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They believe I’m burning and pillaging the villages.
However, Rowan saw Blanchette was not looking at the castle but at the scorched village in the distance.
He watched her curls flutter like a golden banner in the breeze. She looked regal—a true queen watching over her kingdom.
Blanchette momentarily left to summon a servant, whom she commanded to bring the looters baskets of meat, mead, and fresh fruit. When she returned, she smiled coyly at Rowan and surrendered to a small laugh.
“What is it?”
“I was just thinking. Ah, well, it’s rather silly. Governess Agnes—she used to tell my sister and me a bedtime story when we were little girls. A story about a child who had lost her way in the woods. At least, she thought she was lost, but… well, she was merely distracted. Lured off her rightful path.” Her small, pale hands came to the material of her cloak. “She wore a red riding cloak, just like this one.” She smiled shyly again, her eyes softening, the memories visibly tumbling through her mind. “Sometimes… sometimes I suppose you must become lost to find yourself.”
Nineteen
Sunrays climbed through the slanted windows and illuminated the tapestries on the walls. Blanchette wandered into the throne room, the crowning jewel of her home, her fingers lightly grazing the fabric of a hanging. It depicted her family’s royal coat of arms—a black raven against a sunrise in a field. Her house’s words were there too. Rowan had never removed them. Not even after he’d taken the castle when his anger ran hot.
“Wither the trees of hate...” She whispered her house’s motto into the empty room. Then she repeated them again, like a prayer or hushed plea. “Wither the trees of hate… wither the trees of hate…”
Her breath caught as she moved toward the three steps that elevated the throne for the rest of the room. The chair was a wonder to behold. It’d terrified her when she was a girl. And it scared her now.
She stood within a patch of light as the day ended and cloaked the castle in shadows. She saw her father sitting in that chair, the crown resting on his golden brow, his handsome, stern features drawn tight. His knuckles strained and turned white as he gripped the carved armrests.
She inched forward. Her breath caught. Beyond the walls, she could make out the din of the castle—Rowan’s men at training. Always training. Her father’s likeness faded into her memories as she crossed the marble floor. The heels of her kid-skin boots clicked melodically and echoed the beat of her heart, and her red riding cloak silently swept the ground.
When she finally reached the chair, her breaths came so fast that she could hardly think. Her hand shook in midair as she reached out. She watched the signet ring drink in the teasing light, then tentatively rested it on the armrest. She ran her fingers up the smooth iron and intricate metalwork… circled the chair, her boots rapping loudly in the throne room’s solemn quiet. Her pulse raced, her thoughts coming faster still.
Blanchette reached for her cross, finding again that it was no longer there.
She needed to pray.
* * *
The cozy chapel was a welcomed contrast to the coldness of the throne room. A candelabra burned gently in front of the altar. Mary sat beside it. Her hands were pressed together in prayer, and her white dress circled her body on the stone floor. She looked like an angel.
Blanchette stood in the archway, debating whether she should leave. It was a solemn, sad thing, watching a young child all alone in the gloom of a castle with only a candlestick for company.
Mary’s head lifted, and she glanced over her shoulder, her eyes softening when they spotted Blanchette in the archway. Blanchette smiled, smoothed down her skirts, then entered the chapel.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt. May I join you?” she asked.
Mary nodded, and Blanchette sat beside her on the ground. She smoothed her skirts around her and tucked her legs under them. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Mary nodded again. She was blushing, Blanchette noticed. “Did you have a chapel at Castle Rochester?”
“Yes. A small one,” she answered, her blue gaze darting around the room.
“I’m glad to hear that,” she said, meaning it. Blanchette playfully nudged her with her elbow. “So what did you pray for?”
“Pray?” Mary’s brow tightened, and suddenly, she seemed much older than her seven years. “I… I don’t really pray. Not anymore. I used to, every morning and night.”
What a sad child.
Blanchette studied Mary’s delicate features—her porcelain skin, upturned nose, and the light dusting of freckles that decorated it. Gently, she smoothed her palm over her long golden curls in soothing motions. “That makes me sad, Mary. What made you stop?”
Blanchette watched as she stared into the flame. It waved and danced, filling the small chapel with lively shadows. Blanchette glanced above the altar, where the Lord hung on his cross for all their sins.
Even Rowan’s.
Even my father’s…
A strange combination of horror and hope wrestled in her gut. Finally, Mary spoke, and the illusion was broken.
