“I don’t know if you can say anyone is only one type or the other,” Madeleine said carefully. “I think it depends on both people, and the circumstances. From what I’ve seen, he cares about you, Freya. But I’m not the person you should be asking.”
“I can’t ask him.”
“Of course you can,” she said with a grin. “You’re queen. You can do anything you like.”
Norling accosted me in the corridor outside the meeting room that night. “Your Majesty. May I have a moment?”
I nodded. She stood near the wall, almost in the shadows, and she beckoned me closer. “I need to tell you, Your Majesty, that we have found some of the Gustavites. We know where a few of them are staying, and the location of one of their meetings, tomorrow. What would you like us to do?”
We should arrest them, I knew. They’d tried to kill me, they could still have been the ones who killed the king. And yet—and yet. That idea came to me again, that perhaps I could talk to them, perhaps, if they knew me, they might be willing to support me.
It was a crazy, dangerous idea. And yet.
“Don’t do anything,” I said. “Not now.”
“This opportunity won’t last long, Your Majesty.”
“I just need to think about it.” And figure out whether my idea was complete lunacy, or only mostly insane.
Norling frowned, but she didn’t argue. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
I stepped toward the door again. The entire remaining court would be waiting inside, whatever that meant these days. Five people? Four? I still had to win them over, still had to seem like a good queen, despite all the things I’d done to upset them, despite everything.
And Fitzroy would be in there too. Fitzroy. My stomach jumped. The only thing scarier than seeing him again tonight would be not seeing him again, knowing he was hiding from me.
I let out a long breath and stepped through the door.
There was no fanfare this time, no startling announcement of my importance. But everyone looked up as I entered, sinking into bows and curtsies. The group was bigger than I’d expected. Twenty people, perhaps—Holt, Naomi, Madeleine, and Fitzroy, but also others I’d barely ever spoken to, people with no personal motivation to be here.
And none of the women were wearing the old fashions of the court. None of them. Their skirts were smaller, slighter, with less layers. Their hair was half loose, half pinned, no strange shapes and huge wire forms in sight. Even their jewels were kept to a minimum, as though they had all decided, as one, that such things were rather gaudy after all.
This was Madeleine’s doing.
It was my doing.
Madeleine’s, because yes, she had changed the way I dressed, altering the styles so that they didn’t swallow me, so that any natural hints of regality in me shone through. But mine, because they were emulating me. They wanted to look like I did.
That meant acceptance, didn’t it? That I was the leader, not the outsider, that these people, at least, were happy to see changes in the court. They were embracing me, symbolically at least, showing their support.
I felt stronger, just looking at them. The people who stayed. I’d spent my whole life terrified of failing to be who people wanted me to be, unable to speak in case the words were wrong, in case people laughed . . . but people had laughed at all my pretenses, all my ostentatious attempts to be queen. This group, this small group, was still here, still showing their support. And it might be fake, it might be politics, all part of the game, but not to all of them. Madeleine believed in me, and so did Fitzroy, and if they could, why couldn’t others? How many had just been playing the game of the court before, loathing it but continuing because everyone else acted that way? How many had avoided the capital to avoid it all?
I was done pretending. The court had been shattered, and we couldn’t rebuild it, not without a million cracks showing through. I had to be honest. I couldn’t trust my advisers, and the murderer might have been on my side, so what else could I do, in the face of all that, except stop playing any sort of game and just be? Be queen as I wanted to be queen, in the court and out. Be myself, be Queen Freya, be whatever sort of person that turned out to be.
I stepped forward to the front of the room. “Hi,” I said. An awkward start. “I just wanted to say something before—while things are quiet.” Don’t cringe, I told myself. Don’t think. Just keep going. “I know things are incredibly uncertain right now. Uncertain, and frightening. And I’m going to do everything I can to keep everyone safe, but it’s still scary, not knowing what will happen. For you all to remain here—I really appreciate it. Not in terms of lands and bribes and favors, but in real, genuine—” I stumbled for the words. How could I finish that? “I appreciate it,” I said again. “And also—I know some people have been upset with the things I’ve done since I became queen. Torsten Wolff, certainly. That I haven’t been harsher on our enemies, that I’ve been too concerned with the people and not put all of you first.” I could feel everyone watching me. I could feel Fitzroy watching me. “But I think that—everyone in Epria deserves a chance. I was just nobody, twenty-third in line, and now I’m queen, and I think . . . we can be so much greater, so much better, if we help everybody. If we care about everybody. We don’t need to throw jewels in rivers and cover ourselves in gold to show our worth and our strength. We can do it in other ways, by making the kingdom greater, by treating people well, by—we can be better than we are now, I know we can. We have so much, and we enjoy so much, and we can still enjoy it, still live our lives, but if we don’t use that power to make things better, who even are we? And perhaps Sten disagrees, but . . . that’s what I believe. I hope you all believe it, too.”
I held my breath, standing, waiting, as the world crashed back into me. The knowledge of who I was, where I was, what I’d done. I might have made a mistake. I could have ruined everything.
Everyone was silent, waiting for me speak again, or else just unsure what to do. “Anyway,” I said, to fill the quiet. “I think we need . . . we should relax. Have some music?”
Madeleine smiled, sweeping back into her perfect courtly role once again. “How about charades, Your Majesty? We haven’t played that in ages. Perhaps you could adjudicate?”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, that sounds perfect.”
Nobody ran from the room. No one muttered angrily when I stepped out of earshot. We played, and we talked, and I felt right. Still slightly drained from all the interaction, still slightly unsure of what people might do next, but something had clicked, some knowledge that I could actually do this, I could be queen the way I wanted, and the consequences would be whatever the consequences would be.
“It was a good speech, Your Majesty,” Holt said, later that evening. “A little spontaneous, perhaps, but good.”
“Thank you.” I said, even as I cringed away from his praise. The speech had been messy, I knew that, but I felt liberated by it. I’d laid everything out, and I’d survived.
And so I knew what I needed to do. “Norling mentioned that you found the Gustavites. I want you to contact them and ask them to meet with me. Tomorrow.”
“You want to invite them to the Fort?”
“No, I’ll meet them wherever they’re planning to meet. Make it clear that we know everything about them, but that this isn’t a threat. I need to talk to them about their ideas.”
“Your Majesty! They tried to murder you.”
“One of them did. But she said the others didn’t help her. That most of them didn’t agree. And I need to find out what they think. It’s important.”
“It’s dangerous, Your Majesty.”
I looked him in the eye, hands shaking slightly. This man who might have killed everyone, for me, the man who might want to kill Fitzroy, too. “What isn’t?” I said.
TWENTY-SEVEN
I COULDN’T SETTLE TO SLEEP THAT NIGHT. THE DAY’S events still pulsed through me, and, now that I was safe in the dark, I finally allowed myself to dwell on that kiss.
And all right, yes, I wasn’t entirely hopeless. I could weigh the evidence, gather the facts, and see where they might point in any other scenario. His refusing to leave, his telling me he liked me, that kiss. The pointed looks during our conversation, the fact that he opened up to me, even when we had just met, despite almost never opening up to anybody . . . a bystander might look down the list and decide the answer was obvious.
But that missed the clear argument to the contrary. This was happening to me. I could imagine people occasionally deciding to be my friend. They’d listen to my ideas, yes. But they couldn’t like me beyond that.
I was queen, but I was still me. People like me might get one small, brief kiss of friendship. And we might confuse that for something more. But we didn’t . . . it didn’t make sense.
With a grunt of annoyance, I climbed out of bed, waking up Dagny from her spot by my feet, and grabbed some paper. Written down, the evidence for and against seemed ridiculously unbalanced. “Because it’s me” did not look like a reason at all, once it was detached from my brain. But still . . . it felt like reason enough.
“Freya? What are you doing?” Naomi peered around her bedroom door, rubbing her eyes. “I saw your light. Did you have a breakthrough?”
I clutched the paper. “No, it’s all right. I was just thinking. Go back to sleep.”
“You’re making a pro and con list about Fitzroy, aren’t you?”
“It’s not that.” She raised her eyebrows expectantly, and I sighed. “It’s a ‘what does Fitzroy think about me’ list.”
“Just go talk to him, Freya. He’s the only one who could tell you.”
I could, technically, but . . . “I don’t know where he’ll be.”
“He’s waiting down in the lab for you. Where else would he be?”
“You don’t know that.”
“Oh, I do.”
At least if I asked him, I would know. I could stop this obsessing. The thought terrified me, the risk of humiliation too great, but I’d faced the court, hadn’t I? I could do this. “I guess I could—gather evidence. To reach a proper conclusion.”
Naomi laughed. “Well, go on, then. Be sure to tell me how it goes.”
Naomi was right, of course. I wasn’t sure whether that was relieving or annoying. Fitzroy was in the laboratory, more papers spread in front of him. He looked up when I walked into the room, and his smile was a little more tentative than usual. Maybe slightly awkward. Because of how I was acting? Because he regretted the kiss?
I had to speak before doubt got in the way. “What did you mean,” I said, “when you said you liked me?”
His smile shrank another fraction. He looked decidedly unsure now as he stood. “Was it not clear?”
“Well, I assume it means you like me. But how do you like me? It’s an imprecise word, really, don’t you think? I mean, do you like me like I’m your friend, or do you like me like you—like me in a different way.”
He was walking slowly toward me. I resisted the urge to take a step backward. “You said ‘like’ a lot there. It was confusing.”
“You understood what I meant.”
“I did.” He moved closer still. An arm’s length away. “Do you tend to kiss your friends like that, Freya?”
“No.” The word came out quieter than I’d like. “But some people do. And it was just a tiny kiss, and—”
I knew this time, a moment before it happened. Fitzroy moved closer, and I shifted forward to meet him.
My second kiss. I was kissing Fitzroy. Fitzroy’s hand was curled around the back of my neck. Fitzroy’s fingers were tangled in my hair. Fitzroy was . . . Fitzroy.
How could I possibly have ever thought I didn’t like him? That the way my stomach swooped, and my heart raced, and my thoughts calmed, was an inconsequential thing?
I was aware of every breath, of the blood racing through my veins, of the spot where Fitzroy’s nose bumped against mine. The slight difference in height, the tiniest shift of Fitzroy’s hand. I cataloged every detail, savoring them, saving them.
He pulled back, paused a couple of inches from my face. “Does that answer your question?”
I shook my head, just an inch, left and right. “No.” My voice came out breathy, like someone else was speaking. I had to know. “There are many potential interpretations for that.”
“Such as?” His eyebrows rose in a challenge.
“You just wanted to stop me talking. Or maybe you want to practice kissing. Or you just want to kiss the queen, but you can’t admit it, so you keep kissing me so you don’t have to lie to me. Or you’re just . . . very friendly . . . with your friends.”
“Then how’s this?” The question sounded grandiose, something Fitzroy the courtier would say, but then he paused. “I like you not just as a friend. And I don’t usually go around kissing my friends like that.”
“Not usually?”
“Not as a rule. I like you because you’re you, Freya. In all your stubborn strangeness. And because you make me feel like me. I told you the first time I talked to you, that’s not—I’m never sure who I really am. And it’s different when I’m with you.”
“Well,” I said, with a slight smile. “I think I like you, too.”
“You think?”
“I think.”
He laughed softly. “But do you like me as a friend, or as a lab assistant, or perhaps as the old king’s son who now won’t leave, or—”
“I like you as Fitzroy,” I said, with a decisive nod.
“Well,” he said. “I guess I’ll take that.”
And he kissed me again.
The Gustavites did not agree to meet me. Holt didn’t even ask them. “They would run, Your Majesty, before the request was complete,” he said the next day, in a soothing voice. “They’d think it was a trap, or else lay a trap for you.”
And so we were surprising them. I wasn’t sure that was safer, considering how they might react, but I wasn’t going to shake in my resolve now.
I cared more about fashion that morning than I ever had before. I tried on five different crowns and tiaras, not wanting to look too extravagant, not wanting to hide the fact that I was queen. Eventually, I settled for a simple diadem, the Star of Valanthe hanging around my neck.
Fog had settled low over the city, cloaking the alleyways, making the world feel close. Nothing seemed to exist beyond my carriage, my guards, and our small stretch of road as we proceeded through the quiet.
I was going to be sick. It was all I could think about. I was always nervous before speaking, often forgot how to breathe, but now I truly, genuinely felt like the contents of my stomach were about to spill all over the carriage floor. What was I doing?
The right thing, I told myself. The thing I needed to do.
It wasn’t much comfort, as acid bubbled in my throat. My fingers tingled with the beginnings of panic, but I counted my breath, willing it away.
The carriage stopped outside a nondescript manor house on a normal-looking street. I stepped out, ordering myself not to vomit. It wasn’t that it was dangerous, although that should really have been my concern. It was that I didn’t know what to expect. I had no idea what I was walking into, and yet I needed to speak to them. I knew these people hated me, and I still needed to try and change their minds. It wasn’t exactly a task I was well suited for.
But I was here. I could do this.
A couple of guards went ahead, to announce my arrival. I’d instructed them to be as nonthreatening as possible, but I still cringed as they knocked on the door. If this ended in violence . . .
It didn’t. They were too sensible for that, at least. Better to pretend it was a normal gathering, to deny and deny until the lie sounded like truth. The man who answered the door remained calm, not betraying even a flash of conce
rn when he saw the guards. When my men told him that I wished to speak to them, with no mention of who we believed they were, he bowed without hesitation, his lips forming words of joyful surprise. Inside, people must have been scrambling to hide anything suspect, but the man was the picture of calm.
He bowed again as I approached.
“It is good to meet you,” I said.
“And you, Your Majesty.”
He was a good actor. He would have done well in court.
He led me and two of my guards through the entrance hall and into a busy sitting room. A mishmash of people had gathered there, from boys younger than me to a woman with ghost-white hair and more wrinkles than skin. Some were dressed in rough cotton and wool, some finer clothes, a couple dressed like the lower edges of nobility—people from all parts of the city, all parts of life, perhaps thirty of them in all. The group was bigger than my court.
They weren’t all as good at acting as the man who opened the door. Fear vibrated through the room, and while some looked at me with wide, uncertain eyes, others looked almost aggressive, their expressions daring me to challenge them. They would be the ones to watch.
No one moved to acknowledge my arrival. They all seemed too startled, or else too angry. I guessed it would never have crossed their minds that the queen might stroll into their meeting this afternoon and give them a not-quite-natural little smile. If the king had walked into my home a month ago, I’d have fallen over my own feet in shock, and I had seen him frequently, even if it was usually from afar.
No one spoke. They didn’t seem to know what to do. “Thank you,” I said eventually. I didn’t vomit on them—the first success of the meeting. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”
More stares. Then the elderly woman near the door seemed to remember herself. “Your Majesty.” She stood, slowly, and began to curtsy. Her face contorted from the effort, like she was in pain.
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