Page 113 of The Court of Venus

The tenor’s song faded—a new one began. I nodded across the room, then swept forward to whisk a platter away from Fulke.

Miranda slowly stood and pushed back her chair, walking along the edge of the table, skimming the white tablecloth with her finger, until she reached the center where the maids danced. Fulke raised his eyebrows and slapped Tom on the shoulder.

To the court’s amazement, Miranda joined the dance, entwining her arms around the maids’ waists as they drew apart and then back together.

I poured wine over Fulke’s shoulder. “Perhaps your Mars is gentler than I imagined,” he said to Tom, snickering. “Guildford, what say you?”

“Don’t look at my back,” Tom said with a lewd grin. “You’ll find fresh scars.”

The maid I love is so very far

I long to grasp and call her mine

Though she wavers like a little star

To hold her would be to blanket her shine

Red her hair, of Mars so bright

Red the blush, I long to excite

Red my breath, with empty calls

Red the blood, the hind as it falls

The tenor’s final note rang with gorgeous clarity against the vaulted ceiling of the great hall.

The world stilled, as if it hung suspended, a body swinging from a noose.

My heart kicked and kicked. In the silence, the court glanced at each other and looked to Wyatt Francis, waiting for the music to pick up again. Miranda spun, lifting her hand above her head. The candlelight shone against the rings on her fingers.

She slashed down.

And a bolt of red magic split the king’s shoulder open.

Cecily screamed as Richard toppled from his chair. The screaming caught and raced along the tables, courtiers leaping from their seats. Steel scraped from scabbards.

Roland threw himself over King Richard’s body as guards erupted from their posts along the walls. Charles Guildford had Miranda by her gown. She glanced over at me, eyes flickering with panic, yet full of adrenaline, full of fire. I transformed her into a mouse so she could race from the great hall, leaving only her clothes behind. Charles stared in disbelief at the loose fabric in his hands, then flung it to the ground.

The guards, in total disarray, only knew the Guildford magician had attacked the king; they drew their swords and pointed them at anyone wearing a Guildford badge. Pressed into a corner, I stoked their panic.

Charles Guildford scrambled onto the banquet table to evade a guard’s thrust, kicking a silver platter into the other man’s chest. “I’m telling you: Find the Mars bitch! Where is she? Find her!”

Another guard had his arm wrapped around Tom Guildford’s neck. “Please,” Tom murmured. “I know nothing. I did nothing.”

The guard dragged his blade across Tom’s throat. “Shut up.”

Blood gurgled from his neck, and he collapsed in a heap.

Cecily began shrieking at the top of her lungs for her brother. Roland was still curled over the king’s chest, protecting him—but of course, no one wanted to assassinate the king at all. The king cried, “Do you see where I am cut, Thomas? Am I dying?”

“It is only your shoulder. Not very deep, Your Majesty. Hold my hand now.”

I knew when Roland had gripped Fulke’s mind. He had said it was relatively easy to nudge a person to do something they already wanted to do, no matter how deep the desire was buried. And Fulke Roet had always wanted to see his uncle dead. For years, he’d been watching in the long grass, waiting to strike.

He slowly approached the king, as if walking through a dream. Raised his knife, trembling with longing, while Roland held his mind. Just long enough for the king to see light catch the blade, for his eyes to widen. Just long enough, then Fulke was cowering, the steel clanging across the floor. Roland lunged forward and wrapped his arms around Fulke’s legs, knocking him to the ground.

“Seize him!” Richard commanded. “Take him!”