Doyle frowned. “Assuming he still wants to.”
“Well…yes. But I didn’t think he’d given up entirely, just because of a few roadblocks.”
“A few roadblocks? Allie, this is more like a ten-foot-tall stone wall covered in pig fat and set on fire. Or do you know something I don’t?”
“I feel as if we’re having two different conversations, Doyle. What are you talking about?”
Doyle leaned forward. “You haven’t heard.”
“I think it’s clear by now I haven’t.”
“I—Alison,” Doyle began, then pulled out the bottle again and poured another splash into her cup. “You may need that.”
“Doyle!”
He set the bottle aside, carefully squaring it with the corner of his desk. “The Crown Prince has an illegitimate child,” he said.
She sucked in a deep, horrified breath. Mechanically, she picked up her cup and gulped the whiskey down. The burn of the alcohol down her throat worked like a slap to the face to restore her ability to speak. “That can’t be true,” she said, faintly.
“Like I said, do you know something I don’t?”
Alison shook her head. “Who’s saying that he…that it’s true?”
“The little girl’s mother has accused him,” Doyle said. “Says he refused to take responsibility when the girl was born and he paid her off to keep quiet.”
Alison clenched her hands so hard her nails dug painfully into her palms. It couldn’t be true. Surely he wouldn’t have…but she knew, better than anyone, that he was inclined to protect himself, his reputation, at the cost of doing the right thing. It was possible. Even probable. But commit a crime like that? Leave a child, his own child, without a family bond?
“No,” she said. “It’s not true. Anthony’s done a lot of reprehensible things, but he’s never committed a crime. He might be the father of the child, but I can’t believe he refused to take responsibility for her or tried to pay off the mother.”
“I’m surprised to hear you take his side,” Doyle said. He poured himself another slug of whiskey and tossed it back.
“I’m not. I mean, yes, I am, but it’s because I know I’m right, not because I care—not because I have any stake in wanting him to be innocent. I just don’t believe it.”
Doyle shrugged. “I hope you’re right. Though I don’t know as it matters what you believe. There’s no way to prove he’s not the father short of someone else stepping in to claim responsibility.”
“I’ll wager Zara will find a way.” Zara had to find a way. She could not allow her heir to be tainted by this accusation. And suppose she couldn’t? Would Anthony have to claim the child as his heir? Would he have to marry…? She ruthlessly chased the thought away. It’s nothing to you. Zara won’t let it happen.
“I hope you’re right,” Doyle repeated, but he sounded skeptical. Alison took her cloak, which was still dripping, and rolled it into a bundle. “Sorry about that,” Doyle added. “Let me get you another one from Props.”
“That’s all right, I’m just going from the door to the carriage and from the carriage to the palace,” Alison said. “Doyle—”
“I know. He’s innocent. I’ll take your word for it, Allie. Heaven knows I want to believe you.”
“I’ll be back in four days. The vote will be over by then, so who knows what might happen next?”
“I know you won’t give up. Hang in there, Allie.” He gave her a hug, cursed again when the cloak bundled between their bodies left a wet mark along his midsection, and waved her out the door.
Traffic was picking up outside the theater, the clatter of wheels muted by the splashes of water those wheels kicked up. Their carriage was coming along the street toward them. “No, stay here,” Elise said, pushing Alison back into the shelter of the doorway and trotting out into the rain. Alison tried to hold her wet cloak away from her body without dropping it and jigged from one foot to the other, trying to stay warm. She watched Elise dodge puddles and the floating garbage that always appeared during a heavy rain. The air smelled of excrement, which Alison found strange because the rain ought to wash away such smells, not make them worse. She breathed shallowly through her mouth. She would go back to the palace and talk to Zara. The idea of facing Anthony was…it felt awkward, embarrassing, as if they still meant something to each other and she had a right to confront him about his possible crime. They weren’t even really friends now. The empty ache returned and she quashed it again, more ruthlessly this time. It didn’t matter, because it wasn’t true.
Over the sound of the traffic, she heard a faint pop, like the sound of a firework going off, and she looked up before remembering it was unlikely anyone would be setting off fireworks at this time of year, let alone in this downpour. A bird swept by silently and landed in the eaves of the theater roof, shaking its wings to rid itself of the rainwater.
Elise was nearly to the carriage now, which started to pull in toward the theater. She was probably soaked to the bone. Alison heard the pop again, and Elise jerked, slid a little on the wet cobblestones, then fell to the ground, not trying to catch herself. Instinctively, Alison ran to help her. “That looked painful,” she began as she reached her bodyguard’s side. Elise didn’t move. Alison tugged at the woman’s shoulders, thinking, I didn’t realize she was wearing a cap, then looked more closely and realized that the redness spreading across Elise’s short hair was blood, that there was a ragged-edged hole in her forehead, that her eyes were open and staring sightlessly up at her. Alison screamed. The coachman, who’d been huddled under his heavy coat, looked up in surprise, then began climbing down only to fall heavily at Alison’s feet as another shot echoed in the air. Blood began spreading across the back of his coat. Alison screamed again and ducked behind the carriage. Someone was shooting at them. No one seemed to notice anything was wrong.
“Somebody help me!” she screamed, and one corner of the carriage’s roof exploded into shards of wood and fabric. The horses, spooked, reared up in their traces and tried to bolt, rocking the carriage and dragging it forward. Alison scrambled to stay behind it, falling to her hands and knees and sliding on the cobbles as Elise had. Now people were noticing, and carriages were stopping, and several people tried to control the horses, and someone was exclaiming over Elise and the coachman and another person tried to help Alison stand. She pulled away from those helping hands, afraid to move away from the carriage. “No, someone’s shooting at me,” she said. “You have to find them. You have to stop them.”
“Inside,” the man said, and hurried her back into the theater. “Why would someone shoot at you?”
Alison shook her head, in her shock and fear unable to explain the chain of events that had led to Elise lying in the street with a rifle ball in her head and the coachman bleeding heavily on the cobblestones. “I just need to get to the palace,” she said.
The helpful man gave her a strange look, no doubt wondering why such a scruffy woman—she’d not bothered to dress up just to see Doyle—thought she could just casually walk into the palace, but he nodded and said, “Wait here, and I’ll see if someone can take a message. You’re certain they were shooting at you?”
Alison nodded, and the man gave her another strange look, but went outside. Alison stood and looked out the glass doors, then a jolt of panic went through her—if she could see out, the assassin could see in—and she retreated all the way to Doyle’s office, which was empty. She sat and settled her wet cloak across her knees. Gowan had nearly succeeded that time. The thought set her shaking hard, though the office was warm enough to feel muggy. The shooter had killed Elise and the coachman and had nearly killed her. She was never going to be safe. Gowan would keep trying until she was dead.
“Allie? What are you doing back here? Allie. Look at me. Sweet heaven, you’re in shock. What happened?” Doyle took the cloak from her and rubbed her hands between his.
“Gowan’s man shot at me,” she said. Her voice sounded as if it were coming from very far
away. “He killed Elise and he’s going to kill me too.”
“No, you’re safe, Alison, listen to me, you’re safe here,” Doyle said. He brought out the bottle and made her take a drink. The alcohol cleared her head briefly, then settled over her like a warm whiskey-scented blanket. “You’re trying to get me drunk, aren’t you?” she said with a smile.
“Not likely. You’re probably a mean drunk. You need me to get word to anyone at the palace?”
“I asked someone to take a message there.”
“Good.” Doyle sat in his chair, then pounded the desk once with his fist. “Damn it, Alison, this is too much! Why doesn’t the Queen just have the bastard assassinated?”
“I think even queens have to operate within the law.”
“And we’ve seen how successfully the law’s protected you so far.”
Alison realized tears were running down her cheeks. She wiped them away. She didn’t feel sad, or angry; she felt frozen. “He’ll slip up, and then Zara will have him.”
“You’ve got more faith in her than I have, and I say that realizing I’m talking about my sovereign monarch here.”
“I don’t see what else I can do. Doyle? Can I take you up on that costuming offer? I’m so cold.”
Wrapped in a fur-lined white cloak from the Wintersmeet Ball costumes, she waited in Doyle’s office, numb and unthinking, until after a few eternities someone came to tell her a coach had arrived to take her to the palace. The coach was larger than hers and was filled with guards; more guards sat on the coachman’s seat and others rode on the perch at the back. It seemed unlikely the horses would be able to pull all of them, but once Alison was settled between two women in green and brown Tremontanan uniforms, they stepped out without any trouble and trotted smoothly through the streets of Aurilien to deliver her to the front door of the palace.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The guards flanked her on all sides as they ascended the stairs, which must have looked ridiculous to any observer, one small woman surrounded by tall, looming soldiers. Most of the guards peeled off once she was safely inside the palace doors, but two remained to escort her through the halls of the palace to the north wing. The messenger, whoever he or she was, had been very effective. They took her all the way to the Queen’s office door, bypassing the secretary at the marble desk, and opened the door for her without knocking.
Inside, Zara sat at her desk, pen in her unmoving hand. She glanced up when Alison entered and laid the pen down. “Have a seat,” she said. Alison sat. Zara regarded her with that blue-eyed gaze that at the moment could have cut diamond.
“I’m told the coachman will live,” she said. “I am sorry about Elise Garan. She was careless, and she paid for it with her life. No, Alison,” she said, cutting off Alison’s angry protest, “if she were alive, she would be the first to admit to her mistake. Protecting you from unexpected threats is precisely the job she was trained for. But that’s not relevant. It’s sheer luck you weren’t killed.”
Sheer luck. How long before that well runs dry? Something inside Alison snapped, and her terror and fury and confusion propelled her out of her chair to shout, “When will this end? Do I lock myself inside the palace for the rest of my life? Am I going to live in fear, wondering every day if this is the day Gowan finally succeeds? Tell me you can fix this, Zara!”
“I have no answers for you,” Zara said. “I cannot act against Gowan without proof, and he has been very clever about hiding his involvement. This time, however, we may have him. I’ve had someone watching you covertly every time you’ve left the palace in the last two weeks, and if that person saw the assassin…even so, that’s a slender hope to hang your fate on. Alison, I am sorry. I suppose it will all be irrelevant in a few days’ time. If the vote doesn’t go our way, I’m sending you home on the condition that the Scholia appoints someone other than Arnold Gowan as your replacement.”
Once again Alison couldn’t breathe. “You can’t do that.”
Zara went to the window and looked out at the rain. “My power may be diminished by the results of this vote,” she said, “but I believe I still have the right to appoint the Royal Librarian. Your safety is far more important than the keeping of the Library. Don’t argue this point with me, Alison Quinn.”
Alison closed her eyes briefly. “Yes, your Majesty,” she said, sinking back into her chair.
“I don’t have to tell you to stay inside the palace,” Zara said. “Gowan will likely not try the same tactic twice, but it will be easier to keep you safe here than out on the streets.”
Alison nodded. “Is Anthony the father of that woman’s child?”
Zara put her hand flat against the cold glass of the window. She didn’t react to the abruptness of the question. “He says he is not.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I believe he believes he is not. The woman was his lover, and the child is of the right age. He could be mistaken.”
“What will he…what will you do?”
Zara turned away from the window to face Alison. “Endure,” she said. “She will have to produce more evidence if she wants Anthony to agree to an entailed adoption, to provide support for her and the child in perpetuity. Even more evidence if she wants Anthony to declare the little girl his heir. It’s possible she wants Anthony to marry her, I suppose, though I think not.”
Alison realized her hands had contracted into fists and forced them open. “So much happening all at once,” she said, trying for a light note. “The vote, Gowan’s attacks, this woman, it’s almost absurd.”
“Yes,” Zara said, her voice flat.
Alison drew in a shocked breath. “You think the Scholia’s behind it,” she said. “That they found this woman and put her up to it—but why?”
“One more distraction,” Zara said grimly. “One more thing to occupy my attention when I should be focusing my efforts on this vote. I have people investigating this woman, Lydia Brown. Anthony says she is the sort of person who would not have waited four years to claim her right to his support if he truly were the father, which adds weight to my belief that she has been encouraged in this action by the Magistrix. But I doubt I will be able to prove Miss Brown’s allegations false in time to prevent them from affecting this vote.”
“I don’t understand why it matters. Surely Anthony’s…it’s not as if the Scholia endowment has anything to do with what he’s accused of doing.”
Zara went back to looking out the window. “Anthony is accused of knowing he had a child and refusing to provide support and a family bond for it, which is a crime, and guilty or not, that is an accusation that reflects poorly on the Council,” she said. “Roger Lestrange has already called for an emergency meeting tomorrow in which he will ask for a vote of no confidence in Anthony, removing him from his Council position.”
“That’s insane!” Alison said, this time rising so quickly that she shoved her chair back several inches. “He hasn’t been convicted of anything! Can’t you stop it?”
“Any member of the Council can call for such a measure at any time,” Zara said, “and no, I cannot stop it without making it appear that I believe Anthony to be guilty and, incidentally, making myself seem a tyrant, which would encourage my councilors to vote against me in the matter of the endowment.”
Alison turned away and pulled her chair back into its original position. Its legs had left divots in the thick carpet, which she used to align it perfectly, minutely shifting it until she felt capable of speaking normally. “What can I do?” she said.
“Stay indoors. Don’t give up. Keep the Library running.” Zara went to sit at her desk, which Alison took to mean that their meeting was over. She had her hand on the doorknob when Zara added, “Do you believe Anthony is telling the truth?”
Alison squeezed the cold metal hard, as if she could mold it like clay. “Does it matter?”
There was a long silence. Then Zara said, “It might matter to him. He has discovered, in the last two days, that everyt
hing he has done to reclaim his good name counts for nothing with some people. He could use your friendship, if you’re able to offer it to him.”
The empty ache returned, extending from her chest throughout the rest of her body. “I believe him,” she said. “I’ll vote to retain him on the Council. I don’t think I can do more than that.” She felt a pang of guilt she couldn’t quite dispel. She didn’t hate him, she believed him innocent, but the idea of approaching him, of giving him sympathy, was too intimate, too much a reminder of things she would prefer to forget. “But you can tell him I believe him, if you think it would help.”
“I see,” said Zara. Her voice was cold, disappointed, and Alison felt even guiltier. “Thank you, Countess. I will send word if there is any news about the shooter.”
Alison felt red blotches spreading across her skin. She left the office without saying anything else, then closed the door behind her and waited for the blotches to fade. She wasn’t ready to be Anthony’s friend. Zara had no right to expect it of her. Someday, possibly, but not now.
Alison sat at the Council table and ran her fingers over its smooth surface. She looked at Belladry Chadwick, Countess of Harroden, who sat directly across the table from her, and tried to smile. Belladry nodded once in acknowledgement and turned her attention elsewhere. This was not a time for pleasantries. Everyone knew why they were there.
The door opened, admitting several other councilors, including Roger Lestrange, who took his seat next to Belladry and tugged at the front of his coat to smooth it. He wasn’t smiling either, but there was a look of satisfaction in his eyes that infuriated Alison, a look that said he knew he’d already won this vote and anticipated winning the next as well. He glanced at Alison, and then he did smile, an expression of appreciation that was all too familiar to her. Rather than making her freeze up, it filled her with anger. How dare he look at her as if she belonged to him? She coolly raised an eyebrow at him, gave him a look that said You will never have a chance with me, and watched the smile turn into humiliation and then into anger. Alison saw no point in pretending their relationship was cordial. She was already doomed to lose the Library; his antagonism could not hurt her.
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