The problem is, of course, that it’s not only Darnley who wants the queen dead. Within Scotland, any number of people might be making a play for the throne. Additionally, the Catholics are all mad at her for not forcing Catholicism on the nation, and the Protestants are all mad at her for not being Protestant. It’s worse outside Scotland. Most of Protestant England wants Mary dead—she’s a threat to Elizabeth, their current queen, as heir apparent to that throne.
And that’s just the humans.
Most of the fae are fine with Mary, I suppose, judging from what limited reports I get from the Seelie Court. But the Red Caps wouldlovefor more chaos in the fae realm, and killing the Scottish queen is an excellent step toward upsetting the balance.
“My needle broke,” Mary complains, getting up from her chair.
When she stands, so does everyone else.
We are all friends here, but only one of us is queen.
Mary laughs and waves us all down as she walks over to the needle box. She makes a show of false embarrassment for our formality, but we all know it is not worth crossing the queen by not giving her the respect she feels is her due.
My eyes blur as I refocus on the main problem at hand.
Mary has too many enemies.
But it’s probably not the Red Caps directly. They were banished from Scotland when they sided with the Romans centuries ago, but they do have long, long lives. As long as there is fresh warfare for them to revel in, they can live indefinitely.
And England under the Tudors hasn’t exactly been bloodless.
It’s surprising that a Red Cap would let their weapons be used here, where they cannot benefit from the destruction, but they may be fine just knowing they’re seeing chaos regardless. If I want to protect Mary and Scotland, I need to figure out—
The small hairs on my arm prickle, static electricity zipping over my skin.
My eyes go instantly to Mary, standing over an ornate gilded box, plucking an iron needle from its velvet lining. One that emits a faint red glow.
My embroidery drops from my hands, falling soundlessly into my lap.
Magic crackles around my fingers as I call all the power I have. Acting on instinct, I throw a protective barrier around Mary so strong that she freezes in place.
“Your Highness?” Lady Seton asks, noticing the abrupt way the queen’s body turns immobile.
But the other Leths in the room have noticed too. Lady Reres leans over to Lady Livingston, and together, they cast a glamour to distract the other women as I rush to Mary. I’m dimly aware of Lady Seton’s skirt ties coming undone, the swaths of pleated fabric sliding out from under her corset and dropping off her hips. The woman scrambles to fix her dress as several other ladies rush to help her—giving me enough distraction to race to the queen, bound so tight by my magic that she’s not even blinking.
I allow myself a moment to scan the auras of the room. There is fear and confusion, surprise and embarrassment…but no strains of black and red, no hint of violence desired or anger at being thwarted.
Whoever did this is not in the room. Anyone could have hidden that needle in the box at any time.
To a human, it looks like any other sewing instrument.
I pluck the metal from Mary’s fingers before I release the protection around her. The queen stumbles; Lady Livingston offers her a discreet hand to steady her while angling her wide ruff to block her from the others’ view.
“What devilry did you do, Alyth?” Mary snarls at me in a voice just barely low enough to go unnoticed. “Give us privacy and explain yourself.”
Lovely. I just saved the queen’s life, and she’s angry at me.
I cannot truly make our conversation silent to any eavesdropping ears, but I can send our quiet voices to the ceiling instead, and I can twist the magic lines to make it easier for human eyes to slide past us.
Now that she’s not frozen in place, Mary takes a moment to look at the chaotic distraction of Lady Seton’s dress falling apart. She frowns, and I think for a moment that she’s mad I put her friend in such an ignoble position, but no.
She’s upset the attention isn’t on her. It’s just like her; she wants the magic to keep our conversation secret, but she somehow wants everyone to still notice her and bow to her.
Before she can vent her ire at me, I hold up the needle the queen had selected, even if she cannot see the faint strains of foul magic tainting it. I’ve been compiling every text I could find on Red Cap weapons, and I recognize this one. “If this pricked your finger,” I tell her slowly, enunciating every word, “it would drain every drop of blood in your body until you were nothing more than a withered husk.”
Mary’s anger turns to shock. “Another—”
“Red Cap weapon, yes.”
