Page 8 of The Court of Venus

He interrupted me, offering a platter of fruit. I shook my head.

“You have changed,” he said, frowning slightly. “You wouldn’t have dared say that to me before. I’d be careful, Mouse. Wyatt Francis is creative, and the entire court—and especially the king—would love to watch you die. Execution is their favorite sport, and this is a tournament in honor of a coronation. The king will want his show.” His lip curled, though his heart beat at a rapid clip. Erratic with fear. It matched the rhythm of my own. “Or perhaps you’ll win.”

“And what exactly would I win?” I would only truly win if I finally bested him. He knew that, of course.

“Other than the king’s favor? A place here at court. That’s what you want, isn’t it? ‘Something you can only find here.’” His mouth thinned. “I can’t convince you to withdraw, can I?”

“No.”

He sighed.

There was a knock at the door. His men wanted him to return. Another sigh at the disturbance, but still, the revel must have called to him. The drums were beating for a volta. He’d rather be out there, with his court, with the laughter and the women lifted into the air, the slow drag of one body against another on their way to the ground.

But before he brushed past me, he reached below his desk and delicately handed me the knife.

“For safekeeping,” he said.

On the way to my old rooms, the past joined eerily with the present until I couldn’t distinguish between seconds, hours, decades. I might collide with Hal at any moment, returning from a ride, glistening with sweat.

Every detail was his remnant, every billowing curtain his ghost. There, the notch he’d carved into a wooden beam. There, the rug he used to spread out on, fiddling with the ears of his dog.

I was given a maid from Queen Cecily’s household. Bess, whose ambitious father, like all ambitious fathers, brought her to court in the hopes she might charm the king. The girl was frightened of me. She set the chamber pot by the bed and silently undressed me. “I hoped for a bath,” I said. “Long journey,” I added. Bess curtseyed, her bodice scandalously low. Thick oils dragged through the hot water. The steam rose, the warmth rapidly escaping, and while stepping into the tub I scalded my feet. Bess didn’t notice my grimace. As I bathed, I finally allowed myself to steep quietly in my own misery. My white hair flowed in every direction. Several times I ducked under just to see how long I could hold my breath.

When I emerged, Bess had returned to the dancing, not even bothering to appear attentive. She’d probably fetch the dirty bathwater in the morning. In the bedchamber, candles still flickered, the fire spitting joylessly. I floated and blinked up at the ceiling, wondering if I should have come here at all.

I sank beneath the water again.

There were so many things I didn’t understand. The Guildfords’ rise, for one. The son, Tom, seemed to be Roland’s friend, but maybe Roland pulled him close so he could sink a knife into his back later.

I heard Prospero’s voice, muffled in the water: There is no magic as great as your mind.

What had he told me about the Guildford family?

They had clawed into the nobility several generations ago, when Tom and Cecily’s great-grandfather was knighted after a war with Lionesse. This forefather, born under the ram, was a man of relentless ambition. A Mars family—fiery, bold. When Eleanor was chosen to marry the king, it was the culmination of years of effort and generations of striving Guildfords. Now Cecily, Eleanor’s younger cousin, was their second chance.

I remembered her vaguely from my time at court: a delicate face, wide-set eyes, and heaps of auburn hair, her arm always entwined with her brother’s.

I could see how such an ascent would appeal to Roland: a family who rose from nothing, almost fell, and now were indebted to him.

I stepped out of the bath and into my plainest gown, wringing out my hair onto the floor, tucking the wet, cloudy wisps into a hood and veil. My body slowly compressed. I stood shorter, stouter, with brown curls and freckles scattered across my chest and nose. My breasts pointed in two directions. My eyes inched closer together.

It was always an adjustment in a new body. I had to practice walking, learning the gait of Bess’s shorter legs. Still, crawling into new skin was always a strange relief. Sometimes, I thought I was more snake than mouse: I shed myself when necessary.

I tiptoed through shafts of moonlight cast through the windows, holding a candlestick aloft. Everything about the castle seduced: the light low and dim, beckoning me closer; the floral perfume I’d smelled on Roland’s wrist when I kissed his ring. I crept to the side of the palace where the king and queen’s chambers were, and when I passed, every trick door thought I was Bess, returning dutifully to her mistress.

The doors of Redhall were spelled hundreds of years ago by a Saturn magician. He created boundaries only certain courtiers could cross. Some, such as the council room, would only open for privy councilors who had sworn oaths to serve the king. Some required the courtier to wear a certain weight of jewelry or carry its value in coin. Others required a secret.

Better than the most well-trained guards, these boundaries ensured everyone stayed where they belonged in the palace.

Bess, it seemed, had free rein in the queen’s wing. Good to know. When I reached the queen’s presence chamber, her ladies immediately pulled me inside.

“Come,” a young maid of honor hissed. “He’ll be here soon.”

A sullen-looking maid with a long face tugged on my arm. “I thought you were given to the Moonborn now.” She was smug about that. I wondered what Bess did to make the other girl hate her.

Suddenly, the door to the queen’s bedchamber cracked open, and a maid slipped out with a wet cloth. Queen Cecily lay luxuriantly on the damp sheets in a thin shift. The ladies scurried inside, and I followed. Cecily stretched, flexed her toes. “Roland likes when I smell of lavender. Is he here yet?”

“Not yet,” reported the sullen girl.