My stomach does a little flip as he steps inside the room. After seeing his reaction to Darnley, I wasn’t expecting him to come here, to the queen.
“Thank you, Joseph.” Mary flicks her fingers, dismissing him. He leaves, as does the servant, and Samson is left watching us. Yellow curiosity swarms around him. He knew I was a lady-in-waiting to the queen, but the fact that I have a private audience with her in her office means something more.
He focuses on the queen, and his aura sinks into a panicked violet.
“Her Highness Mary Stuart, Queen of the Scots, rightful heir to the English throne.” I say that last bit just to jab at him, but it’s true. The current queen of England is childless, and Mary’s her closest blood relative.
Samson’s aura changes more, the colors turning muddy and dark and indecipherable. He steps past me, extending a leg and sweeping into a gracious bow, seamlessly shifting his bag to the side.
He’s put his mask on, I think, my eyes tracking colors no one else in the room can see. He’s so good at pretending to be confident that he’s convincing not only Mary of that fact but himself. He’s embodying his role absolutely.
Shite. That’s going to make it harder for me to see through him. Fae can disguise with glamours, but they can’t easily lie. Samson, on the other hand?
Lying seems to be second nature to him.
Mary laughs at something Samson said, something I missed. This secretary may not have any magic, but he can still be dangerous.
I’m watching Samson’s colors so intently that I can barely focus on what he’s saying, how Mary responds. She’s looking at some of the papers he’s brought from his bag, proof of his connections.
“Did you run into any problems on your journey to Stirling?” Mary asks.
He flicks his eyes to me, his gaze soft. “No, Your Majesty.”
Mary pauses. “Unlike the English queen, I do not pretend to own a wider kingdom beyond my borders.”
Another flare of purple, quickly repressed. “I’m sorry, Your Highness,” Samson says, correcting his mistake in her title. The English monarchy insists on the higher label of “Majesty,” pretentious and overreaching. A smooth wash of bright green bravado tempers Samson’s nerves. “I was raised in the south, in London, but I’ve been Latimer’s man long enough to know, well—” A sly little smirk from him. “It’s only a matter of time before we all have to shift our manner of address to you.”
Mary laughs, clearly delighted. “Oh, you’re naughty!” she trills.
The smug arse shoots me a triumphant look.
If he worked for Queen Elizabeth, he’d be used to calling a monarch by “Majesty,” but this little flattery has charmed Mary so completely that she’s ignored the very real possibility that Samson just turned a slip of tongue into a step up her personal hierarchy.
Because that’s what that was, I’m certain of it. It doesn’t take reading auras to see his mistake.
And “accidents” like that?
Maybe he is a spy…
Mary says something to Samson that makes him bark in laughter, true mirth wrapping around them both.
I catch a flare of emerald in my reflection on the window across from me. Feck that. I’m not jealous. I’m not. Mary’s only a few years my senior, and Samson’s of an age appropriate to both of us, but…
Feck’s sake, Alyth, I tell myself. He’s ENGLISH.
It helps, remembering that.
“Latimer has always been kind to my…cause,” Mary tells Samson, oblivious to my internal flailing. “And I do believe I can trust you to support what we all want.”
I narrow my eyes at both what was said and what wasn’t.
Samson too sees through the polite speech. “And what may that be?”
She smiles, close-lipped. “Now is as good a time as any. With my husband’s unexpected arrival, perhaps I should simply call the meeting of my lords early. Alyth, could you please summon them to the council chambers?”
I nod respectfully, but something about all this still feels sooff, if I could just put my finger on it—
“Now, Alyth,” Mary adds.
