As long as I didn’t know, I was in danger, too. If I crossed the person responsible, if I stood in the way of their goals without realizing it . . . I needed to fit in at court, but ignorance now was far more dangerous than a social faux pas.
If this were an experiment, a challenge in my laboratory, I’d start by making lists. Gathering every fact and every possible idea together on paper, letting those words guide me to my next step.
I turned to the back of the etiquette book and grabbed a pen.
Sofia Thorn suspected the Gustavites. I scribbled it down, but the thought didn’t fit, whatever my advisers believed. Groups didn’t jump from doing nothing to successfully murdering hundreds of people, with no steps in between. There would have been warning signs, whispers, more minor attacks. But no one had heard a word from them. No pamphlets had been distributed, as far as I knew. No one had made any passionate speeches or tried to convince people of the justice of their cause. And no one in the group had claimed the attack. What would be the point of making a statement with violence, if you didn’t tell people you’d made it?
I scribbled all these points down on one half of the paper, and then, on the other half, I wrote, They have motive. It was hard to imagine that one person would kill hundreds of others in one go. It was too big. But a group, one with political motivations, one that thought they were acting for justice . . . that seemed possible.
Next, there was Madeleine Wolff. If I hadn’t left the ball, she would have been queen. That gave her motive, too, or at least suggested that someone might have acted on her behalf.
Holt had said she’d been away from the capital for a few months. She could have traveled to the countryside to keep herself safe, or to remove herself from suspicion. But if she’d organized this from afar, she would have left a trail of evidence behind. It would have been hard to be subtle with messengers traveling back and forth. But it was possible that someone had murdered everyone to put her on the throne, even without her knowledge.
William Fitzroy, the king’s son, was my next thought. How had he survived, when everyone else closely related to the king had died? But he wasn’t a likely suspect, not really. People always whispered that the king would make Fitzroy his heir, but he hadn’t actually done it, not yet. When the king died, Fitzroy had lost not only his father, but also his chance at the throne—and why would he murder hundreds of people he knew, when the throne could come to him through much less bloodthirsty means?
I hesitated, then added Torsten Wolff. The king’s best friend, and another surprising survivor. I had no evidence against him, beyond the fact that he unsettled me, but still, that feeling . . . he might have wanted to give Madeleine the throne, or planned to supplant her in the chaos, with her so far away. He seemed the type who would be capable of stealing his cousin’s inheritance—serious, angry, aggressive.
But was he really the kind to murder his supposed best friend to do it? I didn’t know.
And then—I paused, my pen barely brushing the paper. Then there was my father. He had always been ambitious. How else did a common merchant end up with a daughter in line to the throne, acting as adviser to the king? He had the motive. But his expression, when he saw me in the lab . . . he had genuinely thought I might be dead. He’d have prepared better if he wanted to take the throne. He wouldn’t have insisted I attend the ball.
Unless that was a plan to save me from suspicion. Unless he’d only panicked because I had disappeared.
I frowned and added his name. This was research. It didn’t matter how I felt about the evidence. I just needed to record it, and the truth would emerge in the end.
There were my other surviving advisers, too. Holt. Thorn. Norling. I didn’t really know enough about them to know if they had any motive. What could they possibly have gained, unless they wanted me as a puppet queen? Thorn had missed the banquet, which was slightly suspicious. But it didn’t mean much.
I stabbed the nib of my pen into the paper. I couldn’t solve this by plucking suspicious names out of the air. It was too imprecise. I needed to know everyone who had attended, everyone who had survived . . . the guests, the servants, everyone. Then I could work down the list and see where the evidence fell.
“Your Majesty?”
I jumped, and the pen snapped in my hand. Torsten Wolff had walked through the doorway.
He couldn’t see what I’d been writing. Not my suspicions of him, not my words about his cousin. I slammed the book shut. “Can I help you?”
“Isn’t that what I’m supposed to say to you? As queen?”
My heart was pounding, for no good reason at all. I forced myself to take a breath. “Were—were you looking for me?”
“No,” he said. “No, as hard as it may be to believe, I was looking for books.”
Obviously. Because we were in a library. Now I looked skittish and stupid.
Try, Freya, I thought. You suspect him? Try speaking to him. Try distracting him.
“Holt said—he said you were interested in military history.”
It was a start.
“Among other things,” he said. “And you, Your Majesty? What interests you here?” He moved closer, until he loomed above me. He might have been a scholarly man, but he was built like a wall. He peered at my book. “Etiquette lessons? Surely court has prepared you beyond some old man’s ramblings.”
What could I say to that? If I agreed, I looked stupid for even touching the book. If I disagreed . . . well, if I disagreed, I just looked stupid.
I snatched the book to my chest. Better to look naive than have him investigate further and find my notes. He was probably the type who thought writing in books merited beheading, accusation or no.
“You will need to do better than this, if you wish to hold on to the throne. The court does not forgive mistakes.”
I squeezed the book tighter. “Are you threatening me?” It was amazing how clear things became, when I really was in danger. No lip-chewing over the right thing to say. My stomach was twisted into knots, and my hands shook, but something like strength rose in my chest, driving me to speak.
But he looked surprised by my words. “Threatening you? I would never threaten you, Your Majesty. It was a warning. Or advice, if you prefer.” He stared at me, his bushy eyebrows pulled into a frown. His jaw was so square it could have been smashed out of stone. “Why? Is there a reason I should threaten you?”
“I know you don’t want me to be queen.”
“Of course I don’t want you to be queen,” he said, his voice low. “My friends are dead. Someone murdered them and made you queen instead. Why would I be happy about that?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. And I was. I needed him to understand that. I hadn’t wanted this any more than he had.
“Where were you?” he said suddenly. “During the banquet? How did you survive?”
“I was at home. With Naomi.”
“Home and safe.” He spoke softly, but the words were almost mocking. He turned away. “I will leave to your studies, Your Majesty.”
“What about your book?”
“I will look later. I find I’ve lost my interest for reading.”
With a nod at me, I strode back out of the room. Once he was gone, I placed the book on the table, and flicked to the final pages again, adding one more note.
Sten suspected me.
EIGHT
QUEEN MARTHA HAD HOSTED MEMBERS OF THE COURT almost every night, rotating ladies into favor and extending invitations to whichever gentlemen she found the most entertaining. I’d only been invited a couple of times. I’d spent the evenings sitting as close to the corner as possible, answering the queen’s smiling questions as quickly as I could. Her ladies had echoed my responses, laughing and tossing their hair and thinking how strange I was, and although the queen said I was wonderful entertainment, I made whatever excuses I could to avoid going again.
Now it was my turn to host. “I know you don’t enjoy these things, Freya,” my father said, while a m
aid fluttered about, trying to convince my hair to adhere to a giant wire form in the shape of a bow. Some women could have achieved this look with their hair alone, or so the maid had muttered when she thought no one was listening. But I couldn’t, and my father had insisted that nothing else would do.
Naomi had already gone to bed with a headache. So I had to get ready without her help. My father had scowled when I told him, but her brother was dead. Why should she have to pretend to be happy if she just wanted to hide away?
“You have to act like one of them, to make them accept you. When I married your mother, no one in court wanted me there. I was just a merchant’s son. I didn’t belong. But your mother just smiled and continued to be her lovely self, and I talked to them, Freya. I dressed like them, I acted like them, I charmed them. And eventually, they forgot. My differences became endearing, and then they simply became normal. But the first step was proving I was the same as them. That has to come first.”
The maid hissed through her teeth as another strand of my hair slipped out of her hands. I swallowed the urge to apologize. “But you were just trying to join them. You weren’t trying to lead them.”
“You still have it easier than I did. You are a noble. You are the rightful heir to the throne. If you act the part, you will convince them.”
I didn’t really believe it, but I nodded. My hair tumbled again, and the maid bit back a noise of frustration.
“Sorry,” I murmured. “I’m sorry.”
“I want you to walk into that room,” my father continued, “and smile at everyone as you enter. Make eye contact, but make sure it’s a benevolent sort of smile. One that shows appreciation, but also that you are the one giving favor here. Come, try it.”
I tried.
“Freya, you look like you’re in pain. Look kind.”
“How?” The word snapped out of me. “How can I make a smile look regal and powerful and benevolent and kind and superior and welcoming and whatever else, all at the same time? It’s just a smile!” I’d never thought about my smile before. I couldn’t possibly consider all those things and look even vaguely natural in the process.
“You saw Queen Martha smile.”
“Queen Martha’s smile was mean.”
“Then imitate that, Freya. For goodness’ sake.”
“You said to look kind!”
My father sighed and pressed a hand to his face. I’d never seen him so frustrated. But it wasn’t obvious or easy, whatever he thought. He had been a born courtier, and he hadn’t even been born to it. My mother’s and father’s talents seemed to have canceled each other out, leaving me no skill at all.
I closed my eyes. I had to try. Just—just try.
“What about my mother?” I said eventually. “Did she smile like that?”
“She could,” my father said. “Yes, she could.”
Then I’d think of my mother, and try to smile like her.
My father continued to list rules, and I repeated them in my head, drumming them deep. I had to sit in the center of the room, and remained seated. Encourage people to approach me with smiles. Correct the harp player if the music was not cheery enough. Encourage people to dance, but not dance myself, not tonight, not with my clumsy feet. Suggest a game, something fun—perhaps charades. I couldn’t let grief settle into the room.
Could I really be so callous? Plow on like nothing had happened, smooth over absences that no one would really be able to ignore? But my father had survived something like this before. He had convinced the court to accept him. He knew what I should do.
According to tradition, I had to host the court in my own rooms, so servants had cleared a parlor on the top floor of the Fort. The entire remaining court was already there by the time I entered. I paused in the doorway. The old tapestries had been removed and replaced with colorful paintings in gilt frames, making the room look brighter, but taking away its one defense against the cold. Red-velvet chairs had been placed under a huge chandelier, and hundreds of candles and oil lamps flickered around the room, making it almost as bright as day.
The courtiers were gathered in small groups, their clothes looking particularly garish against the drab walls. William Fitzroy leaned against the wall in one corner, not speaking to anybody. He stared into the distance, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders hunched. Others looked more social. A couple of the queen’s old maids-in-waiting stood together by a painting of white horses, whispering together behind their hands. Torsten Wolff was talking to an older gentleman whose name I had forgotten. And Rasmus Holt stood near the middle of the room, his back to the door.
“Her Majesty, Queen Freya!” the guards announced. The room fell silent. Every single person looked at me. Torsten Wolff, William Fitzroy in his corner, the gossiping girls. They bowed and curtsied, almost as one, but no one lowered their eyes.
Rasmus Holt had turned at the announcement. He watched me now, his eyebrows raised. He looked over my hair—still enormous, still in place—my skirt like a muffin, the jewels shimmering on my skin. He frowned in disapproval. I gripped my left elbow with my right hand, fighting the urge to cringe away.
He took a step toward me, revealing the person he had been talking to. It was Madeleine Wolff. My new heir. She was as petite as always, stunningly beautiful, with honey-brown hair and large brown eyes. She oozed confidence and elegance, from the little quirk of her head to the angle she held her thin wrist.
My stomach flipped at the sight of her. She was so effortlessly regal, like the world was moments away from falling at her feet. For a moment, a flash of thought, I hated her. She was everything I needed to be, and she didn’t have to try. But even as I thought it, I knew I couldn’t really despise her. She was enchanting.
I tore my gaze away, searching for the grand chair, the one my father had told me to take. My gaze settled on William Fitzroy again. He stood straighter now, and he was looking at me. My heart thudded. He frowned, like he was debating something, and I quickly looked away. The chair was at far side of the room. I just needed to reach it. But as I began to walk toward it, Holt intercepted me.
“Your Majesty,” he said. “May I introduce you to Madeleine Wolff?”
“Your Majesty.” She sank into a perfect curtsy. “It is so wonderful to meet you. I am sorry I missed your coronation. I so wished to be here, but my estate is a day-and-a-half’s journey away, and by the time I learned of it, it was too late to attend. But I hurried here as soon as I learned the news.”
“Thank you.” It felt like the wrong thing to say, it didn’t really make sense, but I had to say something. My heart had started pounding again, like Madeleine was about to attack me. But she wasn’t. Of course she wasn’t. I needed to stop panicking. I needed to stop.
“Young Madeleine just arrived,” Holt said. “I told her she should rest, but she wished to see you immediately.”
Madeleine did not look like someone who had stumbled from a carriage after a day and a half on the road. She looked flawless.
“Her Majesty mentioned to me that you had never met,” Holt added to Madeleine, “but I am sure you will get on wonderfully. Madeleine is an artist, Your Majesty. A very talented one.”
“You are too kind,” Madeleine said. “I paint, yes. But I would not call myself an artist.”
“What do you paint?”
“Landscapes, usually. The kingdom. The things I see from the window. The things I wish I saw.” She smiled. “Do you paint, Your Majesty?”
I shook my head. “I’m not very artistic.”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s not the case. That’s the wonderful thing about art, I find. You can always create something, and it’s certain to have worth if you look at it with the proper eye.”
Her words sounded like the usual court babble, but she didn’t seem to be mocking me. She rested her fingers on my forearm as she spoke, like we were the best of friends already, and I couldn’t resist leaning closer, too.
“Your Majesty.” My father strode toward us. “Do you
not wish to sit?”
“I am sure the queen will sit when she wishes, Titus,” Holt said. There was a note of warning in his voice. “She is getting to know Madeleine Wolff here.”
“I should sit,” I said quickly. That had been the rule. I needed to look powerful. I needed to make people come to me.
But it felt so unnatural to stumble through the room and take the largest chair, facing the lingering court. Conversation had picked up again, the remaining people clinging together in twos and threes. People glanced at me, but no one approached. They seemed happy to analyze from a distance. My eyes met William Fitzroy’s from across the room. He stared back at me, but I couldn’t read his expression.
I shifted on the chair, an itch running down my legs. I couldn’t remember how to place them.
Madeleine Wolff followed me and sank into an elegant curtsy. “May I sit, Your Majesty?”
I nodded, and she slipped into the chair beside me. She glanced around the room, taking in the surviving faces. “It is so strange,” she said. “To be back. I was close to so many people here, so many who are gone. The queen. Rosaline Hayes—did you know Rosaline? I have never met a sweeter person, or a meaner one. Oh, she was so kind to her friends, but if you crossed her, she would strike you down so cleverly and succinctly that it would take you a week to realize she had mocked you.”
Yes, I remembered Rosaline. She had clearly never considered me worthy of whatever kindness she possessed. She usually just raised her eyebrows and laughed whenever I was near.
“Oh, you did not like her?” Madeleine said. “I can tell by your expression. She was difficult to like, I suppose, if she did not want you to like her. But I would prefer to think everyone has something worthwhile in them, if only you take the chance to look.”
This was not what I’d expected from Madeleine Wolff, popular court figure and new heir. She seemed so . . . genuine. It didn’t fit, that someone at the center of court could be genuine, even kind, that she could actually like anyone, no matter how evil or how sweet.
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