Kingsley laughed. “Little enough, as it turns out.”
“Kingsley!”
They looked over. The man who approached in army red was pale and thin, with a scattering of freckles and short red hair. “We’ve just finished up here,” he said, “and we’re going to the Seven Keys. Come with us.”
“Stanton. I’ve business today, but may join you yet this evening.” He gestured to Kit. “Do you know Captain Brightling?”
He gave Kit a quick appraisal. “Oh, the queen’s messenger, eh? With the good magic and fast ship? Always good to see a blue uniform. Our comrades on the sea, and all that. John Stanton. Foreign Office.”
“Kit Brightling,” she said, and didn’t bother to correct his misperceptions.
“Captain Brightling has just returned from a voyage,” Kingsley said. “Although she hasn’t yet graced me with the details.”
“The queen’s concerns aren’t mine to share,” she said.
“So mysterious, the Queen’s Own.” Stanton’s features screwed into something Kit guessed he considered serious. “You have quite the reputation.”
“Do I?” Kit asked.
“For your . . . magical abilities,” he said. “I, for one, believe there’s too much emphasis on magic these days.”
“Too much emphasis?” Kit asked mildly, hardly the first time she’d heard objections.
“Military action should be about physical skill. Mental prowess. Leadership and hardiness.”
“I doubt Lord Sutherland would agree,” Kit said. Sutherland was beloved in the Isles, the hero who’d chased Gerard across the Continent’s southern peninsula—and had relied on Aligned officers to use the land to his advantage.
Stanton flushed, red rising high sharply against his pale skin. “Sutherland’s use of Aligned officers is greatly exaggerated by those who have their own agendas.”
Kit cocked her head. “Those who prefer to understand the topography of their battlefields?”
The flush deepened again. It was, Kit thought, rather like watching the sun rise and fall, spreading its colors across the sky.
“I find that anyone who decries magic,” she said, now determined to see just how dark that flush would go, “either fears or misunderstands it.”
This time, insult had him tipping up his chin defiantly. “I have no fear. I’ve earned my place by work and determination. Not by being”—his gaze raked disdainfully over Kit’s uniform—“touched by some sort of conjuration.”
Kingsley’s eyes went hard. “I’m surprised, Stanton, that you’d have such old-fashioned ideas—or that you’d think it appropriate to voice them.”
Stanton’s brows lifted, as if shocked Kingsley would be so impertinent. “I’m late for an engagement,” he added lamely, then walked away.
“I’m sorry for that,” Kingsley said. “I hadn’t known Stanton was quite such an ass.”
“Beau Monde,” she murmured. The Beau Monde was the Isles’ most privileged class, its members born into extraordinary wealth and primarily concerned, at least in Kit’s experience, with their own comfort and ease.
“Regretfully so,” Kingsley said. “Although he’s not usually quite so obnoxious.”
Kit smiled.
“Captain Brightling.”
They both looked over. The man who’d called her name was tan, his hair dark, his body compact and strong. Kess was the queen’s closest adviser.
“If you’ll come with me?” he asked.
“Of course. Kingsley,” she said, glancing back at him.
“Brightling. Fair winds and following seas.”
* * *
“I’m glad to see you’ve returned safely,” Kess said as they walked down a wide marble hallway ornamented with portraits of previous kings and queens, sumptuous ermine pooling at their feet.
“Thank you. I’d intended to report immediately, but found emissaries waiting at the dock.”
“There have been . . . developments,” Kess said, confirming Kit’s suspicions.
They turned into the anteroom, with its ladies-in-waiting and high gilt windows, and walked through it to the mahogany door—finely carved with a sinuous sea dragon—at the other end of the hall. A guard nodded at Kess, pulled the door open.
The walls of the throne room were the soft red of deep sunset, light dappling across them from the dozen crystal chandeliers that hung from the arched ceiling. At the far end of the room stood the golden throne cushioned in the same soft red, and bearing the queen’s monogram—CR for Charlotte Regia.
Queen Charlotte sat her throne with grace and power. She was a stunning woman of thirty-three, with dark brown skin, brown eyes, and a straight nose above generous lips. Her dark hair rose like a wave above her golden diadem, and her aubergine dress was fitted low across her shoulders, marked by the saffron sash of Isles royalty and the sea dragon brooch that marked her as leader of the unified Crown Command.
Kess took his position beside the throne. Kit dropped her gaze to the thick carpet as she neared it, then dropped to one knee when she reached it. “Your Highness.”
“Rise, Captain.”
She did as commanded and held herself at attention, meeting the gaze of the ruler of the Saxon Isles.
The queen had inherited the throne from her father when he’d fallen ill in the midst of the war. She was the only child of an only child, and the duty of ruling the Isles had fallen to her in wartime at the age of twenty-eight. She’d managed the war with a savvy that surprised the king’s advisers. And then she’d dismissed them.
“I was excited to learn of your return, Captain,” the queen said. “Your mission?”
She wasn’t wasting any time, Kit thought, and pulled the packet from her coat. The queen took it, opened it, and read.
And then swore. “Coded, but in his strange penmanship,” the queen said. “Either a remarkable forgery, or another bit of arrogance. The treacherous bastard.” She looked back at Kit. “Where was it found?”
“On a packet called the Amelie, Your Highness. Running under the Isles’ flag.”
“He would dare,” she muttered.
“The Amelie’s captain told us the communication was part of cargo he picked up at Fort de la Mer. He was to leave it in a Pencester pub called the Cork and Barrel.”
The queen’s brows lifted. “Do you know it?”