement was a secret she’d sworn to keep. She had every intention of honoring her promise to uphold the secrets of foxkind.
The truth was that if she was asked to testify in court against Benni, there was little Bitterblue could honestly report, beyond inferences. And if Benni decided to claim that Ferla had coerced him, or threatened his children, her inferences couldn’t contradict that.
The guards from Torla’s Neck who might have served as witnesses against Benni had fled. The young woman who’d brought Bitterblue her food in the attic had escaped to Kamassar in the Tima airship. Linta Massera was dead. The Kamassarians who’d scuttled the Seashell were gone, and anyway, there was no hard evidence that the sinking of the Seashell had been anything but an accident. The Magistry wasn’t considering it a crime.
Even Katu seemed content to think Ferla was his abductor. He knew from experience that Ferla could be ruthless, while Benni was a nice guy. And the Devret guards had reported that Ferla, not Benni, had gone out one night, bribing them to keep quiet. A Graceling named Trina, Graced with finding things, had come forward, claiming that Ferla had tried to hire her to locate human remains in the rubble of the burnt Cavenda house.
Bitterblue was gazing through the starmaker at the fire in her grate when Giddon snuck in.
“Hi,” he said, closing the door with a quiet click.
“Hi,” she said gloomily, swinging the starmaker to the lamp in his hands. Bitterblue loved the starmaker. It gave one part of her mind something nice to do while another part tried to solve problems.
Giddon set the lamp down and climbed under the covers. “What is it?” he said, pulling her against him and holding her in that way that always made her feel treasured, the same way using his gift, the starmaker, made her feel treasured.
“I don’t want Lovisa to have to testify in court against her own father,” she said. “I don’t want that entire burden to fall to her. But she’s the only reliable witness, even though we all know he’s guilty. I know things the fox told me that it kills me I can’t share.”
He breathed evenly against her hair for a while, thinking about it. “Are you considering exposing the fox?”
“No! Of course not. I can’t do that.”
“Are you considering . . . something else?”
Now Bitterblue took a moment. “If I pretended to have heard or seen something while I was in their attic,” she said, “I don’t think anyone would doubt me.”
Giddon’s voice was unhappy. “I don’t think so either.”
Bitterblue was obscurely ashamed of her next question. “Giddon? How terrible would it be to use one’s power as a queen to make up evidence in a foreign court? Evidence that everyone would believe?”
“Evidence of a crime that’s punishable by death?”
“Yes. To spare a sixteen-year-old girl having to testify against her father?”
Giddon scooched down, brushed the stray hairs away from her forehead, and studied her expression. She knew he was going to advise her against it.
“Maybe my method for deciding if something is terrible is different from other people’s,” he said. “But as a rule, if you’re doing something, it can’t be terrible.”
“Giddon,” she said, almost frightened. “That’s a dangerous attitude, when I’m a queen. I need to be able to depend on you to tell me if you think I’m doing wrong.”
“I always will. I promise. We’re a team, Bitterblue. But you’re not making a careless, unconsidered decision here, and I see what you’re trying to spare her.”
There was another silence.
“Why don’t you talk to Lovisa about it?” he said.
She rested her face against his chest. “Yes,” she said. “All right. Maybe I will.” His heart was thumping against her ear. “Your heart is beating fast.”
“I wonder why,” he said, in a teasing tone that made her bring her face to his, take his mouth with hers. It scared her sometimes, the easy way he could bring her tired, aching body back to happiness. She’d decided she wasn’t going to spend every moment being afraid of losing him. Bitterblue was going to learn to look into his face and see not just the fragile bones under his skin, but him, Giddon, her husband, her support.
“Giddon?” she said, pulling back. “There are some really difficult decisions ahead, with my zilfium stores, and this new weapon.”
“Yes,” he said, kissing her, sliding his hand under her pajama top.
“I don’t think it’s going to be easy to be my spouse,” she said. “Do you know how hard I’m going to lean on you?”
“I’m big and strong,” he said. “Remember?”
Bitterblue did not get the sense that he was appreciating the gravity of her point. She sat up, a little annoyed. “Seriously, Giddon. There’s so much to worry about. What if our children are horrid? They’ll have to rule Monsea one day, you know, which means they’ll have to be responsible, intelligent. Kind, yet forceful. Tireless. Wise. What if they’re not?
“Giddon?” New waves of emotion were racing across his face. Hope, wonder. Joy. She realized that this was the first time either of them had broached the topic of children. “Giddon? You look like you’re having an aneurysm.”
“Our children will be perfect,” he said, a tear running down his cheek. “I’m going to read them bedtime stories.”
“Giddon,” she said crisply. “We will love our children, no matter what they’re like. They will be whoever they are. But it won’t serve anyone, including our children, for us to be disat
tached from whatever the reality is. The world is changing! There’s a great deal to think about!”
“Of course there is.”
“Are you sure you’re up for it!”
“Bitterblue,” said Giddon, taking her chin in his hand. Looking into her eyes. “There’s nothing I want more in the world than to be your person while you’re being the Queen of Monsea. Everyone expects you to be their support. Well, I want to be yours.”
Tears began to run down Bitterblue’s face.
“With all our horrid children gathered around our knees,” he added.
Now Bitterblue was laughing outright.
“How many should we have?” he went on hopefully.
“How about we take it one at a time?”
“We should probably get a dog,” he said.
“Anything else?” said Bitterblue. “A bear? An otter?”
“I’ll make a list.”
“Do you know you’re wearing too many clothes?”
“Am I?”
“Would you like my help?”
“Please.”
Bitterblue loved the moment when Giddon’s shirt fell away from his shoulders, his chest, his torso. She loved pulling his pants down over his hips.
“Oh. But wait,” she said, sitting up again.
“Yes?” said Giddon, with infinite patience.
“I’m going to be your person too, you know.”
“I accept.”
“Tell me something you need emotional support for right now.”
“I’m fine right now, sweetheart.”
“Please? I’m trying to make a symbolic point here, Giddon.”
It was very dear, the shyness that crept into Giddon’s face as he considered her request. “Okay,” he said. “May I have some extra points? For rescuing your ex-lover?”
Bitterblue hugged him, so hard. “Of course you may,” she said. “Extra points, and rewards.”
“Rewards?” he said, grinning.
“Are you ready for your rewards?”
“I’ve been ready for half an hour,” he said. “You keep talking.”
“Punishments for disrespect,” said Bitterblue severely, then subsided into a happy silence under his mouth, his weight. Her worries fell away.
Chapter Forty-three
The next day, Bitterblue visited Quona Varana.
Though Giddon and Hava had warned her, the cats were still alarming. Some eight or nine tagged along as she followed Quona up the stairs to the sitting room, zipping forward, dashing back, turning the steps into an obstacle course.
Quona sat Bitterblue near a massive window, in a chair with a view to the sea. It was lovely, especially when a man brought chocolate cake.
“I must thank you,” said Bitterblue, cradling a plate in her lap, “for the letters that prove the guilt of some of the zilfium importers. I’m sorry my friends broke into your locked room.”
“It was quite natural, in the circumstances,” Quona said, in a brisk, no-nonsense manner. “I’m sorry I underestimated them.”
“Yes, well. I know you’re bonded to seven foxes secretly,” said Bitterblue, “but I’ve no intention of telling anyone. Nor will my friends.”
“In return for what, Lady Queen?” said Quona, with a smile that was grim and efficient, but not unfriendly. Bitterblue supposed she could picture this woman influencing the zilfium vote with bribery and blackmail. She was eating her cake like it was an enemy to be vanquished.
“Information,” said Bitterblue. “Education. Knowledge.”
Quona nodded. “Knowledge is power. Zilfium is also power. If the rumors about your zilfium stores are true, Lady Queen, you’re going to be in a position to make important decisions on behalf of the entire world.”
Bitterblue studied Quona for a moment, taking a few bites of cake, creamy and rich.
“The truth is that I don’t entirely trust you,” Bitterblue admitted. “But I’d like to have a correspondence with you, once I go. As you say, I have zilfium, and I believe that you know a lot about what having zilfium means. I need help understanding not just the political repercussions, but the environmental ones. I need recommendations for scientists and engineers. People to help me find a safe path, if one exists.”
“I’d like a correspondence too, Lady Queen,” said Quona flatly. “Your future decisions are liable to have an enormous impact on the things I treasure most.”
“I’m wary of your methods,” said Bitterblue. “But in fact, I think we’re on the same side. Why would I want to develop a resource if doing so poisons the earth?”
Now Quona was the one studying Bitterblue, with pursed lips. “We have stories in Winterkeep that come from the silbercows,” she said. “About a gigantic sea monster called the Keeper, who protects the planet for us. They’re funny, scary stories.”
“I’ve heard the stories,” said Bitterblue. “I’ve wondered if anyone believes they’re really true.”
“I don’t believe there’s a character in a story who’s going to take care of us,” said Quona, with sudden, real scorn. “But I believe we should try to be the keepers of each other. If you mean what you say, Lady Queen, then I think you believe that too. I would want such a person to be the guardian of the world’s biggest store of zilfium. I’m disposed to be honest with you.”
“Thank you,” said Bitterblue. “It would be a great help.”
As they sat watching the ocean, Bitterblue looked for flashes of purple on its surface, remembering her time in that water almost as if it were a dream. A new cat, a little gray one with a sideways gait, entered the room, then came to rest against her foot. Giddon had told her about the little gray cat who loved feet. She reached down to touch it, to thank it for comforting Giddon.
“Tell me,” she said, suddenly remembering. “Do you know what happened to that fox who was bonded to Ferla Cavenda?”
“According to Ferla,” said Quona, “he died in the fire.”
Bitterblue fought back the shock she felt, because by no means should she seem devastated that Ferla’s fox was dead. But she was.
She left soon after, before it became too much to hide.
* * *
—
Outside, it was snowing, a gentle but steady fall of big, thick flakes. Bitterblue had the sense that it had been snowing for months; it seemed impossible that it was still October. Poor fox, she thought. It’s hard to think we only knew each other for a couple weeks.
She commanded her guards Ranin and Mart to give her some space, gently. They needed her kindness too.
Then she glided along the path above the sea. As she passed the Cliff Farm that was part of the academy, she wondered if she could turn existing institutions and industrial centers in Monsea into schools.
There was so much to think about.
Bitterblue dashed quickly across the wooden footbridges that appeared now and then in her path, then skirted Flag Hill, not wanting to go anywhere near the remains of her own prison. She took the route above the beach where she and Lovisa had slept, then through the harbor. Working her way up staircases and along narrow streets, she eventually reached a fork where she couldn’t remember which way to go. People on this street were staring at her. She was small, good at hiding inside a hood, and she’d wanted to take this journey alone, or at least, as alone as she was ever allowed to be. Bitterblue wanted to prove to herself that she wasn’t afraid of Ledra, or afraid to be alone. But it was probably too much to expect Ledrans not to guess who she was, especially with two large, pale foreigners dogging her steps.
Excuse me, said a small voice.
Bitterblue jumped.
Little queen? said the voice.
Bitterblue whirled in astonished circles trying to find him, because she knew that voice. Fox? she said. Fox! Then she saw his nose peeking out from behind the slender trunk of
a tree beside a building. Fox!
Yes, he said. Greetings. You should walk along normally and stop standing there gaping. People see you.
Oh, right, said Bitterblue, picking up the pace again, trying to look like she knew where she was going. Swept along by happiness and relief. But I’m confused. They told me you were dead!
I faked my own death.
Oh! she said, understanding. How clever of you! Do you happen to know which street I want? I’m going to a hotel called . . . She couldn’t remember what the hotel was called. Where is my brain?
I don’t know the location of Hotel Where Is My Brain, but the street on the left will take you into an amble.
No, my, oh—never mind, said Bitterblue. What’s an amble?
A shopping area.
Oh? Shopping sounds nice. I never go shopping.
It isn’t nice for humans. You’ll have to buy something.
What do you mean? There’s nothing I need.
If you enter the amble, they won’t let you out unless you buy something.
This sounded extraordinary to Bitterblue. I think I have a coin, she said, wrinkling her nose. Is there anything you need?
She asked because it was a practical thing to ask at that moment, but also because the fox seemed different. Oddly subdued. His tone was tentative, almost depressed, and she was trying to figure out what was wrong. She wondered where he lived now. On the street?
I am a bit peckish, he said.
All right, said Bitterblue, realizing that she herself was ravenous, with that sudden, almost violent onset of the feeling common to a person who’s been recently underfed. She turned left. Is everything all right?
Certainly.
Oh, good. Do you know Quona Varana?
Yes.
Do you know about her seven secret foxes?
The fox didn’t respond at first, just scampered on ahead, trying to keep a low profile behind signposts and under counters. But he sent her a tired kind of uneasiness.
What is it? she said.
They’re my siblings, he said. Rascal, Rumpus, Lark, Pickle, Gladly, Genius, and Sophie. Sophie is short for Sophisticated.
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