by C. E. Murphy
Marius tightened a fist, muscle playing beneath Belinda’s hand. She rubbed her thumb against the hard knot, listening with half an ear as he muttered, “That can’t happen. I have no choice. Nor do you.”
“Have we not?” Belinda slowed, turning Marius to face her. “It may be that I no longer do. A woman does not idly dismiss a prince and expect to walk away unscathed, but you, my lord…”
“You have something Jav needs,” Marius whispered, voice hoarse. Belinda bit her lower lip, filling her gaze with uncertainty and sorrow.
“Me? I’m only a woman, my lord, how could—”
“You’re a woman of faith.” Marius gentled his voice as Belinda looked up at him in wide-eyed bewilderment. “I see you at church. You have no pretenses there. You understand politics. And you are the daughter of an oppressed land. You did not,” he murmured, echoing words she’d spoken weeks earlier, much as Asselin had, “come to Gallin only for the food. How strong is your faith, Beatrice?”
Belinda lowered her gaze, letting calm settle around her again. “As strong as it must be, my lord,” she whispered after long moments. An eyelash-shuttered glance upward took in the pain in Marius’s expression and she went on, refusing the haste that might have eased his agony. “A generation has already grown up as Reformists. The queen is said to be in good health, despite her years. There may be another generation born and raised under her before her days are ended.”
God willing, Belinda thought, a fierce and unusual prayer thrown silently into her enemy’s teeth. She let none of it near her face or voice, watching Marius with the desperation of a woman knowing her path and fearing it. A woman wise enough to seek guidance from a strong man, pretending that any power she might have came from him alone. It was one of the few tactics she’d learned from the queen her mother, whose proclamations of weakness and womanly foolishness blunted her advisors’ realization of Lorraine’s sure military and political hand. “It is a fear we struggle with every day in Lanyarch. We are not quite forbidden our masses, but there are honours and praises for those who give up the true religion for the Reformation. Soldiers watch those of us who bow our heads to the Ecumenic church, and children drift away from God to explore the false hopes of the Reformation. In another generation, our religion might be lost.”
“Rally him to his mother’s cause,” Marius said in a low voice. Belinda lifted her chin, eyebrows wrinkling.
“My lord?”
Marius glanced at her very briefly, then away again. “Even in Gallin, Beatrice, these are dangerous things to speak of.” His voice remained low, making her step closer to him to hear him well.
“You speak of revolution, my lord.”
“No.” The word was sharp as his gaze, though both softened after a moment. “Something more dangerous than that.”
“More dangerous than open war?” Belinda laughed, fluttering sound in the back of her throat. “What—” She let understanding darken her eyes, then shook her head. “My lord…”
“You said yourself, Beatrice. The Aulunian queen is in good health and could well survive another generation. Ecumenics may not survive that.”
“You have so little faith in Cordula, my lord…?”
Marius made another short gesture of irritation. “Island Ecumenics,” he modified. “Our faith is stronger on the continent.”
Belinda drew herself up, colour staining her cheeks as Beatrice’s indignity filled her. “Do you doubt my faith, my lord?”
“Beatrice!” Impatience shot through Marius’s voice. “I didn’t mean you.”
“Only my people. Only all of us who try to keep faith under a godless queen. We are not perfect, my lord. Fear and money bought even Judas. Do you condemn the weak among us for choosing the state religion over a loss of liberty and wealth?” Belinda’s hands shook with poorly suppressed anger. Marius’s mouth turned downward in apology, and he reached for her hands.
“Forgive me. Perhaps I speak with too much sentiment and too little understanding. We are not persecuted here for worshipping God in the true church. Perhaps it is too easy to judge and too hard to understand.”
Belinda turned her face away from him, her jaw set. It was long moments before the role she played softened enough for her shoulders to drop and the line of her chin to loosen. “You speak of things I dare not even say aloud, my lord. You speak of…death.”
“Yes.” Marius’s hands tightened around hers. “Make him see, Beatrice. Make him see that Aulun will be lost without this.”
Belinda looked back at him, stiff with caution. “You believe I have such…sway?”
He smiled a little, the expression leaving his dark eyes reluctant and sad. “Standing here now, seeing you argue, seeing your belief, yes, lady, I do. If you were a man yourself you might make a great general, to call the men to battle. But you are only a woman, and so the most you might do is inspire the men who can make such things happen.”
“The most.” Belinda breathed out laughter. “Is that not rather a lot, my lord? Some say men would never war, but for women.” She fell silent, studying Marius’s face and feeling the rapid skip of her own heart. A handful of words could lay the path to Sandalia’s destruction, if only Marius would speak them. It was not written condemnation, but it might be the hint of chicanery against Lorraine that Belinda searched for. “You believe the regent supports this, my lord?”
His tone went guarded. “I cannot say what Her Majesty may or may not believe.”
“But you called it her cause.” Belinda lowered her voice further, stepping closer to him. She reached for the pool of golden power within her, shaping it with her desire. She wet her lips, looking up at the man through her eyelashes, and curled her fingers around his. “I would not betray you,” she whispered. “I understand that she could not voice such beliefs in any way, for fear of being accused of plotting regicide. A royal assassination is a desperate measure, my lord. It breaks the laws of God and man alike. Worst”—Belinda crooked a tiny smile, letting wryness colour the desire she pressed on Marius—“worst, at least for a king, is knowing that to assassinate another royal opens the possibility that he, too, might die in such a way. I understand,” she whispered again. “These are not things which we dare speak of aloud. But tell me, Marius, tell me in truth. Do you believe that this is what the queen and regent wants?” She brought his hands, over hers, up to the cool skin of her chest, pressing his warm knuckles below her collarbones. They looked like lovers, her mouth turned up to his, so close that a kiss might be exchanged instead of words. Marius’s claims would carry no weight in a court, but Belinda had no need to justify herself to a judge. She only needed a place to begin, a thread of confirmation from the lips of a man close to the regent’s son.
And he was desperate to please her. She could feel that in the lines of his body pressed against hers, could almost taste it in his breath. So close to him, and open to the witchpower Javier had awakened in her, it was easy to mistake Marius’s desire for her own. Easy to accept thwarted pleasure from earlier as desperation now. She moved a half step closer, crowding her hips against his. Need flared in him, and the grip with which they held each other’s hands abruptly opened a channel between them. Uninhibited glee shot through her, joy like little she’d ever known: this stealing of thoughts, the gift of witchpower, was what she was born to, even more than being her mother’s tool. It burned through her so brightly she had to fight off laughter, had to swallow a yearning to take Marius’s desire and make it her own, and then to ride it until they were both left exhausted.
But stillness won out, habit stronger than the urge to play, and she made herself listen to the young man’s rapid-fire thoughts, savoring them as if each was a precious morsel.
She is faithful, he was thinking, faithful to God if not to a single man (but if not to a single man then not to any man and I might have her, too). She trusts me, God above, help me, see how she looks at me, with trust (and desire, she wants me, it is only Javier standing in the way)—a thought, Beli
nda realised curiously, that held no jealousy in it, merely hope. I will never win her if I lie now (what would she do if I kissed her? would she scream? would she slap me? would she fold with desire and damn the consequences?) and I ask her to do something terribly dangerous—
“I believe,” he whispered, the true words drowning out the chaos of his thoughts, “that her majesty would look…favourably on a course that would free Aulun from its Reformatic prison.” Thick emotion, caution and nervousness, swirled around him, sinking into Belinda’s skin. “I believe that with the support of her son, she might”—he swallowed, slow and tense—“she might take action that might otherwise seem…unthinkable.” So careful; he chose his words so carefully. Belinda bit her lower lip, then pulled herself even closer to him, releasing his hands so she might put her fingers into his hair.
“I will try,” she promised, a breath below his ear. The embrace felt like a lover’s, their bodies dangerous against each other. “For Aulun. For Lanyarch.” She pulled back, meeting his gaze with wide eyes. “For you, my lord.”
Marius groaned and sank his hands into her hair, pulling her mouth up to his for a kiss that drowned her with its need. The heat of his desire rolled through her, building until she was forced to break the kiss, hands against his chest again.
“We must not,” she whispered. “We cannot. Not yet. Not if I am to do this thing with the prince. Forgive me.” She looked up at him again, pulse leaping in her throat. “Forgive me, my lord. A day will come when I am yours.”
“It cannot come soon enough.” He shoved her away, not far away, keeping his hands on her waist but putting space between their bodies. “You must succeed, Beatrice. I cannot bear any of this if you do not succeed.”
“I will.” Belinda gave a jerky nod, stepping back. “I swear, my lord. I will.” Then she smiled, fragile thing, and said, lightly, “When do you think it might snow, sir?”
Marius forced a laugh and offered her his arm. “Soon. Soon, my lady. Winter comes on stronger than we know.”
Snow fell two nights later. Belinda stood in the shadows of Javier’s balcony window, face turned up to the silent white stars falling through the night. The flakes tickled her cheeks where they blew past curtains to land on her, almost imperceptible weight gracing her eyelashes. They lingered a moment, then turned to drops of water, beading until their accumulated size spilled them down her face. Snow tears, Belinda thought. Precious as a virgin’s. The air, heavy with the silence of snow, seemed warm and comforting. Belinda stepped out into it, and was caught by an arm around her waist. Javier drew her close again, lowering his head over her shoulder. “Discretion, Beatrice.”
“Do you think we’re fooling anyone?” Certainly not Marius, the one whom Javier might most intend to hide from. Belinda shook her head fractionally, in dismissal, and waited for the prince’s answer.
“Yes,” Javier said. “Not that you’re here, not that you’re my lover. But in our true purpose in meeting? They cannot suspect it.”
“It cannot be found out.” Belinda shivered, curling her arms over Javier’s. Rather than relax into her closeness he stiffened, lifting his mouth away from her shoulder. Discomfort flared in him, the clarity of words and thought broken before she could read them, his skin taken from hers too quickly. Only uncomfortable familiarity lingered, making Belinda twist in his grasp to peer up at him. “My lord?”
“It cannot be found out.” He echoed the words in a hoarse, low voice, strain suddenly telling tales. “You know what they would do to us, Beatrice.”
“I do.” Another tremble ran over her skin, too appropriate to forbid. “I don’t like to think on it.”
“Nor I, and yet it has haunted me since childhood. You have no idea,” he said, abrupt and startlingly harsh. “Beatrice, to find even one other person like me…you have no idea. I only wish I knew if we were damned together, or granted salvation.” He put his arms around her again, a wordless ache of loneliness answered rising in him and sweeping over her as their skin touched. “It must not be found out,” he repeated. “Only the ignorant and superstitious would begin to believe what you and I know as truth, and they would free us from our curse with fire.”
Belinda turned to smile up at him, deliberately pushing away nightmare thoughts. “Are you accusing me of being ignorant and superstitious, my lord? I believed you instantly.” Her eyebrows rose, mocking horror. “Are you claiming it is not true love that brings us together in so many darkling hours? My lord, my heart breaks. How could you?”
“I make no such claims,” Javier said promptly. “I would never dream of dashing a lady’s hopes.”
“Unless your mother or uncle instructed you to,” Belinda said wryly, turning again so she could watch the snow fall. The balcony floor was too warm to sustain it, flakes melting where they landed. Turmoil coursing through Javier’s emotions, a chagrined distress at odds with his calm exterior.
“I have no choice, Beatrice,” he said eventually. “What would you have me do? I am who I was born to be.”
“As are we all, my lord. I meant no harm. I know the obligations a man of your station has.”
“Do you?” Javier said. “I wonder how the duties of a minor Lanyarchan noble compare to that of royalty.”
Silent as the snow, Belinda let stillness settle into her bones. The act of Beatrice was too open; she let the stillness go too often in favour of thoughtless, appropriate reaction to the gentility whose class she’d joined. The part was easy to play, far more enjoyable than the serving girl role she was accustomed to taking on. Without the need to hide in plain sight or explain herself to her betters, she could taste a little of what she might have become, in a different world. Wealth and comfort were dangerous; they let her feel free. She hadn’t known the cost of freedom was so high.
Fleetingly, she wondered what Javier would say, if she whispered the truth to him. That her blood was as royal as his, if on the wrong side of the bed. That her duties were as significant as his, all the more so because she might someday make a misstep, and when she was found out her royal mother would not reach out a hand to save her. Belinda couldn’t easily name the emotion that lanced through her belly, could barely form words for the blur of wistfulness and might-have-been that she let herself imagine for a moment. There was no room in her life for daydreams or regret, so little room that she hardly recognized them.
“I think our duties lie heavy on us all at times, my lord. Forgive me. I didn’t mean to cause you distress.” Armoured by stillness, she smiled at the prince. His gaze softened and she lowered her eyes. Oh, yes. Freedom was dangerous. Belinda thought of the letter to her father, still half-finished, and let herself shiver as if with cold. “Forget freedom,” she murmured, knowing she spoke aloud. “With duty, we know our places, my lord. Perhaps there is nothing more we can ask.”
“Sound advice,” Javier said. “Do you follow it yourself?”
“I try.”
She heard the smile in his voice. “And with these new gifts, where do your duties now lie, Beatrice? Does it change with what you’re able to do?”
Belinda spread her hands, looking at them. “A woman has only the power granted to her by men, my lord. At least…usually. No man has granted me this. Trained me in it,” she conceded before he could take offense, “but not granted it to me. Perhaps it changes me. Perhaps it changes what I ought to do.” She lifted her chin, looking out at the snow. “Although I command very little power, in truth. You…have more, my lord.” Almost a lie. Javier had no walls in his mind, cutting him off from the source of his witchpower. For the moment, at least, he commanded greater power than Belinda could call up. And it flattered his ego, which was more useful than truth anyway.
Thusly flattered, the prince chuckled. “What, then, would you do if you wielded the gifts that I do?”
“Dangerous things, my lord,” Belinda whispered. Javier’s body against hers turned curious, hips tilting as he canted his head closer so she might answer even more softly.
&n
bsp; “What things? Tell me.” Command combined with desire in his voice; the thought of a powerful woman excited him. Belinda felt hairs lift on her arms anyway, reluctant to voice words treasonous to Aulun, even when those ideas were at the heart of the role she played. She wet her lips twice and swallowed before making herself speak.
“I would remove the Aulunian threat from Lanyarch, my lord. I would seek allies with Cordula’s support and break the yoke of Reformationism that weighs down on island shoulders.” Panic squirreled in her belly, spreading sharp claws of nausea up to wrap around her heart and tighten her throat. It trickled downward as well, pounding between her thighs and making her knees tremble. Belinda fought against banishing terror, knowing the calm of stillness would push it all away and leave her untouchable.
But the words she spoke were terribly dangerous, and Beatrice Irvine was no more than a minor noble who answered to Aulunian law. Beatrice could be put to death for the things she’d said, and it would be Belinda’s head that rolled. Javier himself might betray her, offer her to Lorraine as a gift to soothe troubled waters between Gallin and Aulun, betwixt Ecumenics and Reformationists, more importantly. A public execution, carried out by the queen’s men—Belinda Primrose would be no more. She doubted, in the core of her, that Lorraine would waste so valuable an asset; far more practical to behead some poor woman with similar features. Belinda herself would be safe to pursue the queen’s wishes under cover of another identity, but she would no more be her beloved uncle’s niece, no more be able to claim that thin line of heritage. Panic brought chills and sweat both at once, the air too thin to breathe. Why did he not speak? Belinda shuddered, afraid to move, afraid to speak, afraid to do anything but wait.
Javier’s silence brought her frayed nerves to the shattering point before he inhaled and straightened. “And then?” Light tone, almost playful, but Belinda felt the undercurrent of intensity in it. Acute desire pushed through him, pricking at Belinda’s skin, but she couldn’t determine what the man desired. She closed her eyes, wetting her lips again.
