Haakon wrinkled his nose. “Ew.”
“Very,” said Rodrigo.
Sophie laughed despite herself. It was impossible not to. Haakon was a bright, golden sun who pulled everyone into his orbit. He was arrogant and annoying but astonishingly beautiful, and beautiful people are so easily forgiven. Every woman in the palace was in love with him. Sophie was a little, too, though she hated to admit it.
More members of the hunting party trotted into the courtyard now. Grooms and hounds followed them. Sophie thought she heard the queen’s lord commander among them, barking orders. Haakon and Rodrigo turned to the party and waved some of the riders over. As they did, Sophie heard a smaller, softer sound than clopping hooves or Haakon’s booming voice. She heard footsteps. They were quick but shambling.
“Tom?” she said, turning around.
A young boy was running toward her. He was undersized for his age, awkward, and shy.
“Be careful, Tom. Slow down before—” Sophie started to say. But it was too late. Tom caught the toe of his boot on a cobblestone, stumbled, and fell. Sophie bent down to help him up.
“Clumsy ox,” a voice said.
“Should’ve drowned him at birth. Isn’t that what one does with runts?” Tom winced at their cruel words. Sophie could see that they hurt him more than the fall. The women who’d made them, two of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting, laughed as they hurried by.
“Don’t listen to them,” Sophie said, trying to make the boy feel better. “If you want to see clumsy, you should see Baroness von Arnim”—she nodded at the shorter of the two women—“dance a sarabande. She looks like a donkey on ice!”
Tom laughed and Sophie smiled, but her smile faded as she saw the boy’s skinned knees. “You mustn’t run,” she scolded. “Haven’t I told you so?” He was like the puppies he cared for, all loose limbs and big feet.
Tom brushed his bangs out of his eyes. “But I couldn’t help it, Your Grace! I had to tell you!”
“Tell me what?” Sophie asked.
“Duchess had her puppies!” Duchess was Sophie’s favorite spaniel. “She didn’t!” Sophie said, her eyes widening with excitement.
“She did! Seven healthy pups! All as fat as sausages, with snub noses and pink feet! Come see them!”
Tom grew so excited that he forgot himself and reached for Sophie’s hand. Sophie forgot herself and took it.
“What are you doing? Have you gone mad, boy?” a voice thundered. “How dare you put your hands on the princess!”
It was the lord commander, the man in charge of the queen’s military. He strode up to Tom, grabbed his shoulder, and gave him a tooth-rattling shake. As he did, Sophie brusquely pulled her hand away. As if it were all Tom’s doing.
It was a cowardly move, and shame curdled Sophie’s insides. She knew that she should come to Tom’s defense. She should explain to the lord commander that they’d both been carried away. But she did not. Holding hands with kennel boys, playing with puppies—this was not how a ruler behaved. Strong rulers were distant and aloof. If the queen heard of her lapse, she would be angry. This was not the wolf hunt, where there was no one at the ravine to see her weakness. Here, at the palace, the wolves were the ones who hunted.
“It won’t happen again, Your Grace,” the lord commander said to Sophie. Then he turned back to Tom. “Remember your place,” he growled, giving the boy another shake before he walked away.
Tom raised his eyes to Sophie’s. The hurt and confusion she saw in them twisted her heart. “I-I’m sorry, Your Grace. I didn’t … I didn’t mean to—”
Tom’s words were abruptly cut off by a blood-chilling sound. It was a high, keening wail.
And it was rising over the courtyard.
THREE
The wretched creature had been backed into a corner.
It was a hound, and it was crying and cowering, trying to make itself as small as possible. Sophie recognized it. It was the small, skittish dog that had refused to attack the wolf.
The queen had hit the creature with her riding crop and was now pointing at it. “That animal’s worthless,” she spat. “I want it killed.”
Sophie stood frozen to the spot, horrified. It was Tom who tried to stop the queen.
“No!” he cried, lurching toward the hound. “Please don’t, Your Grace!
She’s a good dog!”
The queen whirled around, incensed. Her eyes sought the one who’d dared to censure her. “Am I to be shouted at by a kennel boy?” she asked, her hand tightening on the crop.
Alistair, the kennel master and Tom’s father, had come running from the dog pens, alarmed by the cries. He saw what was about to happen, and his eyes widened in terror. He grabbed Tom by the back of his shirt and pulled the boy to him just as the crop came whistling through the air. The blow missed the child but caught Alistair and split his cheek open.
Heedless of his pain and of the blood dripping from his jaw, Alistair begged for his son. “He’s very sorry, Your Grace. He’ll never do it again. Please forgive him. Apologize, Tom—”
“But, Papa—”
“Apologize!” Alistair shouted. “Now!”
It wasn’t anger that made him shout at his boy. Sophie knew that. It was fear. The queen had carved a gully in Alistair’s face, and he was a grown man. What would a blow like that have done to Tom’s small body?
“I-I’m sorry, Your Grace,” Tom stammered, looking at the ground. “Attend to the rest of the hounds, both of you,” the queen ordered.
Alistair let go of Tom. He drew a cloth from his pocket, pressed it to his cheek, and then called the pack to him. The small dog stayed in the corner, hopeless, helpless. As if it knew it had been condemned.
“Come and see my new brood mare!” the queen said to a group of nobles.
As they headed to the stables, Tom made his way back to Sophie. “Don’t let her be killed. Please, my lady,” he begged, his voice breaking. “Her name’s Zara. She was the runt of her litter. How can you kill a wolf if you’re so small?”
“You can’t, Tom,” Sophie said, watching the queen head into the stables.
Sophie remained rooted to the spot, astonished by her stepmother’s cruelty. Sorrow corseted her chest so tightly she could barely breathe, but another emotion simmered underneath it now—anger. Anger at the injustice of her stepmother’s actions. Anger that no one cared, that every single person in the courtyard went on eating and drinking, laughing and chattering, as if nothing had happened.
No, you can’t kill the wolf, she thought as the queen disappeared through the stable doors. But maybe you can outfox her.
Tom had not moved. He was still standing by Sophie’s side, his hands clenched.
“Go help your father,” Sophie said to him.
Tom’s shoulders slumped. Hope drained from his small face. “But, my lady—”
“Go.”
Fear made her voice harsh. Allowing a wolf to escape was foolish; what she was about to do now was insanity.
As Tom moved off, Sophie glanced around. No one was paying attention to her. The lord commander was cutting into a flaky venison pie. Haakon was picking up a slice of ham with his fingers. Rodrigo was biting into a peach. She walked to the far end of the courtyard, where the hound, her eyes closed, had slumped to the ground.