“The rest of you,” Zara said, raising her voice and standing to address the Masters, who were still standing around muttering to each other, “once Nathaniel has your names, you are free to go. I suggest you consider whether it would be more beneficial to your continued well-being to give the Crown whatever information you might have voluntarily, or under questioning. You’re dismissed.”
The Masters left, trailed finally by the blue-robed Magisters, who looked as if they couldn’t believe they weren’t being escorted out in chains. Zara turned to look at her councilors. “The vote was, of course, anonymous,” she said. “And I am certain those of you who voted in favor of the endowment had no idea of Margaret Bindle’s perfidy.” She locked eyes with Lestrange and added, “However, from this point forward I shall look very closely at anyone who continues to support the Scholia, in light of what we have learned today. I would hate to think anyone on this Council could possibly approve of an institution that would allow such underhanded dealings to continue.”
Lestrange opened his mouth, and Zara’s eyes narrowed. He shut it again. “Thank you for your service,” Zara said. “Alison Quinn, a moment of your time, please.”
That was the signal for everyone else to disperse. Zara waited for the door to the Council chamber to close behind them, then leaned against the back of the throne and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms. “You were worried, weren’t you?”
“I—what?”
“It’s all right. I was worried and I orchestrated the whole thing. I think the hardest part was when I cast my vote for the other side.”
“You did what?”
Zara removed her hands and smiled. “I knew how the vote stood. I also knew I had no chance to rein Roger in without letting him think he’d won. The timing was the least predictable part—I never like counting on other people’s roles in my plans, though Major Casson is reliable and devoted to me. Still, it all worked out perfectly, didn’t it? And the Magistrix got the independence she wanted, though not in the manner she’d anticipated. I did feel guilty about confining that young woman while my men hunted out the assassin, but not terribly guilty. She did try to destroy my brother, after all.”
Alison continued to gape at the Queen. “It’s over, Alison,” Zara said. “The Library is yours.”
“You cast your vote for the other side.”
“You really were overwhelmed, weren’t you? You’re not usually this slow to understand.”
“But how did you find them all? And the woman—how did you—”
“I have excellent resources, Alison. And Miss Brown came to me. She is not terribly intelligent and never considered the repercussions of her attempted blackmail.”
“What do you mean, blackmail?”
Zara looked into the distance, out one of the tall, narrow windows through which spring sunlight poured. “She went to Anthony and threatened to expose him if he didn’t pay her off.”
Alison gaped again. “But…he had to have known what the consequences of her speaking out would be, and he said he wanted to help her. Why didn’t he just pay her?”
Zara turned her gaze on Alison, her expression unreadable. “Because he has learned his lesson,” she said, articulating her words just slowly enough that each one felt like an arrow piercing Alison’s chest. “And I wonder very much why you have not.”
“I—” Alison’s words ran up against the iron wall that was Zara’s gaze. Zara said nothing more. Alison turned and left the audience chamber at a near-run.
She passed through the Council chamber and fled through the halls, unseeing, trusting her familiarity with the palace to take her to safety, which turned out to be her own apartment. She shut and locked the door behind her against…it felt as if something were pursuing her, something she dared not face. She leaned back against the door and closed her eyes.
I’m not going to forgive him. I can’t forgive him.
I won’t I won’t I won’t.
She put her hands over her ears, once again trying to shut out the treacherous voice that came from within her own head, and realized it had been the thing pursuing her, and she couldn’t lock it out.
It told her, You love him.
It said, You’re so afraid of being hurt that you’re hurting yourself.
It said, It’s not about what he deserves. It’s about what he needs. What you need.
She had a flash of a memory, of Anthony saying of Lydia, She made a stupid mistake, and she regrets that more than she can say. He did, didn’t he? She remembered how he’d looked on the tower roof, his plea for her forgiveness, for her understanding—
“I can’t,” she wailed aloud. “He didn’t care that he was hurting me. He’ll just go on doing it.”
It was her father’s voice this time, coming to her out of memory: 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.
She flung herself onto her sofa and lay curled up, not caring how she was crushing her dress. All the memories she had been suppressing rose up behind her eyelids, riding in the Park, laughing and crying at the theater, every kiss and every touch and every single time he had looked at her and saw her, not her body or her title but her, as no one ever had. Possibly as no one else ever would. Her memories tore at her, filled her chest with that empty ache she recognized now as her need for him, because she loved him and he meant everything to her, and she was the one who was wrong. He needed her forgiveness, and she needed his. A faint echo drifted back to her from the recesses of her mind: I can’t…and then it was gone. I can, she thought.
She was out the door and halfway down the hall before something occurred to her: it might be too late. He might not care anymore. Part of her, a tiny, ignoble part, rejoiced at this thought, because it meant she didn’t have to face him and tell him how wrong she’d been. She stomped that part of herself into a distant corner of her mind. It wasn’t about how he felt. It was about finally being able to do what was right.
She stopped at the Library door, struck by inspiration. Maybe it was foolish, maybe he’d be disdainful of her offering, but it felt as if it should be part of her apology. She ran through the scriptorium and into the Library and pulled Flanagan’s book of plays off the shelf. She hadn’t had it catalogued yet. Maybe part of her had always believed it would eventually go to its rightful owner. She stroked its smooth binding once, then left the Library and hurried along the hall, trying not to run.
She was so used to finding Anthony in his office that she was momentarily thwarted when it turned out he wasn’t. No one in the north wing seemed to know where he’d gone. The ignoble part of her tried to climb back into the light and she had to crush it again. She tried Zara’s office; she was gone too. Alison sat in a chair in the waiting room, balancing the large book on her knees, more to give herself time to think than because she expected Anthony to return. He wouldn’t have left the palace, probably; he lived here now. She hopped out of her chair and headed for the east wing.
The guards at the east wing door hadn’t changed, or, rather, they probably had changed but since they all looked the same and had the same stern demeanor, it was impossible to tell. They raised their weapons as she approached, which amused her; she was barely five-foot-two and, though not slender, certainly not someone anyone would consider a physical threat. Possibly they thought the book concealed some kind of exotic weapon. North guards were suspicious and paranoid and therefore perfect for guarding the royal family. “Hello,” she said, halting far enough away that they wouldn’t feel even more threatened. “Is Prince Anthony here?”
They stared at her, silently. “I’m here to see Prince Anthony,” she said. Silence. Alison began to feel paranoia was overrated. “I’d like to speak to him,” she continued. More silence. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said. “Couldn’t you at least take him a message?”
“Take who a message?” Anthony said from behind her,
making her heart leap and the rest of her turn around fast with a squeak.
“I wanted to talk to you,” she said. His proximity was making her heart beat faster.
He looked at her with a curious expression, eyed the book under her arm, then nodded at the guards, who opened the door for them, and led her into the east wing.
“I just came back to change into something a little less formal,” he said. “I’m going for a ride in the Park. I feel…I know it will take some time for the truth about Lydia’s story to get around, but right now I feel like a free man.”
“I can imagine. I’m so glad she decided to tell the truth.”
“So am I. I’m arranging to do what I can for her and the child.”
“You’re not afraid that will look bad?”
“I don’t really care what it looks like. I cared about Lydia, once, and I hate to think of her struggling.”
They came to the great central drawing room. Anthony sat on one of the overstuffed lemon-yellow sofas and gestured for Alison to take a seat anywhere. She perched on a chair adjacent to his. She couldn’t think how to begin. She probably should have come up with something before seeking him out. Alison knew she was becoming blotchy and her awareness of it made the situation worse. The silence stretched, until, grasping at anything, she said, “Anthony, I—”
“You wanted to—” Anthony said at the same time, then said, “I’m sorry. You wanted to talk to me about something?”
“Yes.” She still didn’t know how to begin. “I…actually, I don’t…Anthony.”
“Alison, you’re making me very nervous.” He didn’t sound nervous. He sounded amused and completely composed, and it made her a little angry that he could be so calm when her insides were being ripped apart. She took a deep breath. One more memory, this one of the Dowager embracing her and saying I’ve never regretted being the first to apologize. She hoped it was true.
She held the book out to Anthony and said, “This belongs to you.”
He took it from her, puzzled, flipped the cover open, and said, “Jerald’s book. I don’t remember owning a copy.”
“I know,” she said. “It was supposed to be your Wintersmeet gift. Obviously I couldn’t give it to you, but….” This was going all wrong. She’d sounded so bitter just then. Anthony’s look of confusion deepened. “I just thought you should have it,” she said abruptly.
“Oh. Thank you,” he said. He ran his hand over the cover just as she’d done minutes before. Her heart sank. That had sounded like the kind of thanks you give just before you show someone the door. Why couldn’t she just say something simple? I’m sorry, or Please forgive me, or even I love you?
She opened her mouth, hoping some part of her mind, or heart, would come up with something, and was horrified to hear herself say, in a voice that echoed with pain, “You hurt me.”
All the confusion left Anthony’s face as if someone had pulled a plug and let it drain away, leaving him completely expressionless. Why that? Why an accusation? But it seemed as if those words had unleashed a torrent, and she had no choice but to let them carry her along.
“I trusted you,” she went on. “I never trusted anyone the way I did you, and you betrayed me after you said you wouldn’t. You don’t know what that did to me. I wanted to die. I did die, a little, I think, curled in on myself and froze so it couldn’t happen again. I couldn’t forgive you and I didn’t want to forgive you. I wanted you to suffer. And I was so wrong about all of that.”
Anthony had turned to stone again, the occasional blink the only indication that he was still alive. She couldn’t look at that face and keep her composure. She looked down at the impossibly white carpet and said, “I loved you, and the first time you did something that hurt me, I turned on you. I never gave you a single chance to redeem yourself. I loved you, and I hurt and betrayed you as surely as you did me. We both know what you did was wrong, but you’re the only one of us who learned from it. I just let it turn me to ice. Anthony, I’m sorry. I should have forgiven you long ago. I hope you can forgive me.”
Silence. She didn’t dare look at him. She wondered if she could possibly stand and leave the room without having to meet his eyes, run back to the Library and let her embarrassment and pain soak out of her into the stones that were far more forgiving than she was. She heard him shift his position, saw his feet move as he stood, then he was kneeling before her and his hand was on her shoulder. “Alison,” he said, his voice husky, and then he took her in his arms and held her, his body trembling. She put her own arms around his neck and laid her head on his shoulder and felt the aching emptiness inside her begin to fill with the comfort of his familiar touch, his body against hers, his arms enveloping her as if she were infinitely precious to him.
“I love you,” she whispered. “I hope it’s not too late for me to say that.”
“It could never be too late,” he said. “I never stopped loving you.”
“I’m sorry it took me so long to realize the truth. I’ve been so stupid.”
“Don’t cry, love. I’m a better man because you walked away from me that night.”
“I wish I could say I’m a better woman now, but I think a better woman would have forgiven more easily.”
“I’ve always thought you’re the most wonderful woman I know, so you would be truly amazing if you improved.”
Alison laughed, a little damply through her tears, and Anthony lifted his head and drew back just far enough to look at her. “You told me once that sometimes creating something new meant destroying the old,” he said. “I think we’ve accomplished that.”
Alison smiled. “It was a rather complete destruction. And it will never happen again.”
“I don’t think I could survive it.” He laid his hand along the curve of her cheek. “Alison Quinn, will you marry me?”
She leaned into his touch. “With pleasure, your Highness.”
He made a face, but his eyes were full of laughter. “I know what I am. I would prefer it if you’d call me Anthony.”
Alison cast her eyes down demurely and said, “I don’t believe we know each other well enough to make free of our given names.”
“We don’t?”
“It’s only been seven months, your Highness.”
“Really?” Anthony ran his hand over the back of her head and tugged her hair free of Belle’s careful arrangement, making it fall in wriggly blond cascades around her face. “Then we certainly don’t know each other well enough for this,” he said, and then his lips were on hers and she responded with a passion that had been banked for far too long. He guided her off the chair until they were both sitting on the floor, holding each other close, touching and kissing and touching again until Alison was sure she was going to die if he didn’t tear her clothes off right there in the middle of the east wing drawing room. She reached down to unbutton his coat, and Anthony made an amused sound and withdrew to arm’s length. He looked as mussed as she felt. “I think we should do this the right way, as long as we’re starting something new,” he said.
“I hate the right way,” Alison said. “I know you have a bedroom around here somewhere.”
“I do, but we’ll have our own apartment once we’re married,” Anthony said, laughing, “and you, Countess, used to be the voice of reason in this relationship.”
“It’s a new relationship. You can have a turn being reasonable.” By this time they were both laughing, and Alison tied her hair back at the nape of her neck and stood, brushing off her dress. Anthony reached out and took her hand. “Change your clothes, and come riding with me,” he said. “Then have dinner with me. I want to do everything with you, no secrets, no hiding what we are to each other. I want the world to know I love you, Alison Quinn.”
“I want to tell everyone I love you, Anthony North.” She put her arms around him and felt the last shreds of resentment and pride slip away from her. “And I’m never leaving you again.”
Chapter Thirty
Two months later<
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It had taken weeks to find it, but now Alison had a copy of Starfall, acquired from Mistress Inkpen at hideous expense. Finally, the sequel to Hearthsfire, and maybe she’d overpaid for it, but what was the point of being Royal Librarian if you couldn’t indulge once in a while? She sat cross-legged on her bed and turned another page. She glanced again at her watch Device. Just after ten-thirty. Plenty of time. Enough to read just one more chapter.
Someone knocked at the door and entered without waiting for an invitation. “Oh, my dear, I thought Anthony was right when he said you might need me, but I cannot believe I’ve found you in this state!” The Dowager came into the bedroom, followed by Belle and three of the Dowager’s own maids. “Get up, dear, and Lucille will draw you a bath. I really am astonished. I almost think you’ve forgotten, but that’s too absurd for me to believe it.”
Alison stood and beat her thighs to restore feeling to them. “Forgotten what?”
The Dowager’s mouth dropped open. “You did forget. By heaven, Alison, if I hadn’t come along you would have missed your own wedding!”
It was Alison’s turn to let her mouth drop open. “That’s hours from now,” she said, snatching up her watch. She looked at it more closely. Her heart plummeted as she realized the hands weren’t moving. An image of Anthony standing in the antechamber to the coronation hall, waiting for a bride who didn’t show up, flashed in horrifying clarity across her mind. “Oh, Milady, I—what time is it? It’s not too late, is it?”
“It’s just after noon, and you have about five hours, which I judge is barely enough time to get you ready. My goodness, dear, where are all your clothes? Did you leave your wedding gown in your new apartment? Belle, fetch your mistress’s gown at once; I assume you know the way. Alison, put that ancient book away, surely nothing is so important that you can’t set it aside for now.”
Alison began to understand where Zara’s personality came from. The Dowager directed her into the bath, directed her out of the bath and into a dressing gown, supervised her manicure and pedicure, neither of which Alison had ever had in her life, and personally rubbed creams into Alison’s already smooth skin until she glowed, pink-cheeked and radiant “as a bride should look,” the Dowager said. “Your skin is perfect, dear, but even perfection can stand a little enhancement. Now, about your cosmetics….”
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