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Out on the tarmac, he ignored the various palace officials that had come to greet them, heading straight to the car that would ferry them back to the palace. He didn’t wait for her, the car pulling away as soon as he got in, leaving her standing on the tarmac gaping after him.
Sometimes he’d do this, ignore her as if she didn’t exist, especially if he was absorbed in something. Normally it didn’t bother her—that was just Augustine. But after the way he’d looked at her on the plane, so sharp and focused, and then the dream she’d had, his dismissal felt oddly painful.
She always rode with him. Always.
She shook away the sensation, because really, she was only his PA and had no claim on his attention, and when he came back from a trip, there was always a lot of work to do. He was probably dealing with that and had forgotten about her. Which was fine. It had nothing to do withherin particular.
She joined the other palace officials in a second car, arriving at the turreted stone castle that was the seat of the Kings and Queens of Isavere.
It was a literal fairy-tale castle, with ivy climbing up the ancient stone walls and flags fluttering from the turrets, the golden oak of Isavere already flying to indicate the King was back in residence.
She always got a thrill when she arrived back at the palace. That she, oldest daughter of Cassie-Lynne Jones, petty drug dealer, brought up in a run-down trailer park in the desert, should live in this gorgeous fairy-tale castle and be a PA to the ruler of an ancient and fabulously rich European country.
Sometimes it felt like a dream and she had to pinch herself to make sure it was real.
No need to pinch yourself. Just remember what you did to get here.
Winifred ignored the thought and the icy thread of guilt and shame that came along with it. As if she’d ever forget all the lies she’d had to tell to get this job and the constant pretence of trying to be someone she wasn’t.
Not that she had to pretend these days. Ellie Jones with her hard American r’s was long gone. Now she was Winifred Scott—all poise and a cut-glass English accent—so completely she never thought of herself as Ellie at all.
Her apartments were in the royal wing, a small, but neat set of rooms not far from the royal apartments themselves. She loved them. It was still a thrill to have not just her own bedroom, but a little lounge/receiving room and a bathroom, all nicely appointed. She’d once thought the rooms almost indecently lavish, but after the years spent in Augustine’s orbit, her ideas on what constituted ‘lavish’ had changed.
Now she knew that her apartments weren’t particularly lavish at all, but she didn’t care. The run-down trailer she’d grown up in had no privacy, not with her mom and two sisters, so even having her own bed was a luxury.
Her rooms were tidy and cosy, and she’d added little personal touches over the years that made it feel even more like home. A small rug in front of the fire. A few bright silk cushions on the plain blue sofa. A beautifully finished wooden bookcase from a local wood turner in the corner, full of her favourite books, plus souvenirs from the trips she went on with Augustine: snow globes and glass figurines and little dolls and sculptures. Treasures she’d collected that she looked at often to remind herself of how far she’d come.
You killed a man, you gave up your sisters, and now you’re giving up your child. What makes you think you deserve any of this?
The thought was an icy one and Winifred shoved it away, requesting some tea be brought up and once she was ensconced in her rooms, she unpacked then sat in her little living room with her tea, going through Augustine’s schedule for the next day. No doubt he’d want to talk to her about it immediately.
Yet there was no summons as the minutes passed, and soon hours had gone by and Augustine still hadn’t requested her presence.
It was odd and unlike him. Perhaps he was tired—he was often fatigued after a long journey—and maybe she wouldn’t be needed tonight. Still, he normally told her if that was the case. This silence wasn’t usual.
After another hour had passed, she called him, but there was no reply.
Puzzled, she then called one of the palace staff in charge of his apartments and asked him if the king needed her this evening. No, the man said. The king didn’t.
And a little kernel of ice settled inside her.
Something is wrong.
No, it was nothing. Augustine was tired, that’s all it was. He’d ask for her tomorrow, no doubt.
She didn’t sleep well that night, though that was probably to do with the fact that she’d slept on the plane too. Nothing more. It certainly had nothing to do with her brain going over and over why he might not have called for her to go over his schedule and what he might do about her pregnancy.
Nothing to do with that at all.
The next morning she woke feeling groggy, as if she hadn’t slept, but she had a shower and dressed, and had her breakfast in her room the way she always did.
Then she went to her desk in Augustine’s office as was customary, to have a debrief with him about the day, but the big airy room with the stained-glass window behind his desk was empty.
Her desk was down the other end of the room, near the bookcases, and she sat there for a good ten minutes wondering where on earth he was, because he was normally very punctual. And she was starting to get a little worried, until another staff member arrived to tell her that the king was in the stables, and he would meet with her at 10:00 a.m. sharp.
Winifred nodded, then frowned at her computer screen after the staff member had gone.
Augustine loved horses and he spent a lot of time in the stables. He said it was calming. Horses didn’t require anything of him but a rub down and some hay, the odd pat on the nose and an apple or two. They were undemanding company and they didn’t stand on ceremony, or so he said.
