Page 4 of The Court of Venus

“And have I changed much?”

“Not at all. You’ve always liked that chair.”

His pale eyes narrowed. Then he laughed, too loudly, and withdrew his hand from beneath my lips. I gaped at the sudden absence. The hollow space where his warmth had been. “You have, though. Greatly. I heard your patron was dead. Sir…” He drew idle circles with his forefinger on the armrest as he thought. “Gregory Stanford, wasn’t it?”

“Stafford.”

“Ah, yes, the Staffords. That’s right. I don’t remember them well. Not often at court, were they?” I ignored the subtle jab at their social standing. Magicians, if they were not chosen to serve kings, declared allegiance elsewhere—and so some noble families had magicians to divine their future and aid their scheming.

We were trained as augurs first. It was a necessary skill. Magic ebbed and flowed as the planets spun, as shadows dwindled or lengthened. And so any learned sorcerer, regardless of ruling planet, could advise the investment of coin in times of abundance under Jupiter or the signing of new treaties under a sturdy Mercury, from the time of their apprenticeship at fourteen or so.

Sworn to a family, Planetborn rose as high as one could with no birthright, paid in both coin and favor. My own oath had died with Gregory. I’d been lucky; he had no sons—no children at all—to bequeath my loyalty to.

“If only Gregory were here,” Roland continued, “I could offer him our enduring friendship, mine and the king’s. What did you do up there for all those years?”

Our eyes stuck daggers into each other as I said, “Life was quiet. I spent most of my days with books.”

His court stared at us, despite the music beckoning them to dance. Pages lit silver candelabras as the daylight deepened. I noted Roland’s deep, satisfied inhale, the power filling him up. Venusborn were most powerful at dawn and dusk, when their planet was brightest.

He smiled down at me elegantly, the setting sun gathering around his head. “Did the Stafford household have no music? No revelry?”

“Do you have no scholars? I see you haven’t taken an apprentice.”

He twisted one of his rings. “I am a scholar of pleasure. There is much to learn, I find, once you commit to such studies.”

“Yet I see there are fewer heads here than there were before,” I countered. “Don’t you think heads are needed for pleasure? For heads have mouths to sing and recite verse—”

He cut me off, raising his voice so the entire hall could hear him clearly. “My dear friend Bianca Mortlake has returned to court for the coronation. How wonderful!”

“Thank you for your invitation.” I bowed my head, aware the pearls around my neck were swinging between my breasts—from where he stood behind the throne, Wyatt Francis’s wet eyes followed them.

Roland glanced over his shoulder at Wyatt and sighed, then beckoned me closer. I leaned against him, cheek to cheek. His voice was taut. “Let’s go to my chambers, then, so we won’t disturb everyone else with this spat you, no doubt, are desperate for?”

I nodded, looking only at the floor.

“I’ll speak with Bianca alone,” he told his councilors flatly, as if the idea bored him. The councilors exchanged concerned glances. Every inch away from Roland was a measure of their power. And though they orbited him, they all agreed to remain behind. They wanted to enjoy the benefits of their power: the merriment and the laughter, the sunset cast through the stained glass windows, filling the chamber with red lust; the long tables now being laid out with steaming meats and pies, cups of wine that would be refilled for them as soon as they were drained.

Roland guided me through two sets of double doors. As the music bled away, along with the quick step of shoes across the floors, I wondered where the king was now. Roland was frustrated the new queen wasn’t in attendance—but why not King Richard? Was he truly ill?

Then I stilled. Caught myself against the wall. Guards in swan livery swung open a final pair of doors, and I knew exactly whose chambers they led to.

Once, they had been Hal’s.

I had imagined them preserved. But the hangings were now carmine velvet instead of blue, and Roland’s initials were carved everywhere: into the wooden chairs by the gentle fire, into every pillow and every goblet.

How wrong that felt. It should be Hal’s initials on the velvet and in the wood, Hs stitched in satin and stamped in metal, Hal sitting in that throne with Prospero beside him.

So as soon as the guards shut us in, and I knew we were alone, I snatched a knife off the table and pressed it to Roland’s throat.

Three

I have decided to send Roland away, to Lionesse. He is not ready to be oathed, though it is custom for a magician of his age. The king was cross, and we argued for many hours over it. He’s taken a liking to the boy. Yet Roland requires additional discipline and teachings from a Venusborn herself. For how many lords and ladies have come to me in hysterics to say their husband or wife is in his thrall, or in his bed? He is twenty-one years old, and whispers name him whore.

—PROSPERO THE ALL-KNOWING, DIARIES, UNDATED

Roland recoiled from the blade. His eyes flared, the refined beauty melting from his face. “How dare you.”

I trembled. He knew I had no conviction, no true desire to harm him, or else he would have called for his guards.