Page 3 of The Court of Venus

In the great hall of the castle, a tapestry hung on the far wall: knights on unicorn calvary, two white-scaled dragons soaring high above. When I first saw this room as a girl, awestruck at the grandeur of the vaulted ceiling and the size of the hearth, I asked Prospero which battle the tapestry depicted.

“One that has not yet come to pass,” he’d said.

Now the hearth was dead. Guards stood at the doors, wearing livery with swans stitched on the breast, one of Roland’s badges. The great families of Alvion gathered together in tight clusters, their wary eyes flickering to me. My name, traded quietly around the room. I was the only magician here, and I wasn’t sure I could endure the stares. The hands blocking cruel mouths, the long, pale necks that craned as they whispered. If only I had changed the color of my hair and eyes before arriving, no one would know what I was.

It was foolish to think I could return unmasked.

Too late now. Somewhere far away, I felt the ripple of his influence. A door had swung open in the palace, and like a rock thrown in a pond, the movement traveled. Roland, Roland, Roland. Lord chancellor of Alvion. If the courtiers were not murmuring his name, they were holding their breath, waiting for who truly ruled them. Even the dogs begging for scraps in the courtyard fell silent. The herald trumpeted, the door shuddered, and our eyes snapped obediently to the far end of the hall. We curtseyed and bowed in a sweep as we heard the first clip of his boots across the floor.

“Lord Chancellor.”

“Your Grace.”

“Good morning, Your Grace.”

I dragged my sweaty palms across my gown, my heart thundering. I dared then—I looked up. Who he was now slid into place before my memories of him. He strode through the wave of bowed heads without a glance for anyone.

Time had not changed him: His cheekbones were just as sharp, his cleft chin as pronounced, his shoulders as broad. His hair and eyes both a rosy pink—Venus’s color. A single pearl dangled from his left ear, and as he cut a wake through the courtiers, it swung back and forth. Sunlight fell on him, as if he too had been plucked from the sea, still shining with salt water.

The Venus King, they called him. He looked the part.

Following closely behind him were two men I didn’t remember well but knew by reputation, both gentlemen of the king’s privy chamber. They dressed and shaved the king, they poured his wine and fed him lies. Tom Guildford, brother to the new queen, had dark curls, thick eyebrows, and was rumored to have several bastard children by his friends’ wives. Then handsome Wyatt Francis, large as a bear and wearing an obscene number of furs and jewels. I’d been told he drank himself unconscious each night. Close behind them were the men of the privy chamber in lesser favor. I was reminded of ants trailing behind sweets.

Roland spun and sat on the king’s throne, lazing with his head lolled on one shoulder. Silently he surveyed us. The crowd bowed again in unison. “The king is ill,” he said, tapping the velvet armrest. I had forgotten the dulcet tone of his voice. “A pity, for we all wished to see His Majesty tonight. But if he rests well now, he will be in full health for the festivities.”

No one seemed particularly concerned with the king’s absence. When Roland flicked his hand, the harp and drums jumped to life. He watched the musicians dully, and as the dancing began, crooked a long finger at one of his councilors. “Martin, come here.”

A nervous man with a pointed beard stepped up to whisper something. As he listened, Roland nodded with a blank face, but I felt a strike of anger inside of him.

I pushed through the courtiers gathering around him, all eager for an audience. The conversation grew nearly as loud as the music, the men now snapping at each other to hush. I turned my back to them and pretended to study the tapestry along the wall, watching Roland in my peripheral vision. He was sighing now, rolling his head around in a theatrical show of agitation.

“—the queen,” he groaned. “I tire of her childishness.”

Martin stuttered. Wrung his hands. “Your Grace, we told Lord Guildford, this afternoon in fact—”

Roland held up a hand. “If she’s able to dance and smile, then she’ll be here to dance and smile for me, and through me, the king. Yes?”

The man called Martin nodded vigorously.

Another twist of frustration, carefully reined in. Roland’s face betrayed nothing. “Do tell me, while—” He paused. The curiosity in his mind had raised its head, a wolf that had smelled a fresh meal. His lips curled into a smile, and he turned from Martin. Slowly, so agonizingly slow, his gaze tracked through the room.

I should have known better. The nature of his magic was simple. He followed my single, shining desire: I wish to avoid Roland’s notice.

So. I was caught. Would he dangle me before his court?

“I didn’t see you there, Mouse,” Roland said softly.

He knew I’d always hated that nickname. It was bestowed upon me by Hal and Roland when they found me following them one night in mouse form. Transformation was still difficult for me then; I sometimes couldn’t change back for hours. They lured me out with cheese from the kitchens, cupped me in their hands, teased me for days afterward. And so it stuck. I’d always been small and poked around places I wasn’t invited.

I closed my eyes to steady myself and muster my courage. Then I spun around, smiled, curtseyed. Fluttered my eyelashes so he’d know how I loathed him.

He beckoned me forward, and I curtseyed again, lowering myself as he sat raised above. Through gritted teeth: “Your Grace.”

He extended his hand. Every inch of it was covered in jewels. Prospero’s sapphire rested on one knuckle, the king’s signet ring on another. He glanced down at the signet, an instruction. I bent to kiss the cold metal, staring up at him through my lashes.

He appraised me carefully. “How long has it been?”

“Four and a half years.” I hated that I knew, almost to the day.