“It still doesn’t sound very diplomatic,” Fitzroy said. “But it’s much better than before.”
I tugged my fingers through my hair, pulling it half loose from its braid. At least I was making progress. I could do this.
“Did the experiment work?” Fitzroy asked.
“Will that help my defense?”
“I don’t know. I was just wondering. Did it work?”
“No,” I said softly. “No, it didn’t work.” I shook my head and stood, stretching out my shoulders. The pile of papers at the far side of the room caught my eye. Fitzroy had gone to the palace this morning and brought back as many letters as he could carry. The disorganization made my teeth clench. But there was no good way to sort them before reading them all, and I didn’t want to lose time. So the pages were just piled there, to be read in whatever random order Fitzroy had gathered them in.
I’d spent two hours on them already, with Fitzroy and Naomi. We’d found nothing. Fitzroy planned to return to the palace for more papers that night, but I didn’t have time to go through the rest now. I needed to practice, and to prepare. I would be visiting people around the city that afternoon, and trying to convince them I was not as horrible as Sten and the extremists claimed.
There was no realistic way it could go well. But if I dwelled on that, I’d never get out the door. I had practiced my words and my smiles. I could do this.
I walked across the room now, practicing my “regal but welcoming” gait. Dagny leaped from the table to follow, which didn’t really make walking any easier. Fitzroy watched me, but he did not comment, while Naomi worked in the corner, double checking the weights of all her samples.
“Your Majesty?” The brunette guard, Carina, poked her head through the door. “Madeleine Wolff is here to see you.”
“All right,” I said. “Let her in.”
“Freya,” Madeleine said, as she stepped in. “I was told I’d find you here. We need to start getting ready for your outing.” For the first time I could remember, Madeleine was the one who appeared out of place. Her skirt was huge, the silk ruffles skimming the dusty, bloodstained floor. She smiled as she looked around the room, but her posture wasn’t entirely composed. “The old torture chamber is a strange choice.”
“It was the best place for what I needed to do.”
“Not torturing people, I hope. That would be terrible etiquette for a queen.”
“It would be traditional,” Fitzroy said.
“Then I’m glad our queen is not a traditionalist.” Madeleine moved farther into the room, looking over the bottles and vials, the books, Naomi still sorting out the wires. “Naomi,” she said. “What are you doing?”
“We’re going to try placing different metals in arsenic solution,” Naomi said. “Freya thinks it might be a way to detect it—”
“I can’t be certain,” I said. “But I think it’s possible. And we have to try something.”
Madeleine nodded. “You—you’re working on finding the murderer?”
“Among other things.”
“I suppose my cousin is your main suspect now.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “He’s suspicious, but—” It didn’t fit. It didn’t feel like he was responsible. That was terrible reasoning, I knew, but it just didn’t fit. “He doesn’t have the motive. For him to kill all his friends . . .” I shook my head. “I have to find out who it was. I have to find proof.”
“So people will fight for you?”
“I’m hoping we won’t have to fight at all.”
Madeleine sat on the spare stool at the end of the table, her skirts cascading around her. “You think finding the truth will stop him from attacking you?”
“It won’t,” Fitzroy said. “Sten’s committed to this now.”
“My cousin—he’s always been a very logical person, ever since we were children. And he believes in justice, more than anything else. But I think he’s blinded himself to that now, or to the truth, at least. He’s convinced himself you are responsible, because it would be so straightforward if you were, and he so desperately wants an answer to this murder. He wants something he can do, to fight against it. Now he’s on this path . . . it will be hard to change his mind.”
“But you said yourself, he’s not a murderer,” Naomi said. “If Freya could prove she was innocent, or find who was responsible, and bring the evidence to him . . . if he really wants justice, he’d have to stop fighting her. Wouldn’t he?”
Madeleine sighed. “I wouldn’t place all your hopes on it,” she said. “He might well assume you’re trying to trick him, and finding evidence will be hard. It would be best if—”
“If we fight him?” I said. “That can’t be the best thing to do.” I raked my fingers through my hair. “It’s worth a try, to convince him.”
It was worth more than that, though. I couldn’t imagine that I would fail, not when success was so important. I could picture it already. I’d go to him, with Madeleine—he trusted Madeleine, so she would be a good person to use. She’d tell him the truth, offer him a pardon. He’d refuse to accept it at first, but when he saw the evidence, when Madeleine implored him to see reason, he would surrender. We’d catch the murderer, and everything would return to normal.
I had to be right.
Madeleine had been happy to take over Naomi’s styling duties, and Naomi had been more than happy to let her. Madeleine had brought hundreds of pots of makeup and hair ornaments with her when she moved into my chambers, and she laid them out on the table now, considering them before starting her masterpiece.
She styled me without reference to anyone, dressing me in an elegant dress without too many layers, and leaving the makeup light and bright. It wasn’t the fashion of the old court, but the look in the mirror suited me. I looked regal.
Madeleine separated out sections of my hair, sweeping it back one way, and then another. “The king was sick,” she said softly. “Did you know that?”
I shook my head.
“I don’t think many people did. He was unwell, for the past six or seven months at least. Not life-threatening, I don’t believe, but it scared him. He didn’t want anyone to know.”
“But you knew?”
“With my own illness . . . it was very different, of course, but I think he thought I might understand. It was strange, to hear him speak of it. He seemed so vulnerable. I was not accustomed to seeing him as a vulnerable man.”
“You were friends with him?”
“Not especially, before that. I’d never thought he cared for much outside himself and his own comfort, and that makes for a poor friend. And I did not always approve of his politics. The nobility have so much here, and everyone else is left to scrape for themselves, but he never made any effort to change things.”
“What would you want him to have changed?”
“People dying because they don’t have access to simple medicines. People kicked out of their homes because they cannot afford the rent. Farmers who go hungry because they can’t afford their own food. It is time somebody noticed. My cousin notices. But he is not helping things, with this attack.”
“I wouldn’t have thought you’d be interested in politics.”
“One can be interested in both fashion and politics, don’t you think? They so often go hand in hand. Appearances, saying the right words, making people like you . . .”
“I wish politics wasn’t like that.”
“Me too. But we have to do it, if we want to help.”
I stared at our reflections in the mirror. Madeleine ran her fingers through my hair, and prickles chased over my scalp. “I think my mother felt the same way. About court.”
Madeleine smiled. “What was she like?”
“Perfect. She always saw the good in everything . . . she told me people are waiting for you to let them in, if you’ll just give them a chance.” A lesson I’d decided several years ago only applied to people like my mother.
“I heard she was a legend of the cour
t. The king’s relative, running off and marrying a merchant. And somehow convincing them all to accept it, without any consequences at all.”
“She could have convinced anybody of anything.” She’d even convinced me of my own worth, once. That I should embrace my own strengths, and others would love me for them, regardless of how I doubted myself. It had been a beautiful lie to a nine-year-old, but no one had been around to perpetuate it since.
“I don’t remember much about my mother,” Madeleine said. “She died when I was four. But I remember, she always smelled of turpentine, from the paints she used. I don’t remember her painting, but we still have her work in our manor, and so it is like she is there, too, or her perspective is, the way she saw the world.”
“Is that why you started painting?”
“I don’t know.” She considered my reflection for a moment, and then reached for a fine paintbrush on the table. She popped it in her mouth, almost absentmindedly, smoothing the bristles, before dipping it into a pot of red lip color. “I didn’t start until a couple of years ago, when I was home after my first bout of illness. I was terrible at it. But there was something soothing about it . . . it’s somehow freeing but methodical, you know. I felt like I had a connection with my mother as I worked. And luckily I have something of her in me, because I learned quickly enough. And now I am the one who sometimes smells of turpentine.”
“My mother smelled of lavender,” I said. But as I spoke the words, I wondered if they were true. I knew my mother loved lavender, she’d had a little water spray . . . but did I actually remember the scent of lavender, or was it just the idea that I clung to?
Madeleine swept the red paint over my lips, and then stepped back. “There. All done. What do you think?”
She must have spun some kind of magic. My hair looked extravagant and sophisticated, without overwhelming me or making me look like the uncertain girl I really was. The way the sides swept back created the illusion of cheekbones, and the spirals at the back of my head created volume without seeming overdone. A small curtain of black hair fell down from the bun, as straight as always, but the straightness looked purposeful now, refined rather than limp.
As a finishing touch, Madeleine draped the Star of Valanthe around my neck. It was the only jewel I wore.
“It looks wonderful,” I said. “Really, thank you.”
“I told you. You need to look like a queen. No one said you needed to look like the last queen.”
I nodded. The pins didn’t shift as I’d have expected. I felt confident, secure. I stood up and pulled Madeleine into a hug. Madeleine flushed, her smile growing. “I’m glad you like it. My art is useful, is it not? Now, let’s go and show those people what sort of queen you can be.”
TWENTY-ONE
RAIN HAD DRIZZLED ALL MORNING, LEAVING PUDDLES on the roads and a light mist in the air. My carriage moved slowly through the streets. The two gray horses had looked pure and regal when I’d stepped out of the Fort, but they were probably covered in mud now.
The rest of the city seemed to have decided to stay inside, out of the rain. I peered around the curtains, but I couldn’t see any passersby. The sky was a gray canvas above us.
“Where is everybody? Did they not want to come out to see me?” The words sounded arrogant, but that had been the point, hadn’t it? I couldn’t convince people to like me if they couldn’t see me.
“We didn’t announce that you were heading here today,” Norling said. “It wouldn’t be safe. We’ll go to the orphanage, but we’ll do it quietly.”
“We can’t do it quietly.” Without an audience, the whole exercise was useless. I wasn’t putting my life at risk and my nerves to the test if it wouldn’t help me. I had to make people like me. “Stop the carriage.”
“Your Majesty?”
“Stop the carriage. I want to walk.”
“But, Your Majesty—”
“I need to be seen.” My father had pushed for aloofness, but he wasn’t here anymore. I only had Holt, and Norling, and my own wits, and I couldn’t be aloof now. Acting like the old king, when half the people seemed to have hated him, when people wanted to get rid of the nobility altogether . . . what good would that do? I needed to prove that I wasn’t like them, that I wasn’t snobby and corrupt. That perhaps I was a person the Forgotten could approve of after all.
And for that, I would need to walk.
I stepped out the moment the carriage stopped, and Madeleine and Naomi slipped out behind me. Once I got past the narrow vantage point of the carriage window, I saw that there were people farther down the street—a few shoppers, striding along with baskets over their arms, a gang of teenagers on the corner, merchants and traders and other distracted figures hurrying about their business.
Holt and Norling climbed out of the carriage, too. Holt smiled slightly, but Norling was looking about in frustration. “All right,” she said. “All right. Guards, lead the way. We will be proceeding on foot.”
“Make way!” one of the guards shouted, as he marched ahead. “Make way for Queen Freya!”
That got people to look. I forced my spine straight, rotating my shoulders back, trying to remember everything my father had taught me about being queen.
Except that wasn’t what I was doing now. Good posture might help, but otherwise, those displays hadn’t benefited me yet. Holt and Madeleine had told me to be different, to be myself, and . . . well, that had to be easier than these shows of royalty. I smiled at the group of shoppers, a little weakly perhaps, but still a smile. One of them curtsied.
Another of them stared me down. She didn’t shout anything, gave no other sign of aggression, but I could see it in her eyes. She’d heard I was a murderer, and she was assessing what she saw.
One of the merchants tipped his hat. “Good afternoon, Your Majesty. What brings you out into the city?” It was bold, greeting the queen like that. Would King Jorgen have accepted it? Would he have laughed and replied, or had the man arrested for rudeness?
It didn’t matter. All that mattered was what I wanted to do. “Good afternoon,” I said. My voice shook slightly, but it wasn’t too bad. “We’re traveling to the Stonegate Orphanage, on the northern side of the city.”
Another man laughed. “And you care about things like that, now you’ve been accused of being a murderer?”
A guard strode toward him, but I held out my hand. “I always cared. I just realized I should be doing more to show it.”
The man frowned at me, and I took the opportunity to walk on again. The shoppers bobbed into curtsies as I passed.
“Your Majesty,” Norling hissed, as we walked on. “That was not appropriate.”
I knew. But lying or ignoring people wouldn’t help me. Maybe this would.
We passed more people as we walked farther into the city, and other carts clattered past us. I could feel myself shrinking inward, trying to increase the space between me and the crowds, but I kept my back straight, and counted the length of my breaths. I tried to focus on the details as we walked—the moody gray of the sky, the splash of water under my feet, the way the streetlights were reflected in the shop windows. Be present, I told myself. Don’t panic.
As we turned toward the poorer neighborhoods on the north side of the city, a woman stumbled toward us. She must have been in her fifties, with a gaunt face and an eager expression. My guards moved to intercept her.
“Your Majesty,” she said. “Please. Let me have your blessing.”
“My blessing?” I stepped around the guards and moved closer. “What do you mean?”
“My business is in trouble, Your Majesty. Too many debts. I don’t want your charity, Your Majesty, but I hoped—perhaps if you could bless me, in the name of the Forgotten, I mean . . . that might help.”
It was the strangest request I’d ever heard. “I can’t do that,” I said. “I can’t bless you.”
“But you’re the Forgotten’s chosen, Your Majesty. Please.”
I stared at her. I couldn’t li
e to her. A few comforting words wouldn’t help her at all. But she looked so hopeful. I leaned forward and rested a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I—I bless you,” I said. “In the name of the Forgotten. May all your debts be solved, and your business flourish.” I paused. “What is your business? And your name?”
“Mary, Your Majesty. Mary Howard. I make buttons.”
If my father had been here, he would have known how to advise her. But I was on my own with this now. “Come to the Fort tomorrow. We’ll see what we can do.”
“I don’t want charity, Your Majesty.”
“It won’t be charity. But I want to help. In the name of the Forgotten.”
That last part felt a bit much, but the woman beamed at me and curtsied again.
I couldn’t settle as I walked on. People asking for my blessing was less frightening than people asking for my head, but I was no chosen one, no savior. This had to be Holt’s work, convincing people that the Forgotten had selected me somehow, but for people to believe that . . .
A few more people asked me to bless them, but most watched in silence, perhaps stretching to a tip of the hat or a curtsy. I could feel them assessing me, this unexpected queen walking through their streets.
The sky darkened as we left the main streets behind and headed into the more dangerous alleys beyond. I’d never stepped foot in this part of the city before. The buildings were crammed close together, bending slightly over the street, as though threatening anyone who dared walk beneath. The streets smelled, too, of waste and rot and too many bodies crammed together. Madeleine strode ahead, nodding for me to follow her. She led us deeper into the maze of streets, until she stopped before a rickety door. Young voices shouted from inside.
I forced myself to take a steadying breath as Madeleine knocked on the door.
The woman who finally answered was in her sixties, with cropped gray hair and wrinkles around her eyes. She looked completely exhausted, but she beamed when she saw Madeleine.
“Lady Madeleine!” she said. “You’re back. I’m so glad. I worried, when I heard what happened at the palace—”
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