Brenna was hardly ten years older than me. When she was my age, her family had hoped for a match in Farezi’s higher circles, who disliked their noble ladies considering careers. A long-term Treasury rumour insisted that Coin had offered her a position that completely bypassed the lower ranks, which her family had refused on her behalf. But Vigrante had seen the ghost of her potential. No wonder she’d allied with him.
I hefted the key in my palm, eyeing the drawers around me. My key had been engraved with a barbed rose, a peacock feather, and a quarter moon, splashed with red. I opened drawers with those symbols, trying to figure out what Coin had granted me access to – or what the Queen had demanded I have access to.
I now had information on people and families I wasn’t normally privy to. But Coin’s punch of a lecture, and each drawer I opened, hinted that it extended to other areas in the Treasury connected to the Queen.
And Coin surely expected me to keep up with my current work.
And if I became the new Whispers...
I’d just have to learn to survive on less sleep.
I pulled open another rose drawer. I’d expected more papers on Sixth or Seventh Step families, including delicate information like ill-advised loans they’d bargained Coin for, but this one was full of Government members’ financial information.
‘You’re a Treasury employee,’ the Queen had said. ‘It won’t be difficult to involve you in certain affairs.’
It must have infuriated Coin to give me this kind of access.
I rubbed the engraved symbols on my key. No one beyond myself and Coin would access these drawers for a while. Not only had the Queen insisted on giving me increased access, but it looked like she’d also forced Coin to rearrange his system around it. She’d promised me royal power to fuel my vengeance, and played the first card of her promise.
I pulled out two files and spread them on the table.
Lady Brenna.
Lord Hazell.
I had no proof they’d helped Vigrante orchestrate Papa’s death. But they kept Vigrante in power, vocal in their support in return for his favours and reach. If I wanted to expose Vigrante’s weaknesses, destroying his power base was a good place to begin.
I glanced towards Coin’s office. He and Brenna had been briskly familiar, as if they’d kept in contact despite her alliance with Vigrante.
Papa. I had to think of Papa.
Going after Brenna and Hazell wouldn’t bring him back, or be true vengeance for his death.
But ruining them would be a start.
A week later, I smoothed my sleeves and officially gave up on my appearance.
Mama turned me to face her. Zola and I had inherited lighter shades of her brown skin, but I shared her tight curls that she’d scraped into a bun. She nodded. ‘Good. You won’t embarrass us, or yourself, before the Queen.’
‘Thank you, Mama.’ I managed not to roll my eyes, but smiled as she hugged me.
She let me go to answer the knock on my door. Zola rushed in, followed by Lord Martain. He beamed and rocked on his heels, as we settled into our usual routine of awkward but sincere affection. I didn’t doubt his love for Mama, but I still wasn’t sure if he’d wanted two almost-grown children to follow her into the marriage.
Zola grinned and held out a small box. ‘This is for you.’
‘A promotion should always be celebrated,’ Lord Martain added.
Weekly financial meetings with the Queen was a promotion far beyond my current responsibilities, but my family pretended otherwise. Now that Matthias was officially the Queen’s new secretary, Mama assumed he was behind my new role. She’d hopefully never find out about the actual job I’d inadvertently put myself up for.
‘Lord Martain, this is unnecess–’
He held up a hand. ‘Please, open it.’
I lifted the lid. A brooch nestled in silk and velvet: a little bird, its wings suspended in flight, painted in sky-blue and yellow enamel – Lord Martain’s family colours – and edged in gold. Its eye was a tiny sapphire.
Lord Martain was proud of me.
The bird blurred. If I succumbed to tears, I wouldn’t stop crying. ‘Thank you,’ I whispered.
He rescued the brooch from my shaking hands to pin it. He would never replace Papa, but he made Mama happy. That was enough.
Zola flung her arms around me. ‘Show her how wonderful you are.’
I tried to muster a confident smile. Before I lost my nerve, I grabbed my folder and hurried out.
This would never work.
But if I didn’t prove myself, the only path left was to the executioner.
Papa deserved justice.
And I deserved to live.
Matthias’s advice raced around my mind: ‘She’s less formal than her uncle and grandfather, but there are still rules. Three steps forward, curtsey, and wait for her acknowledgment. You sit when she allows it. If she offers refreshment, she’ll serve. She’ll dismiss you, and don’t stand before she does.’
Our meeting yesterday had been awkward – I was still angry that he’d kept his friendship with the Queen secret, even though no one in Court had known except for the Queen’s mother – and Matthias had hid behind brisk professionalism. But while my trust in him was shaky, he’d still recommended me to the Queen; my success would also be his.
I entered the royal wing by showing my mark to the guards. Safe and boring. All too soon, I stood at the doors to the Queen’s private study.
Papa wouldn’t have been afraid. And neither will I.
I knocked.
‘Enter!’
The Queen was scribbling on paper when I walked in, but beckoned me forward without looking up. I took three steps and sank into a curtsey: skirts held out, back straight. My breath went in and out with the ticking clock.
Her pen didn’t stop.
As the seconds trickled by, my legs ached. If she didn’t acknowledge me soon, I’d start trembling. Falling over wouldn’t be the best start.
Finally, just as I considered abandoning etiquette and falling, the scratching nib stopped.
‘Oh, damn it, rise.’
I straightened, keeping my head down.
‘We’re in private,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to behead you for looking at me.’
That was easy for her to say. Protocol worked itself around her. Protocol existed for her.
‘Look at me.’
I raised my face. ‘Your Majesty.’
‘Sit.’ She jabbed a finger at a chair.
I sat.
The Queen’s private study was smaller than the public one, yet the turquoise walls and golden wood made it more inviting. It suited her, but right now she didn’t suit it. She was sickly pale, with dark circles under her eyes: understandable, considering she’d recently entombed her uncle. I thought she’d reschedule our meeting, but Lord Martain had said, ‘She doesn’t have time. Monarchs never have enough time.’
She was too pale for her mourning purple. The colour was royal, a symbol of their authority and old divine power. A period of royal mourning was the only time the rest of us could wear it. The monarchy edged theirs in black, adding another layer to their grief.
‘Some rules,’ she said. ‘Those who work with me don’t show fear. Even if you’re terrified, learn to hide it or we’ll accomplish nothing.’