“Your father wants to see you,” Viktor said eventually. “When you are ready.”
“How is he?”
“Angry. Grief-stricken. Proud.” Viktor took a sip of tea. “He wants to know what happens next. With Marcel. With Élodie.”
The names hit like stones. I set down my fork. Suddenly not hungry anymore.
“I need to see them,” I said. “Before I decide.”
“Are you sure?”
“No. But I need to anyway.”
Viktor nodded. “Then we go together.”
“Together,” I agreed.
My father'sstudy looked the same as always. Books. Maps. The weight of centuries pressing down from oil paintings of dead kings who'd all thought they knew better.
He stood by the window. Back straight. Hands clasped. Looking older than he had three days ago. Smaller somehow.
“Papa,” I said.
He turned. Saw me. Something in his face crumbled.
Then he was crossing the room. Pulling me into his arms. Careful of my injuries but desperate all the same.
“I thought I'd lost you.” His voice broke. “When they told me. When they said Marcel had you. I thought?—”
“I know.” I held him as tight as broken ribs would allow. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”
“Don't apologize.” He pulled back. Hands framing my face. Eyes red. “Don't you dare apologize for surviving.”
We stood there. Father and son. Both of us falling apart in the way men tried not to.
“Sit,” he said finally. Gesturing to the chairs by the fire. “Both of you. Please.”
Viktor hesitated. “Your Majesty, I can wait outside?—”
“No.” My father's voice was firm. “You saved my son. You stay.”
We sat. My father poured scotch with shaking hands. Passed glasses around like this was just another evening instead of the aftermath of everything falling apart.
“Marcel has been talking,” he said. “Trying to justify. Explaining his vision for a stronger kingdom. His better future.” He took a drink. “I wanted to kill him myself.”
“Why didn't you?” The question came out harder than I meant it.
“Because that's what he wanted.” My father met my eyes. “He wanted to be a martyr. To die for his cause. To let history decide if he was right.” He paused. “I won't give him that satisfaction.”
“And Élodie?”
Pain crossed his face. “She won't speak. Just sits in her cell staring at the wall. The doctors think she's in shock. Or grieving. Hard to tell.”
“She betrayed us.” The words tasted like ash. “For eighteen years. She was planning this. Wanting this.”
“I know.” He set down his glass. “And I should have seen it. Should have questioned why she was always so helpful. So perfectly positioned. Should have?—”
“You couldn't have known.” Viktor's voice. Quiet but firm. “None of us could. She was very good at what she did.”
