And Coin surely expected me to keep up with my current work.
And if I became the new Whispers...
I’d just have to learn to survive on less sleep.
I pulled open another rose drawer. I’d expected more papers on Sixth or Seventh Step families, including delicate information like ill-advised loans they’d bargained Coin for, but this one was full of Government members’ financial information.
‘You’re a Treasury employee,’ the Queen had said. ‘It won’t be difficult to involve you in certain affairs.’
It must have infuriated Coin to give me this kind of access.
I rubbed the engraved symbols on my key. No one beyond myself and Coin would access these drawers for a while. Not only had the Queen insisted on giving me increased access, but it looked like she’d also forced Coin to rearrange his system around it. She’d promised me royal power to fuel my vengeance, and played the first card of her promise.
I pulled out two files and spread them on the table.
Lady Brenna.
Lord Hazell.
I had no proof they’d helped Vigrante orchestrate Papa’s death. But they kept Vigrante in power, vocal in their support in return for his favours and reach. If I wanted to expose Vigrante’s weaknesses, destroying his power base was a good place to begin.
I glanced towards Coin’s office. He and Brenna had been briskly familiar, as if they’d kept in contact despite her alliance with Vigrante.
Papa. I had to think of Papa.
Going after Brenna and Hazell wouldn’t bring him back, or be true vengeance for his death.
But ruining them would be a start.
A week later, I smoothed my sleeves and officially gave up on my appearance.
Mama turned me to face her. Zola and I had inherited lighter shades of her brown skin, but I shared her tight curls that she’d scraped into a bun. She nodded. ‘Good. You won’t embarrass us, or yourself, before the Queen.’
‘Thank you, Mama.’ I managed not to roll my eyes, but smiled as she hugged me.
She let me go to answer the knock on my door. Zola rushed in, followed by Lord Martain. He beamed and rocked on his heels, as we settled into our usual routine of awkward but sincere affection. I didn’t doubt his love for Mama, but I still wasn’t sure if he’d wanted two almost-grown children to follow her into the marriage.
Zola grinned and held out a small box. ‘This is for you.’
‘A promotion should always be celebrated,’ Lord Martain added.
Weekly financial meetings with the Queen was a promotion far beyond my current responsibilities, but my family pretended otherwise. Now that Matthias was officially the Queen’s new secretary, Mama assumed he was behind my new role. She’d hopefully never find out about the actual job I’d inadvertently put myself up for.
‘Lord Martain, this is unnecess–’
He held up a hand. ‘Please, open it.’
I lifted the lid. A brooch nestled in silk and velvet: a little bird, its wings suspended in flight, painted in sky-blue and yellow enamel – Lord Martain’s family colours – and edged in gold. Its eye was a tiny sapphire.
Lord Martain was proud of me.
The bird blurred. If I succumbed to tears, I wouldn’t stop crying. ‘Thank you,’ I whispered.
He rescued the brooch from my shaking hands to pin it. He would never replace Papa, but he made Mama happy. That was enough.
Zola flung her arms around me. ‘Show her how wonderful you are.’
I tried to muster a confident smile. Before I lost my nerve, I grabbed my folder and hurried out.
This would never work.
But if I didn’t prove myself, the only path left was to the executioner.
Papa deserved justice.
And I deserved to live.
Matthias’s advice raced around my mind: ‘She’s less formal than her uncle and grandfather, but there are still rules. Three steps forward, curtsey, and wait for her acknowledgment. You sit when she allows it. If she offers refreshment, she’ll serve. She’ll dismiss you, and don’t stand before she does.’
Our meeting yesterday had been awkward – I was still angry that he’d kept his friendship with the Queen secret, even though no one in Court had known except for the Queen’s mother – and Matthias had hid behind brisk professionalism. But while my trust in him was shaky, he’d still recommended me to the Queen; my success would also be his.
I entered the royal wing by showing my mark to the guards. Safe and boring. All too soon, I stood at the doors to the Queen’s private study.
Papa wouldn’t have been afraid. And neither will I.
I knocked.
‘Enter!’
The Queen was scribbling on paper when I walked in, but beckoned me forward without looking up. I took three steps and sank into a curtsey: skirts held out, back straight. My breath went in and out with the ticking clock.
Her pen didn’t stop.
As the seconds trickled by, my legs ached. If she didn’t acknowledge me soon, I’d start trembling. Falling over wouldn’t be the best start.
Finally, just as I considered abandoning etiquette and falling, the scratching nib stopped.
‘Oh, damn it, rise.’
I straightened, keeping my head down.
‘We’re in private,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to behead you for looking at me.’
That was easy for her to say. Protocol worked itself around her. Protocol existed for her.
‘Look at me.’
I raised my face. ‘Your Majesty.’
‘Sit.’ She jabbed a finger at a chair.
I sat.
The Queen’s private study was smaller than the public one, yet the turquoise walls and golden wood made it more inviting. It suited her, but right now she didn’t suit it. She was sickly pale, with dark circles under her eyes: understandable, considering she’d recently entombed her uncle. I thought she’d reschedule our meeting, but Lord Martain had said, ‘She doesn’t have time. Monarchs never have enough time.’
She was too pale for her mourning purple. The colour was royal, a symbol of their authority and old divine power. A period of royal mourning was the only time the rest of us could wear it. The monarchy edged theirs in black, adding another layer to their grief.
‘Some rules,’ she said. ‘Those who work with me don’t show fear. Even if you’re terrified, learn to hide it or we’ll accomplish nothing.’
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
Tired or not, she fitted into rooms with gilded wallpaper and heavy curtains spilling to the floor. The small crystal chandelier over our heads was cut in an older style, but worth more than my parents could ever have afforded.
‘If I make an incorrect statement or assessment,’ she continued, ‘you’re expected to speak up. Coin argues with me when he feels it necessary. Matthias tries to see how quickly he can prick my temper, but don’t follow his example. Public protocol is different, but I don’t have time for elaborate ceremony in private. Understood?’
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’ There was no point in admitting I didn’t know how to navigate a less royal protocol.
‘Good.’ She pushed her papers aside. ‘Coin said he prepared with you?’
I’d spent time with Coin every evening since our first meeting, drilled until my head hurt and his nerves frayed. Nothing had been said about Brenna’s visit.
The Queen rose. ‘Follow me. Don’t bring your papers.’
We went through a side door, then two empty rooms, until she stopped before a double door and grasped the handles.
She glanced at me. ‘You wanted to prove yourself, yes?’
I nodded, though it was less want and more had no choice in the matter.
‘I don’t like surprises.’ Her smile held little warmth. ‘But I like surprising others.’ She flung open the doors and stepped into the room.
A wall of noise hit me: laughter and chatter, brittle-bright, a packed room of nobles on display. Vivid satins and silks with intricate embroidery, sm
ooth velvets, jewels flashing in the candlelight.
As I followed the Queen, a crystalline moment of silence spread. A servant should have announced her first, giving them all precious seconds to prepare.
They curtseyed and bowed in unison, chorusing, ‘Your Majesty!’ They surged apart, creating space for her to glide towards an elevated chair – the only seat in the room. She sat.
Another pause, like a bated breath. Unsure what else to do, I stood beside her. Voices suddenly broke the silence, crashing against each other.
I like surprising others, she’d said.
Despite their surprise, I was the unsettled one. I was the one who didn’t belong.
The room was large for entertaining, dark blue with dove-grey wood and silver accents. It felt cold. Servants held trays of glasses and small, delicate foods. Now facing the crowd, I recognised them as Sixth and Seventh Step, all Opposition politicians. The Queen had arranged a gathering to win their support.
Matthias wasn’t here.
The Opposition was a balance to the Government, usually with differing opinions on legislation. Collectively, Parliament was supposed to keep the monarch in check. The current Opposition had united around their mutual loathing of Vigrante, but was hindered by Alexandris’s weak leadership. The Queen would need their support when Vigrante and his Government inevitably opposed her reforms.
‘Your Majesty.’ An elderly gentleman approached and swept an efficient bow.
Lord Ealkenor, my memory informed me. Low Seventh Step, astute businessman, frugal to the point of miserly. Papa had admired his business sense, and despised everything else about him. Lord Ealkenor’s family had put him in charge of their financial interests, though they, too, despised everything else about him.
The Queen held out her hand out for him to kiss. ‘Lord Ealkenor. We’re so pleased you accepted our invitation.’
He brushed his lips over her knuckles. His eyes flickered towards me. My shoulders tightened.
She gestured to me. ‘This is Miss Xania Bayonn, daughter of Lady Harynne and the late Baron Bayonn: the newest of my ladies.’
He raised his eyebrows. My pronounced lack of title and Papa’s lowly one hung between us. Theoretically, a Queen chose whoever she wanted to join her ladies. Realistically, they were from Sixth and Seventh Step families who’d always supported the Crown.
A baron’s daughter did not make a royal lady.
I curtseyed.
He bowed. ‘Isn’t it a royal lady’s duty to mingle?’
It sadly wasn’t her duty to commit violence on the Queen’s behalf.
The Queen’s smile turned wintry. She pressed her fingers against my sleeve in a silent command.
‘Ask Lord Ealkenor what the Pastry Master thinks of him,’ I whispered. Lord Ealkenor was notorious for entertaining with thin fillings and sparse batches to make his money stretch. No one enjoyed his gatherings.
Only the barest quirk of her mouth betrayed her. I curtseyed and stepped off the dais, aware of the eyes upon me. I didn’t know where to go. I only knew these people as glimpses in the halls, names in whispered gossip. Our families were not friends. Being announced as one of the Queen’s ladies didn’t give me the right to simply join their conversation –
Well. Actually, it did. Being one of the Queen’s ladies surpassed my rank.
‘I’ll handle that,’ the Queen had said, at my concerns about my lack of social mobility.
I had to prove how I responded to unfamiliar situations.
‘Miss Bayonn!’ A woman, two years older than me with pale skin and ash-blonde hair, stopped before me.
I smiled. ‘Lady Terize.’ We worked together in the Treasury. She was lower Sixth Step, but lacked airs and was generally pleasant to be around. But her lack of self-confidence led to mistakes, so we often fixed her work together before it reached Coin.
She clasped my hands. ‘It’s a relief to see a familiar face!’ She was too polite to say I shouldn’t have been here at all. ‘Is your family here?’
I shook my head.
‘A pity.’ She led me back to her group. ‘Let me introduce you.’
I might have been Third Step-born, but Mama had taught me etiquette as thoroughly as any Sixth or Seventh Step child. I could make small talk in my sleep. When they asked how I’d joined the Queen’s ladies, I said, ‘I made her laugh.’ It didn’t satisfy them.
I followed Terize, smiling, laughing, complimenting people, and silently tallying the prominent politicians. Terize’s mother, Lady Patrinne, was deep in conversation at the opposite side of the room.
Terize avoided her. Everyone knew Lady Patrinne’s hand lay heavy over Terize’s self-doubt, and she publicly criticised her after too much wine. Someone so indiscreet about family couldn’t be trusted, but she could still be useful.
When Lady Patrinne had tried to get one of her elder daughters accepted into the Dowager Queen’s ladies, she’d been politely, pointedly rebuked. But the new Queen was a fresh start. If I ‘influenced’ her into accepting Terize, who was kind when her mother wasn’t pulling her strings, it was a step towards gaining a Parliamentary informant.
A smattering of whispers tugged me out of my thoughts. A gentleman approached the dais with a full glass in one hand and a wine bottle in the other. The whispers died into silence.
‘Lord Naruum,’ the Queen said calmly.
He held the glass towards her. ‘I propose a toast, Your Majesty, to stronger ties between the monarchy and Opposition.’ He bowed, as much as the glass and bottle would allow. ‘With my compliments.’
The Queen didn’t reply, her gaze fixed on the glass.
The unspoken rule in Court, for all, was: don’t drink from a glass that didn’t come from a servant or wasn’t poured by the host. It didn’t prevent all poisoning attempts, but it was a signal of trust. A monarch’s every drink and meal had to pass a poison-taster.
The Queen couldn’t drink it, of course. But she risked offence if she refused, which Lord Naruum was surely trying to provoke. Why else would he offer her untested wine in a room full of politicians?
No one moved, poised for whichever ill-fated decision the Queen would make. They were all wealthy, most from old bloodlines, and all bound by tightly knotted webs of etiquette and manners. They wouldn’t come to the Queen’s rescue. Though it would privately come with great favour, it would also involve public embarrassment.
Logic implied Naruum’s wine wasn’t poisoned, but what if logic was wrong?
If I became the Queen’s Whispers, my greatest responsibility was to keep her alive.
And I had to prove myself.
As the guards at the walls moved towards Naruum, I darted forward, as if I’d caught my shoe on the rug. I unbalanced myself enough that when I slapped a hand on Naruum’s shoulder, as if to catch myself, it wasn’t entirely a farce. I slammed my heel, hidden by my skirts, onto his foot.
He yelped. The glass and bottle went flying, and those in the wine’s path dived out of the way.
The rug was thick enough to save the bottle from shattering. It didn’t, however, keep the wine in it.
I had already moved back, as if in horror, so it didn’t splatter against my hem or shoes. Silence fell again, brittle with horrified amusement. I kept my head down. Better to pretend embarrassment against their pitying smiles. I’d prevented a situation where the Queen would have to give offence, but had publicly humiliated myself in the process. I was Third Step-born, now Fifth. I didn’t belong, Queen’s lady or not. This only proved it.
If Mama heard about this, not even being chosen by the Queen would save me.
The sapphire in Lord Martain’s bird glimmered at the edge of my vision, almost mockingly. The thought of his pride made my chest hurt.
But the wine was gone.
Lord Naruum seemed frozen to the spot. He should have been outraged, should have berated me for my clumsiness, anything that stressed this was my fault and he’d acted with the best of intentions.
He stayed
silent.
‘Miss Bayonn.’ The Queen’s voice dropped into the quiet.
I risked a glance. ‘Your Majesty.’ She seemed calm, her royal training hiding her true emotions.
She raised a hand for the guards to pause, then gestured me forward, subtly putting me between her and Naruum. She held out a folded, sealed square of paper. ‘I have a message for Master Coin, if you would kindly deliver it.’ The request was mere formality.
‘Of course, Your Majesty.’ I took the paper, curtseyed, and backed away. The nobles parted for me. I didn’t look at anyone. Servants opened the doors as I drew near, so I didn’t have to fumble for the handles.
The doors closed, leaving me in abrupt quietness.
My shoulders slumped. Relief and delayed fear thrummed inside me. I glanced at the paper.
It was addressed to me.
I broke the seal and unfolded it.
Well done, Miss Bayonn, the note said in neat, curling letters.
Something warm swelled in my chest, a pleasant sort of tightening. She’d written this before our meeting. She couldn’t have predicted what would happen in that room. But if something had, she’d expected – hoped for? – me to succeed. If I hadn’t, I never would have seen this.
I hoped whoever had to clean the carpet was careful, just in case.
When I joined the Treasury, Mama gave me a new room in our suite so I had somewhere private, doors that I could close on everyone and everything. I stared into the flickering candles, unable to stop thinking about Naruum, and his wine, and the Queen. Shadows danced along the walls and ceiling, pooled in the corners.
The world outside my door had intruded and wouldn’t go away.
I kept wondering if I should go to the Queen, before common sense reasserted itself. Even if I used the passages, I could hardly knock on the wall of her apartments to be let in. As if I had any right to be there.
Papa had been poisoned, a slow-acting one that feigned a long illness. I knew this, yet had no proof. But I couldn’t shake the image of Naruum smiling as he held out the glass. I’d assumed that by forcing the Queen to refuse the wine, he’d wanted to sow distrust between her and the Opposition. But his reaction after didn’t make sense. Had the wine been poisoned? Why would he try to harm the Queen in a room of politicians, an attempt so public it could only fail?
Queen of Coin and Whispers Page 4
