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"How generous.”
My trials at the white court are far from over.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN
PEARLS IN THE GARDEN
The court rarely wakes before high noon on days after festivals, but after seven hours in my bed, I’ve not slept one wink. I give up, and take the chance moment of quasi-solitude to explore the archives kept in the royal library.
I’m shadowed by my guards, naturally, but their presence has been a constant in my life for long enough for me to completely ignore it. Besides, they’re not the ones I aim to avoid.
No one will look for me for hours, and if they do, they won't come here, to the dreary, messy alcoves where our literature and documents are stored. Not when I have a brand-new concubine to warm my bed, in the eye of the court.
My father was never one for books, so he had the old library converted into a ballroom. Now, we keep the millions of ancient volumes in a dark and cold ancient hall, and spell them to withstand the damp. I make a mental note to tell the clerk to do something about the stench too. At a less unseemly hour, the room will no doubt be manned, and my every move watched.
I know exactly what I'm looking for.
Every time a lord or lady, great or small, enters any of the courts, their presence is recorded, and copies are sent to all of the royal halls. I look for a date marked in my brain in hot iron—Ostara, year 1404: the day my family was massacred.
I run through the list of names in attendance at the Black Keep, the house I grew up in, the one I intend to return to the moment I shake my regents loose.
Greystone was there, and Adler, and Rhodes, but so were most of the great lords, to celebrate the spring equinox. Coldbloods rarely decline an excuse for a party.
I frown as I read an unexpected name on the list. Valina Frejr.
What was the head of the Frejr clan doing here? She rarely ever leaves the Darklands.
I'll find out.
The list otherwise yields no surprises, no matter how long I stare at it, so I move on to the royal correspondences I can find from around that period. Boring missives of no import, talking of a land dispute in the southern isles, a shortage of wheat, and the increased tariffs on fish exports.
I'm getting tired, frustrated and the pressure at the back of my head doesn't stop.
I blow out the single candle at my desk and return to my apartment for a change of clothing and a rest.
It's almost midday, and my favorite toy is about to be delivered to me, wrapped in highly diverting packaging.
* * *
Rather than the great hall and its uncomfortable seating arrangements, I choose to hold court in the Little Garden, a domed atrium ordered by my great-grandmother, who'd been fond of roses. Supported by twelve rose pink pillars, overtaken by ivy, the gardens walls are covered in roses year around.
I sit by a fountain at its center on a red velvet reclining chaise, surrounded by a dozen courtiers who buzz in my ear like maddening little bees.
Adelaid has crawled as close as she dares, pressed up against the leg of my chair, not unlike Helyn yesterday.
"I just don't understand." She schools her voice into a plaintive moan, almost hiding the extent of her anger. "The common girl's not one of us. She's not even seen Ravelyn once before yesterday, and she'd die in minutes beyond the walls."
I ignore her, growing wary of the sound of her voice.
"Well, she's very pretty," Aud Levendell quips.
Adelaid shoots her a glare.
"What? She is. All that bright hair and flushed skin."
"She's common," Adelaid counters.
"Well, she doesn't look it," another girl argues.
