Page 117 of The Court of Venus

The king stiffened.

Roland’s smile was practiced. “A precaution only, Your Majesty. You are still in your prime. It reaffirms the crown will pass to your heir, when he is born, Planets willing, and not the traitor Fulke Roet. It allows me to serve as regent until your son comes of age.”

“Aha.” The king signed. Oliver laid his hand over each signature, and the ink flared silver.

In the corridor, there was sudden shrieking, a desperate shout of the king’s name. Cecily was banging on the doors.

“Roland, shut her up,” sighed the king.

“I’ll do it, Your Majesty,” I said.

The king finally noticed me in the corner, candlelight illuminating only half my face. “Have you taken this pretty one into your service?” the king asked Roland.

Roland nodded quickly, as if in afterthought. “Oh, yes. Bianca Mortlake. She’s been of great use to me.”

I swept out of the king’s bedchamber to find Cecily Guildford caught in the captain’s arms, hitting his chest with her fists. Joan, Bess, and Kitty Seton stood, heads bowed, several steps behind her.

“They say—” Cecily sobbed. “—my father is to be—” She collapsed into tears, incoherent as she cried out in sharp bursts, “—executed. And I—the king would never—and Roland—”

“I can take it from here, Captain Tromblay,” I said. “The king would like me to escort Cecily back to her rooms.”

She blanched, stumbling back. “You.”

I only stared calmly.

“Am I to be a prisoner in my own home?”

“Your father and brother attempted to assassinate the king. He must be sure you had no part in the scheme before he releases you.”

“I want to see Roland, not you,” she insisted, laying her hand on her stomach. “I am queen of Alvion. I am carrying the king’s son. I command you, witch, to fetch Roland for me now.”

I want Roland to send the queen to her rooms, I thought to him, and the desire wound through the king’s chambers until it reached him. He soon appeared behind my shoulder. “Which queen?” he whispered in my ear, gently squeezing my hip as he passed.

Cecily fell to her knees, grasping his hands and kissing them, lowering her forehead to his ring. “Roland, tell me what the witch says isn’t true,” she said against his knuckles. “You cannot doubt my loyalty. My father, he’s a good man. He loves the king. He would never—”

Roland drew his hand away from her mouth. “Call Bianca a witch again, Cecily, and I’ll reconsider my defense on your behalf. Your father is a traitor. You Guildfords met before dawn—don’t look at me like I’m a fool—and you plotted to remove me from power just as you plotted against the king. There is no heir in your belly. I know it, and you know it.”

Her lower lip trembled. She glanced between us. “Roland, if they had a plot, they did not trust me with it.”

“I know,” Roland said softly. “That is why the king and I will spare your life. All will be well. Let his temper cool. He swears he’ll kill you with his bare hands if he lays eyes on you. Go.”

“My brother is dead.” Seeing he was still unmoved, she scoffed, wiped her tears, and swept her skirts into her hands.

The venom in her eyes might have poisoned someone else, someone who was not as accustomed to such stares as I was.

“Enjoy his bed,” she spat at me, before twisting around, her tail of maids scampering after her.

“I will,” I murmured. Roland turned to me in shock and coughed into his sleeve.

Only Kitty Seton glanced back over her shoulder. After the fall of her own family, she reveled in the sweep of another off the board.

I had not lied to Miranda about the blood. Because soon, so very soon, as the Moon rose, as the stars spun into new positions, the sky would match the Final Breath we’d found, and the king would be dead.

Twenty-Eight

At dawn and dusk, look carefully at a Venusborn. For two hours or so a day, they will appear especially exquisite, as if their every feature was chiseled from the mold of your desires.

—FABIAN DE TEMPES, THE MORNING AND THE EVENING STAR