Anthony felt tired, and sick, and his head spun. “Thank you for making yourself clear, mother,” he said. “I’m going to bed now. I’ll call on you later, if you’re willing to receive me.” He stood and staggered to the stairs leading to his bedroom. His mother didn’t follow him. He fell, fully clothed, onto his bed, and was asleep seconds after his head hit the mattress.
He woke in the late afternoon, mouth tasting like stale piss, eyes gummy with sleep, head stuck to the mattress with a rope of saliva. Finally I look as despicable as I feel, he thought as he wiped his mouth and sat up. Now he was hung over. He staggered into his bathing room and stared at himself in the mirror. No one was going to call him handsome any time soon; no one was going to look at him as if he were the only man in the world, or whisper into his ear that she loved him. His eyes watered, almost certainly because the light was too bright.
He set about turning himself human again. He bathed, and washed and combed his hair. He dismissed his valet and shaved himself, carefully, his hand shaking a bit from his debauch. He dressed himself in semi-formal clothing and found a pair of boots that still had some polish left; he couldn’t find the boot-blacking kit. He went to the kitchen, ignoring the staff, who all looked at him in confusion, and ate something out of the cold locker, even though the idea of food made him queasy. He found his greatcoat and eased into it, feeling like an old man. Then he went into the library.
She hadn’t quite finished the job. There was an empty shelf, a few piles of books on the floor and tables, and a single volume sitting on a chair near the window as if she’d just gotten up to get a cup of tea before returning to her reading. He ran his fingers along the spines, looking at the titles. The new order was as meaningless to him as the old. He avoided looking at the chaise longue in the corner. The scent of her filled the air; if he closed his eyes, he could imagine her lying there, waiting for him. She’d thrown that intimacy back in his face, poisoned it with the accusation that he’d only wanted to make love with her to win that damned bet. No, he’d poisoned it himself. He remembered how she’d looked that day, the passion and trust in her eyes, the waves of blond ringlets spread out around her, her glorious breasts, and wished he’d drunk himself to death after all.
He left the house and walked to the palace. It wasn’t that far away, and he needed to clear the last of the alcohol from his head. The palace guards ignored him as he went through the gate and up the stairs towards the north wing. He went to the reception desk and formally requested an audience with the Queen. The receptionist, a man about Anthony’s age, seemed surprised that the Prince might need a formal audience, but put the request through. Anthony waited. Finally an older woman stuck her head out of a door and beckoned to him. She led him down a short hall to Zara’s office and opened the door for him. Zara sat at her desk, writing. She didn’t look up. “Yes?” she asked.
Anthony took a deep breath. “You already know what happened,” he said. “You’ll probably want to yell at me. Mother did. I deserve it. But I want to say something before that, so you can’t say later that I only said it because you yelled at me.”
Zara still didn’t look up. She waved a hand as if to say ‘get on with it.’
Anthony took another deep breath, let it out slowly. “I did all of this to myself,” he said. “I was a fool. I was selfish. I was a coward. And I think on some level I knew all those things about myself, but I had an amazing woman who loved me and I thought that meant I must not be so bad after all. I didn’t do anything to change, because I didn’t realize I had to. I know she’s never coming back. I know I hurt her too badly for her to forgive me. I’m not saying I can make her love me again. I just…I think I would like to become the man I should have been, the man she thought I was. I think he must be someone worth knowing.”
He waited. Zara said nothing. He knew she could use silence like a weapon, so he continued to wait, not moving, until she raised her head. “Now that,” she said, “is something I believe we can work with.”
PART TWO
Chapter Fifteen
Three months later
Alison Quinn pushed open the door that read MARTIN QUINN, EDITOR and walked into her father’s office, tapping a slim sheaf of papers against her leg. “You can’t be serious,” she said, waving the manuscript in her father’s face.
Father set the document he was reading on a pile of other papers and looked at her with calculated innocence. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, you absolutely know what I mean. We can’t publish this. It’s dreck. I told you it was dreck when Shereen sent it in. And here it is with your chop boldly on the first page okaying it for publication. And then you have the gall to assign it to me.”
“You’ve worked with Shereen on her other books. It was an obvious choice.”
“Her other books didn’t have recycled imagery and sentimental hogwash dripping from every line. It’s embarrassing.”
“We can sell it on the strength of her name alone. And before you tell me our reputation as a publisher is at stake, let me remind you that as successful as we are, we can still use the guaranteed sales.”
“Can’t we find something else? Something not made of sugar-coated treacle?”
Her father’s eyes narrowed. “Alison, Shereen Wilson is a sweet woman who considers you a friend. Imagine how she’d feel if she could hear you talking right now. I’m tired of your bitterness spilling over into your work.”
“It’s not affecting my work.”
“You haven’t had a kind thing to say about any new manuscripts since you came back from Aurilien. You’ve changed, and not for the better.”
Alison’s face tightened. “I wonder why that is.”
“Alison, the talk has died down. You’re not the subject of gossip anymore, even if it was sympathetic gossip. You need to move on.”
“As if it were as simple as that.”
“It’s not simple. But you’re hanging on to your anger and pain. I can’t bear to see you torturing yourself. None of this was your fault. Stop blaming yourself.”
The frozen mask began to descend and she shook her head to dispel it. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Father.”
“Don’t apologize to me. Just find a way to forgive yourself for whatever sins you feel you’ve committed.” He paused, and added, “And stop being so isolated. That young man last night, Brenton something—”
“Brendan Videros. What about him?”
“He was interested in getting to know you better. You might have given him some encouragement.”
“I wasn’t interested in him.”
“You barely spoke to him to be able to make that judgment.”
“He was only interested in my physical attributes.”
“That’s unfair.”
Alison sighed. “I don’t understand where you’re going with this. Do you think I should have pursued the connection? Am I supposed to encourage every man who pays me compliments?”
“Alison, damn it, stop being so flippant!” her father shouted, slamming his fist on the desk. “You wall yourself off from other people so thoroughly you are on your way to becoming a bitter, lonely woman. I know you’ve been hurt. That’s the price we pay for living. Don’t let this one bad experience—”
“One bad experience? Father, this is just the latest in a long line of bad experiences.” She couldn’t keep tears from welling up in her eyes. “I’m tired of trusting people who aren’t worthy of it. What is so bad about protecting myself?”
“Alison,” her father said, running his fingers through his hair, “it’s one thing not to allow people to take advantage of you. It’s quite another to be so afraid of being hurt you never give people the chance to show they can be trusted. To let someone else give you happiness.”
“You saw how well that worked out for me recently.”
“Damn Anthony North and damn your pride too,” her father said. “I’m talking about your future. You’re not made to be alone, Alison. Somewhere out
there is someone who will fill your heart with joy, and you’re never going to find him if you refuse to trust anyone.” He took a deep breath. “I loved your mother very much. Sometimes I hurt her, and sometimes she hurt me. But I have never regretted giving her the chance to do so, because it gave her the chance to love me. I think she felt the same.”
The tears spilled over and ran down her face. She buried her face in her hands, wishing she could hold them back. “It’s not worth it,” she cried. “How am I supposed to know who to trust?” I thought I knew. Clearly I was wrong.
She heard her father come around the desk, then he put his arms around her. “You take chances,” he said. “You trust your instincts. Are you telling me you don’t know how to identify a fortune-hunter, or someone who sees you as nothing more than a beautiful body? You give people a chance to prove themselves, and you prove yourself to them.”
Alison wiped her eyes. “I don’t know how,” she whispered. “Father, I think I’m broken.”
“If you are, it’s not irreparably so,” he replied. “Do something for me. The next time a young man approaches you—an honest one—talk to him. Try to make a connection, even if it isn’t a romantic one. Stop assuming any man who’s interested in you has ulterior motives. It would be a good first step.”
She smiled and sniffled a little bit. “I think I can do that.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I promise I’ll do that. Just—look, I’m sorry I was so harsh about Shereen. It was cruel. But I really think these poems are a bad idea. Shereen’s going to be excoriated by the critics. Can’t I work with her to find an alternative?”
The post boy opened the door. Father beckoned to him. “You can try,” he said to Alison. “You may have a point about Shereen’s reputation. See what you can do.”
The boy staggered in under a sack of mail, a couple of parcels—and a long black scroll case. An address tag was tied around its middle, stark white against its blackness.
It was sealed at both ends with the sign and shield of the royal house of North.
Father reached out and flipped the tag over so they could read the address. ALISON QUINN, COUNTESS OF WAXWOLD.
Alison felt the blood drain from her face. “No,” she said, “no, this isn’t happening.”
Father took out his belt knife and slid it under one of the seals, then tilted the scroll case to allow the parchment to slide out. It caught a little on the lip of the case and he had to shake it to dislodge it. He unrolled it and scanned the contents. Alison could only see that whatever message it contained was brief, barely covering half the page, and most of that was her full name and title. Maybe, if she didn’t read it, she could pretend it hadn’t arrived.
Father read it a second time, then passed it to her. Reluctantly, she read it aloud. “‘Alison Quinn, Countess of Waxwold, is summoned to attend Zara North at her offices in Aurilien at her earliest convenience. Send acknowledgement of receipt of this missive by return post.’ And it’s signed by the Queen. I don’t understand.” An icy chill spread through her body. If this was with regard to him, surely Zara would have insisted on her return months ago. What else could she possibly do for the Queen? What else can the house of North possibly do to me?
“Cryptic, certainly,” her father said. “What are you going to do?”
“Run away? Move to Veribold and live with the rebels? I have to go. I don’t—Father, why would she do this to me?”
“Zara North never does anything without a reason, even if the reason is rarely clear to mere mortals,” he said. “I don’t think she’d want to humiliate you further, or expose you to….”
Anthony’s presence hung in the air between them. Alison squeezed her eyes shut and said, “At one time I thought we might become friends. I wish I’d gone to her with my…problem …immediately.”
“I thought we agreed you were going to stop torturing yourself.”
“And yet here I am walking back into the scene of my torment.” She opened her eyes and looked at her father. “I’ll send the return message. I’ll talk to Shereen. And I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Less than a week,” Father said, but he didn’t look certain about it. Alison didn’t feel certain about it either. She rolled the parchment tightly and shoved it back into the case. Whatever Zara North had in mind, Alison doubted it would be so simple as to resolve itself in a day.
Alison didn’t make an appointment. If the Queen wanted to see her, she would make time for the woman whose life she’d disrupted. Twice. She sat in the reception area, watching busy men and women come and go, and picked at the seam of her trousers. Would the Queen be offended that she hadn’t dressed up for this summons? If she was, there wasn’t anything Alison could do about it now, and maybe Zara would just send her home. She leaned back and tried to relax; she was sitting as stiffly as if she were wearing a corset—
“Do you even know how to slouch?” Anthony said—
Her spine stiffened again. She’d done so well, hadn’t thought of him in…in days, and it was just that she was back in the palace that she’d slipped. She caught the receptionist staring at her and she glared at him until he flushed and looked away. She felt a little guilty about that, but being stared at put her on edge these days. There had been so many weeks when the staring had been accompanied by whispers whose content she could guess too easily.
“Milady Countess? The Queen will see you now,” said a woman in North livery, bowing. The woman led her down a short hall to the Queen’s office door, which was standing slightly ajar. Alison’s heart pounded in her chest until it hurt. If he was in there, if Zara believed Alison had been in the wrong and wanted to punish her, if this was another colossal joke…. She pushed open the door and went in.
Zara was alone. She sat behind a desk piled with neatly organized paperwork, reading something in a folder. “Please sit down,” she said, not looking up. Alison sat in the only other chair in the room, a comfortable armchair, not a hard kitchen chair, and waited. Eventually Zara put the folder down and looked at Alison with those sharp blue eyes. “Thank you for coming, Countess,” she said.
“You asked so politely,” Alison said without thinking, and blushed. Zara smiled.
“I’m glad to see in some ways, you haven’t changed,” she said. “I’ll skip the formalities. I’ve summoned you here because I appointed you Royal Librarian five days ago.” She reached into her desk and pulled out a shiny new key, definitely not the one Alison had seen Bancroft use. “Consider this your official investiture. There’s really no ceremony, though I didn’t think you’d want one if there were.”
Alison gaped. “You can’t do that,” she said. “The Scholia—”
“The Scholia lost its say in the administration of the Royal Library five days ago, when Charles Bancroft was convicted of embezzling Library funds and stealing and selling books from the Library.”
That struck her with a nearly physical pain. “No,” she said. “That bastard.”
Zara grinned, a completely unguarded expression that startled Alison. “And that reaction is why you’ve now taken his place.” She went from amused to serious in half a breath. “This will not be an easy task, Alison,” she said. “Bancroft left the Library…well, you’ll have to see it for yourself. There’s little chance we’ll be able to recover the missing books, let alone identify which ones are missing. I blame myself for letting it get this far. If you hadn’t been so relentless about trying to get inside, I doubt anyone would have known there was a problem until there wasn’t a Royal Library anymore. The Scholia continues to insist Bancroft’s conviction is fraudulent, that none of their Masters could possibly lend himself to such gross dereliction of duty and certainly wouldn’t try to line his own pockets with the proceeds. I need someone with Scholia training who is not a Master and I need someone who is passionate about books. You are the only person I know who meets both these qualifications. And I trust you.”
Stunned, Alison said, “Thank you, your Majesty, that’s…I’m o
verwhelmed. But I really must decline. I already have a job, and as I believe I told you once, I’m not qualified for the robe. Surely there must be someone better able than I to take this responsibility.”
“Alison Quinn,” said the Queen, “we could argue all day about your qualifications. I could point out that your position in your father’s business could be done by many people, though perhaps not to your standard. I could remind you that you yourself told me taking the robe was more about politics than it was about librarianship. I could also make this a royal command. But I’m not going to do any of those things, because there is one key fact that makes all of that irrelevant. Ask me what it is.”
“Uh…what is it, your—”
“I also told you to call me Zara. Nothing that’s happened has changed that.”
“What is it, Zara?”
“It’s that the first thing that crossed your mind when I told you of your appointment was that you want this job. You had a vision of yourself as Royal Librarian and for that brief moment you wanted it more than anything. Yes, your mind immediately threw up objections, but they were all afterthoughts. You know you’re qualified. You know you want to. So it’s lucky for you I’m going to insist you take the position. It would be awful to have a Royal Librarian wandering around without a Library to take care of.”
Alison stared at Zara in disbelief. Zara returned the stare with that blue-eyed glass-cutting gaze. Her mouth curled up at the corners, ever so slightly. Alison began to laugh. “Your Majesty—Zara—I hope you never decide to rule the world.”
“I have enough trouble ruling Tremontane,” Zara said. She pushed the key across to Alison. “I had the locks changed. Something about barn doors and horses applies here, but I didn’t like the idea of Bancroft wandering around with the key to the Library still in his possession.”
Servant of the Crown (The Crown of Tremontane Book 1) Page 20