DEDICATION
For Rachel,
who made the science work
CONTENTS
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Acknowledgments
Back Ads
About the Author
Books by Rhiannon Thomas
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
ONE
A HUNDRED DOVES BURST OUT OF THE PIE.
I don’t know why I was surprised. Of course there were a hundred doves in the pie. The king wouldn’t open his birthday celebration by actually feeding his guests. Not when he could amaze us all with his extravagance instead.
I just wished someone had considered what would happen to the doves after they were released. The king had skewered a couple in his enthusiasm to cut open the pastry, and the survivors were determined to get as far away from that knife-wielding maniac as possible. Many of them settled in the rafters of the banquet hall, forty feet above us. More crashed against the huge arched windows, their claws and beaks scraping the glass. One settled in the bell of a trumpet and refused to move, no matter how violently the player waved his hands.
I sank into my chair and kept watch on the doves overhead. I wasn’t afraid of them, not exactly, but I already felt on edge, with the entire court around me, with their judging eyes and vicious whispers, surrounded by gold and laughter and fountains of wine, and the doves were moving so erratically. Flapping and skittering. I knew they wouldn’t touch me, but I jumped every time they swooped either way.
If only the king would serve the first course. Then I’d be one step closer to leaving. My father usually allowed me to skip the king’s festivities—as the king’s fourth cousin once removed, I was hardly considered important—but this time my father had insisted I attend. To represent the family. To show we were people who mattered.
He couldn’t really have believed that would work. No one had spoken to me since I’d arrived. Even my father had abandoned me for “necessary business conversations” on the other side of the hall. So I sat at my table near the door, empty seats on either side of me, half wanting to join in the conversation of the people opposite, too scared to appear to be eavesdropping on them to try.
King Jorgen, for his part, looked completely relaxed, and completely unconcerned about his potentially starving guests. He lounged on his throne, legs thrown over one arm, his golden goblet full of wine, his golden plate free of food, while the golden paneling glittered on the wall behind him. He was talking to a girl about my age, whose smile was so wide that the corners might have been pinned to her cheeks.
The king raised his goblet to her lips. When she shook her head, still smiling that strained smile, he tossed the goblet over his shoulder, wine and all. “This drink does not please my lady!” he shouted. “Bring us something better.”
Queen Martha sat on his right. I’d always thought she looked like a praying mantis—tall, thin, and bug-eyed, with a ruthless personality to match. Her dress was the biggest in the room, with silk ribbon at the end of every layer like icing on a cake. Her hair reached up toward the ceiling, studded with berries. She held a peacock-feather fan in front of her mouth to hide her yawn, and pointedly avoided looking at her husband.
A dove landed next to my still-empty plate and fluffed its wings. It looked at the foodless platter, and then looked at me, as though blaming me for the lack of treats.
“I know.” I ran my fingers along the feathers at its neck. They were softer than I’d expected, and pristine white. Only the best could be baked in the king’s pies, I supposed. “I’m hungry, too.”
“Freya, what are you doing?” Sophia, the woman sitting opposite me, waved a ring-covered hand in my direction. She was in her forties, her hair a rich henna red. A black-silk moon and two stars had been stuck to her forehead, either as an affectation or to conceal any scars. “Don’t encourage it. It’s filthy.”
“Pigeons all over the tables,” Sophia’s neighbor, Claire, said. She was in her forties, too, and rather portly, with a silk heart placed to the right of her pink lips. “I suppose the pie was entertaining, but—”
“Doves,” I said, without thinking.
Claire raised a single, perfectly arched eyebrow. “What was that?”
“Doves,” I repeated, a little louder, forcing the word out. “They’re not pigeons, they’re doves.”
Claire laughed. “Oh, Freya, you are strange.” She waved carelessly at the bird. “Pigeon, dove, whatever it is. We really don’t want it on the table.”
I pulled my hand back and stared at my plate as she shooed the bird away.
People had been calling me “strange” since I learned how to talk, although usually they only said it when they thought I couldn’t hear. When I was younger, I had chattered constantly, stumbling over the words in my eagerness to express them, asking question after question until I was at least five explanations deep. People commented on my strangeness to my mother, as though she had somehow missed it and would surely take action now it was revealed to her, but she would just laugh and say, “Isn’t it wonderful?” like my strangeness was my greatest strength.
Even then I’d known what it meant. That something was wrong with me. That I didn’t belong.
Then my mother had died, and my strangeness had become far more concerning. An insult to her memory. An accusation: “Why can’t you be more like your mother, and less like you?”
It was fine, I told myself. Claire should have been the one embarrassed, for making such a stupid mistake about the birds. It was fine.
But whenever I tried to convince myself my worries were all imaginary, that no one judged me, I remembered every scrap of evidence I’d ever gathered to the contrary. Every time someone had sniggered after I spoke. Every sideways glance shared by friends when I approached. The moment I had walked away from Rosaline Hayes and her friends and heard them repeating my words in high-pitched, laughing voices.
I’d been reluctant to say anything to anyone after that.
At first, my father had comforted me—“Court is an odd place, but you’ll get used to it, you’ll make friends, you’ll figure it out”—but I continued to stumble, and “You’ll make friends” became “You’ll survive” became “Freya, could you at least try, for my sake?”
Five years later, I still had no place here. Or, I did, but it was sitting by the wall, practically invisible, the butt of jokes if I was mentioned at all. Awkward Freya, strange Freya, silent stuttering Freya who said rude things by accident and was so very, very plain. Did you hear she does experiments in her cellar? Did you hear she nearly burned her house to the ground? What was she even doing in court, behaving like that?
Or that�
�s what I assumed. No one gossiped about me in front of my face. No one said much to or about me at all.
I’d decided long ago that I didn’t care. I was going to escape this court as soon as I could. My father insisted I had to try and find a good match, to get married and play a role in court life, but no one had ever shown any interest in me. I’d never found anyone who interested me, either. As soon as my father accepted that, I’d be gone. I’d travel to the continent, perhaps, where research was taken far more seriously, and conduct my experiments there. One day soon.
Because, it turned out, I did care. I cared what people thought of me. I cared what they were saying. And I needed to get out, before their judgment changed me.
“Hi, Freya.”
I turned toward the voice, smiling. I’d only ever had one good friend, but Naomi was so wonderful that I couldn’t imagine needing anyone else. She’d been drawn to me, somehow, when she first moved to the capital with her brother, Jacob, joining me in the corner of awkwardness and pulling me into quiet conversation. We had little in common as far as interests went—she loved novels, stories, romance, and adventure, while I was much happier with equations and research—but our souls clicked.
She looked pretty tonight. She always looked pretty—not the court’s version of beauty, but something softer and sweeter. She had large brown eyes, a tiny pug nose, and ever-present dimples. Her black hair was piled in a dome on top of her head, every twist studded with a gem, and her dark skin shimmered with whichever crushed-jewel powder was currently in fashion.
“Hi,” I said. She slipped onto the chair beside me, wobbling slightly as she maneuvered her massive skirts into place.
“Should you be sitting here, Naomi?” Sophia said. “Not that we aren’t delighted to have your company, but His Majesty worked so hard on the seating arrangements . . .”
“His Majesty won’t mind if I sit here for two minutes, I don’t think,” Naomi said, although she looked down as she said it, her expression unsure. She ducked closer to me. “The people at my table are horrid,” she murmured.
“And you’re surprised?”
“I guess not. But then my brother abandoned me, so it was just me thrown to the wolves. How are you coping?”
“I’m alive. That’s something, isn’t it?”
“Here? Definitely.”
“What are you girls whispering about?” Claire said. “It’s awfully rude to have secrets, you know. We’ll be thinking you’re talking about us next.”
“We’d never gossip about you,” Naomi said. She glanced at the table again, then quickly back at Claire, correcting her gaze. “What would we even say?”
Lots of things, I thought. But Naomi probably meant it. She made fun of the court, but she was always eager to forgive the courtiers themselves for their cruelty and vanity. Every insult became a harmless misunderstanding or good people having a bad day if you allowed Naomi to sit with the story long enough.
“Well, I hope I’m not that boring,” Claire said.
“Tell us,” Sophia said, leaning forward slightly. “How is your brother, Jacob?”
“He’s—well. Thank you.”
“What a handsome young man. I suppose he’ll be finding a girl soon? Or is he enjoying life too much to settle down?”
“I don’t know,” Naomi said. “You’d have to ask him.”
“But surely, as his sister, you must have some inkling. Women’s intuition, no? Young men so rarely know what they want, but you must have a feeling—”
“What about Madeleine Wolff?” Claire said. “She’s not connected to anyone, is she? They would be a wonderful couple. Think how beautiful their children would be!”
“Yes!” Sophia said. “Is your brother close to her, Naomi? We should arrange an introduction, when she returns from her estate. Something so adorable they can’t help but fall in love.”
Naomi was saved from answering by a hush that descended on the room. The king had stood, arms swept out toward the crowd. “Before we enjoy our next course,” he said, “I’ve arranged a little entertainment.”
Other rulers probably had entertainments arranged for them on their birthday. But the king would never leave anything to chance. He had to show how extravagant and benevolent he was, and that meant planning every detail himself.
A troupe of performers ran into the hall through its rear doors. One woman backflipped her way along the hall, passing just behind my and Naomi’s chairs. She shot us a sideways grin as she went. She was followed by more acrobats, people cartwheeling, a man walking on his hands, and jugglers, too, rings flying through the air. Their outfits sparkled, catching the light as they danced, so it almost hurt to look at them.
When they reached the front of the room, they bowed to the king before continuing their performance. One of the jugglers clapped, the sound chasing through the room like thunder, and their rings seemed to transform into knives.
I looked past them to the high table. The king’s best friend, Torsten Wolff, sat two seats to the king’s left. He looked distinctly unamused. But Torsten Wolff always looked distinctly unamused. If he ever smiled, his face would probably shatter. He was much younger than the king, probably in his early twenties, but they were inseparable. It often seemed as though the king gave Sten all of his worries to carry, leaving himself as the carefree side of the pair.
For once, I felt a connection with Sten. He looked as uncomfortable as I felt.
One of the performers clapped her hands, and the juggling knives burst into flame. The court gasped and applauded as the group continued to juggle, continued to dance and contort, the flames flying through the air so fast they became a blur. More performers ran in from the sides, holding torches aloft. They threw them into the paths of the burning knives, so they caught fire, too, and then the performers bent back, faces to the ceiling, mouths open wide, as they seemed to swallow the fire.
Then they started to breathe fire, shooting streams into the air. It caught on ribbon hung across the ceiling, too thin to be visible before, and raced along it, spelling out the king’s name.
The crowd applauded again, and the king grinned. “Ah, now, our performers need a volunteer.” He glanced up and down the high table in faux contemplation. Torsten Wolff looked like he had swallowed a lemon, and I thought the king would choose him, a punishment for his lack of enthusiasm. But then: “Fitzroy! Why don’t you come up here?”
Fitzroy. Even I heard the danger in that word. William Fitzroy was the king’s bastard son, and although most people referred to him by his surname, the king’s name for him changed with his mood. He was “my son” when Fitzroy was in favor, or “William” if a name was really needed. Fitzroy was a hint of dismissal, a reminder of his place in court. A surname they invented for the bastard son, the boy who wasn’t supposed to exist.
But Fitzroy sauntered forward without hesitation. His blond hair fell across his eyes, giving him an air of casual confidence, and he was smiling, like he couldn’t wait to suffer what his father had planned.
“Whatever my adoring fans demand,” he said. People laughed, and danger flashed in the king’s eyes. The performers positioned Fitzroy in the middle of their group, and then began their show again, tossing flaming rings to one another over Fitzroy’s head, sending knives spinning inches from his arms, breathing fire so close that his hair must have been singed.
Fitzroy did not flinch. He mugged for the audience as the flames flew past, like nothing was more fun than nearly dying for everyone’s entertainment.
Fitzroy, I decided, was an idiot.
The performance ended, Fitzroy bowed, and his father flicked a hand to send him back to his seat without a word.
The performers departed the way they’d come, tumbling and dancing. The backflipper passed behind us again, and as she did, her foot caught on my shoulder. She didn’t pause to apologize—she probably hadn’t even noticed, so focused on her performance—but I jerked, shoved forward by her momentum, and my heart sputtered into triple time
.
The conversation in the hall started again, and Sophia and Claire leaped straight back into interrogating Naomi about her brother. I couldn’t concentrate on the words. They were at once too loud and too far away to understand. My hands began to shake.
The kick had triggered something in me, the awareness that people were too close. There were too many of them, and I couldn’t leave, couldn’t escape, couldn’t do anything.
No, I thought. Not here. I was safe. I was fine.
It was too late. There were too many bodies, too much breath and too many eyes. It was so loud, so crowded, and I couldn’t leave.
No, I told myself again. I would be calm. I tugged at the pins in my hair, and looked around the room again, searching for something to ground me. The fountains of wine, the cascading flowers, the doves that still seemed confused about their inability to fly through the windows. Everything was safe. I’d be all right.
I tugged at another hairpin, my hand shaking, and it slipped free, sending a section of hair tumbling to my shoulder. I grabbed it and tried to shove it back in place.
“Freya?”
I pressed my palms against my knees, willing my hands to still. I tried to force air to the bottom of my lungs.
“Freya?” Naomi said again. “Are you all right?”
I nodded, up and down and up. The world had turned fuzzy, and all the sounds were too loud, and people were so close, even those far away seemed to loom and press toward me, and I couldn’t breathe, and—
“Come on,” Naomi said. “Let’s get some air.”
I couldn’t leave the table, it wasn’t allowed, but Naomi was already standing, not touching me, just standing and waiting, and I felt myself standing, too.
Naomi led the way to the doors at the back of the hall. They hadn’t seemed far away before, twenty feet at most, but the distance stretched out now. Everyone was watching us leave, I knew, thinking about how odd we were behaving, and my father would be watching, too, glowering . . .
The doors stood slightly open, and we stepped out into the gardens beyond. An October chill was in the air, and I gulped it in, stumbling farther from the palace. Calm. I was calm.
Long May She Reign Page 1