The lilac-colored frost over the pond. A curse from the Renovian witch. It is easier to blame the devil they know—the foreign queen—than the one they don’t, the demons who walk among us once more. The King of Stavin is convinced the Aphrasians have returned, and who am I to dispute this? Stavin is right: We have been slow to act. The problem is that the king does not even know where to start looking for perpetrators. The Aphrasians seem to have disappeared into thin air. I have pushed Hansen to send soldiers to Baer Abbey, but the king does not listen to me. And my mother is still, for all intents and purposes, the leader of Renovia.
I lie in my vast bed, propped up on my pillows, listening to the soft night sounds of the castle, waiting.
Hansen, in his own apartments at the far end of the hall keep, may be hosting his usual revelries—drinking, gambling—games that might be raucous or debauched. All with his favorites and his dogs. I actually have no idea. He could be brushing up on the scrolls and drinking tea, but I doubt it.
He’s kept his distance from me since our marriage, which is a great relief.
He hasn’t insisted on my presence at any of his evening entertainments or once tried to join me in my bed, or summon me to his. This is a marriage of political expedience for both of us, after all. A political disaster right now, especially since the people blame or suspect me for the terrible things that have happened lately.
The guards call to one another across the battlements, and an owl hoots from a distant perch. Sometimes, if there’s no wind, I think I can hear whinnying from the stables, when the horses board for the night, though maybe this is my imagination. I’m longing for the castle to settle, and for the business of the day to be over.
Because that is when Cal will come to me, through the secret door in the hall’s cellars, all the way up the narrow stone staircase, to the tiny antechamber we call the Queen’s Secret. I’m waiting for his knock on the door. Waiting, waiting, waiting.
It has been three days since the ill-fated trip to the village, three days since he has visited. I can never acknowledge our friendship in public, but I saw the alarm in his eyes when the crowd turned ugly. I want to tell him I’m all right, that I can take care of myself, that he doesn’t need to worry so. But I also, selfishly, just want to be with him.
The fire in the grate is low now, no longer spitting and hissing. The taper by my bed is still lit, but it throws little light, and I can’t see into the recesses of the large room. I just need to wait, and to listen.
Tap-tap-tap.
I fling myself out of bed and snatch the key from its hiding place, inside the bound edition of Renovian legends that I keep on a high table, within arm’s reach of my pillow. Then I scamper into the room’s darkest corner, not bothering to fetch the taper. I know the path by heart, know every chair and footstool to avoid. Cal will have made his way up the stairs in darkness as well, slipping through the recesses of the cellars in stealth to make his way here. To reveal the door, I must pull aside the tapestry and trace the oak panel down to the lock.
With a click it’s open, and just knowing he’s there is intoxicating. I can sense his tall, broad form before me, even before he says a word. All I have to do is reach out a hand and touch his chest, so firm and broad, and I am weak at the knees, swooning.
“Lilac,” he says, his voice low and soft, loving, and he steps into the room, swallowing me in an embrace before we close the door. I don’t want to let him go. I burrow into his neck, breathing in his particular scent that’s impossible to describe. There’s a musk to it, and the subtle hawthorn aroma of the soap we make in Renovia. Cal smells like home to me, in every way.
“I missed you.” I hadn’t realized the strain of keeping up a false front all day. “Where have you been?”
“Interrogating the messenger from Stur, and sending our own people down there to ask more questions,” Cal says, and he draws my head back and kisses me gently. “I need to know what’s true and what is just fear and rumor.”
“And did the messenger tell you anything we didn’t know?” I ask. Cal shakes his head, and I see how tired he looks—the dark rims under his eyes, his hollow cheeks, rough with stubble. It’s no surprise that he’s exhausted: Since the parade, the capital has swarmed with spies from Argonia and Stavin, their embassies merely public fronts, the ambassadors entertaining the rich and mighty of Montrice while their spies sneak and snoop behind our backs.
“Too many stories,” he says. “Half of it from legends and old crones’ tales.”
I put my hands on his temples and massage. If I could take his burden, I would. He is more husband to me than my own.
He leans back, his olive skin against the crisp white linen sheets, his eyes glinting in the flickering light of the taper. “The villagers swear the pond went black with dark magic, and then lilac. And news has leaked of the letter from Stavin—”
“Which no one cared about until now,” I interrupt. “Even Hansen thought Goran was merely a warmonger looking for an excuse to invade us. But now it’s different. People are scared.”
Cal sighs, tracing a hand over my hair. His touch is pure comfort and I have to resist the urge to close my eyes. “Fear is contagious,” he says, “especially where the Aphrasians are concerned. But we need to know more. It’s possible the story is exaggerated.”
“Tell that to the people booing me in the countryside. Maybe Hansen is right for a change, and we can’t trust Goran. Stavin has never been one to shy from a conflict or a chance to expand its borders.”
“Part of the issue,” Cal says in a deliberate way, choosing his words carefully, “is that this happened in Montrice, not Renovia. It reminds everyone that you’re Renovian.”
I lean against him, trying to draw on his strength. “But why would I do something so cruel, and then leave a sign that blatant?”
“No one who knew you would ever believe it,” says Cal.
“But they don’t know me at all,” I say in despair. It suddenly dawns on me that my position here is as flimsy as my marriage.
“I will never let anything happen to you,” says Cal, his gaze steady. He puts his arms around me and I feel my heartbeat slowing.
“The Montricians associate the Aphrasians and their dark magic with Renovia,” I say. “It’s only fair, I suppose. The Aphrasian king ruled Renovia, and since that time our kingdom has failed to defeat or contain his followers. And now here I am, married to the King of Montrice.”
Cal winces, as he often does at the mention of my marriage and my husband. He would rather we had run away than see me as another man’s wife. The life we have eked for ourselves in secret, in shadow, wears on him. I begged him to make this sacrifice, but it does not come without heartache.
For now, however, we both must push our feelings aside. I clear my throat. “So I’m the evil queen,” I say, my voice low. “They believe I’m in league with the Aphrasians. But why?”