by Annette Lyon
At the threshold, Marcell held the doorframe as if steadying himself. Neither Antonio nor Sofia said another word, but they took each other’s hands, standing together in solidarity against this man who’d tried to ruin everything.
As he turned to leave, a niggling question popped into Antonio’s mind. “How did you know that my workers are ill today? Only Max is in the men’s quarters. How do you know about the women?”
“Oh, you know, servants talk,” Marcell replied airily. He reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a handkerchief.
“But you never ‘lower’ yourself to listening to castle gossip,” Antonio said. As if the pieces of a puzzle clicked into place, he understood. “You poisoned our dinner last night. That’s why everyone got sick.”
Marcell dabbed his forehead with the kerchief and lifted his chin defiantly. “You didn’t get sick,” he said, as if that were some proof of innocence.
Sofia shook her head in disgust. “Antonio and I were away on castle business. We ate in town.” She stepped forward, and although Antonio didn’t like the idea of her getting anywhere near Marcell, he let her go. She still held the shears in one hand, and she raised the other, wagging a finger at Marcell. “How dare you do such a thing? And out of spite because we couldn’t have you ruining the wedding clothing with your wine? What would your Prince say if he knew? Aren’t you supposed to be his most loyal servant?”
“Yes, he is supposed to be,” Antonio said evenly. “But he’s not.” He moved forward too, and when he reached Sofia’s side, she slipped her arm about his waist. He instinctively rested his arm around her shoulders as he addressed Marcell, feeling rage build up toward the scoundrel. “You tried to sabotage the wedding. Are you trying to start a war?”
“Perhaps he’s a Florenzian spy,” Sofia suggested.
“Nonsense.” Marcell chuckled, but it sounded forced. “If I wanted to ruin the wedding for His Royal Highness the Crown Prince, wouldn’t I have picked a bigger, more important target? Why would I bother with silly servants relegated to the castle basement?” Marcell dabbed his forehead some more, then pocketed the handkerchief and stood with his shoulders back, defiant. “I suggest the two of you keep working. You surely have much to do.”
Antonio raised a fist. “We do have much work. So I suggest you leave. Now.”
The valet turned on his heel and fled.
Chapter Ten
Antonio wasted no time in locking the door behind Marcell, but when he turned around, his expression was every bit as bewildered as Sofia felt.
“What should we do?” she asked.
He dropped the key into his shirt pocket, then ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. The whole thing seems so unlikely, so impossible...”
Sofia began pacing the room. “Marcell is certainly right about one thing — it does seem foolish for a clothier to be the target of attempted treason, and by a valet, no less. Isn’t that kind of thing usually the specialty of traitorous councilors, dukes, or someone in parliament?”
Antonio pulled up a chair backward and straddled it, resting his arms on top. “Then again, who would think to look for treason here, of all places?”
“What if the Prince wasn’t the one who commissioned the order? What if Marcell himself created the list, knowing he’d asked the impossible?”
“To what end?” Antonio asked.
Her skirts spun in a swish as she returned to Antonio excitedly. “To delay the wedding, maybe indefinitely.”
“And thus make the crown and the entire kingdom of Monterra look like fools who could not fulfill their end of the bargain.”
“And in particular, make the Crown look disingenuous in the eyes of Florenzia.” She leaned against the table, and Antonio shifted his chair so he could see her better as she went on. “King Dangelo has long been searching for any excuse to invade. If his daughter were to be humiliated by delaying her wedding day, or if the family she was marrying into wore slipshod clothing that had been made haphazardly, wouldn’t he have ample reason to invade?”
“That would be ample reason for someone with the diplomacy of an ox, yes.” Antonio threw a glance of disgust over his shoulder as if the disloyal valet still stood near the door. “What do you think he used to make the staff ill?”
“It could have been any number of things. I’ve seen Cook spread rat poison by the back door. Any of the servants could have found and used it.”
“Or perhaps he mixed in fertilizer from the stables.”
After a second or two, his meaning became clear, and with it, the abhorrent nature of what Marcell might have done. “Goodness, I hope it wasn’t that,” Sofia said with a hand to her middle.
“What do we do?” Antonio asked. “We must tell someone.”
“But who do we know for certain is trustworthy? Any number of people in the castle could be involved if the valet to the Crown Prince is a traitor. For all we know, other wedding preparations have been sabotaged too. If someone in as trusted a position as Marcell’s could have turned on him, who’s to say that—” Her eyes widened. “Oh, I hope the Prince Gregorio has no part of this. Do you think he ordered Marcell to ruin the fabric and poison the food?”
“And destroy the schedule?” Antonio sighed heavily. “I sincerely hope not.”
A solution came to Sofia, one so out of the realm of propriety, yet perfect as well. She didn’t dare give it further thought, or she’d lose her nerve completely. “When is the Queen’s final fitting?”
Antonio’s brow furrowed at the apparent change of topic. “Day after tomorrow. I meant to send her word this morning, which is rather late to fit her schedule; she typically has several days to plan ahead, but — wait, why do you ask?”
“Who typically does her fittings? Donya? Elena?”
“Angeline, in Her Majesty’s sitting room. We wouldn’t expect the Queen to come here, of course.”
“I thought not,” Sofia said, and found herself biting her lower lip as her nerves wound up. “Could you arrange the fitting to be as soon as possible — to be today?”
“I suppose it’s possible, seeing as the wedding is so soon, and assuming Her Majesty isn’t otherwise engaged. But Angeline is sick, so she can’t — oooh.” He dragged out the last word as understanding dawned on him. “Excellent way to get an audience with the Queen without Marcell or Prince Gregorio being present.”
“Or maybe I’m mad to suggest such a thing,” Sofia said, pacing once more. “I don’t know the protocol for behaving in front of the monarch, and I’m quite sure that a lowly servant — a temporary servant at that — isn’t supposed to address the Queen at all. What if I say something foolish or offensive? Oh, my.” She put both hands over her middle, which felt as if someone were energetically churning butter inside her.
From behind, Antonio’s arms suddenly enveloped her. She stopped walking as she felt his warmth and strength, and heard him whisper into her ear. “It’s a brilliant idea. Her Majesty will be most grateful to learn of a servant’s deceit, I assure you, no matter how many rules of protocol you break to tell her about it.”
Sofia leaned backward into his chest and closed her eyes, letting his low voice soothe her. After a moment, her nerves calmed. She opened her eyes and turned to him. “I’ll do it.” As scared as she was excited, she lowered her eyes to his chest and smoothed his shirt with her hands.
Antonio wrapped his arms about her waist and pulled her closer. “You will save us yet.”
She swallowed against the tightening in her throat. “Teach me anything you know about being in the presence of royalty.” When he didn’t answer right away, she placed a hand on his chest and said, “Please.”
“I would if I could. But I don’t know anything about approaching royal women — or royal adults, for that matter. Young Enrico is the only royal who comes down here. Max has always gone upstairs for the final fittings for the men, and my father before him. Max knows the rules, so it has always been easiest to send him. I’ve always had plenty to
do down here...” Something in his tone belied his light words.
Sofia laid a hand on his cheek. “You are the head tailor, master of this workshop. You deserve to be recognized as such.”
Antonio placed a hand over hers, his eyes slightly glassy with emotion he tried to hide, as if she’d stumbled upon his own insecurities and fears. “Remember how I said you were amazing?”
“I think so,” Sofia said teasingly.
He wrapped his arm about her waist and pulled her closer to him; she went willingly and wrapped her arms about his neck as he went on. “You’re so much more amazing to me now.” He lowered his face slightly. She felt wonderfully lightheaded and could feel his breath as he asked, “You know what we need?”
“W — what?” She almost couldn’t speak the word, but at last it came out. She found herself leaning toward him, pushing herself onto her toes ever so slightly so she could be that much closer to him.
He made a pleased sound then closed a bit more of the distance. “We need a new word that means more than amazing.”
By the time he’d finished speaking, their lips touched. Sofia closed her eyes, never wanting the kiss to end. The moment felt simultaneously like a lifetime and nothing but a split second. All too soon, he pulled away and searched her face. Sofia was certain her complexion was bright red, and she flushed even hotter when she realized that her breathing had quickened.
Antonio leaned down and gave her another kiss — shorter this time — then reluctantly stepped back. “I suppose we’d better get the message to the Queen.”
“Definitely.” Sofia nodded, knowing he was right but wishing they could stay here, just the two of them, and continue to share the quiet of the workshop — share more kisses — for hours and hours. Though if she stayed much longer, she wouldn’t be able to tear herself away from him.
Antonio pulled a cord to summon a messenger, then wrote a quick note to Ysabel, the Queen’s lady’s maid, asking her to relay their request for a fitting posthaste. He finished writing it just as the messenger appeared, and Antonio instructed the man to quickly deliver it to the Queen’s quarters, and to take Sofia with him. She followed, carrying the dress across her arms and throwing Antonio a look of nervousness as she left.
Each step closer to the Queen’s chambers was an agony as terrible as Antonio’s kisses had been sweet. The servant who led the way eventually stopped before a tall, ornate door at the end of a long hall. A nearby balcony overlooked the tiled floor below and brought her almost at eye level with the most enormous chandelier Sofia had ever seen. It had to be larger than her bedroom at home.
The servant knocked, and soon a pretty young woman in a simple black dress and white apron opened it. Sofia caught a glimpse of an elegant older woman inside, and caught her breath.
The Queen. The Queen!
How could she have thought that this was a good idea? She should have gone to Angeline, should have begged her to give the message, no matter how ill.
No. I can’t trust this message to anyone else.
Thoughts and worries tumbled through her head as the world spun. Apparently time continued to move, and so did she, because somehow she’d crossed the threshold into the sitting room and now stood on a lush rug so soft her slippers sank into it. The beauty of the room was breathtaking; Sofia had never imagined such things could exist — a four-poster bed made of dark mahogany, with intricate carvings of flowers and vines winding up and around the wood; curtains of velvet; couches of equally remarkable workmanship, with cushions of brocade and satin, and plump pillows.
She took in the entire room, skimming across the Queen herself, as Sofia didn’t dare look directly at the monarch before being introduced. Only after seeing the whole room did she remember one item in particular. Her eyes flew back to the huge bed, which was raised up two steps and aglow from elaborate electric lights, one on each side.
This was not merely the Queen’s sitting room. This was her bed chamber.
Sofia’s knees nearly unhinged completely. Only the knowledge that the dress mustn’t touch the floor kept her upright.
Ysabel stepped forward and made the introductions. “Your Majesty, may I present Miss Sofia Torre.”
Somehow Sofia managed an awkward curtsy and bow of the head. She almost whispered, “Your Majesty,” but caught herself in time, remembering a rumor that one did not address royalty without first being spoken to.
“You may rise,” the Queen said from her position on a large couch.
Sofia obeyed and marveled at the Queen’s beauty at an age many women were gray and shriveled, and held out the dress. “I came for your final fitting, Your Majesty.” She spoke with her eyes downcast.
“Where is Angeline?” Was the Queen addressing Ysabel or Sofia?
Should I speak?
“Come with me for a walk about the gardens.” The Queen waved at the dress. “Let’s put that aside for now. We both know it’s not why you are here.”
Ysabel took the garment from Sofia as the latter gaped and struggled for words. The Queen laughed and shook her head. “No need to look terrified, my dear. I trust you have a good reason for coming to me unannounced?”
“H — how did you know?” Sofia stammered.
“Because this is not how the clothier works. Angeline always schedules my fittings in advance. And before Angeline, well, I’ve never had an impromptu fitting in all my life — and I assure you, I’ve lived many more years than you, with hundreds of dresses and thousands of fittings in my lifetime.” The Queen’s smile broadened, and Sofia thought the monarch winked. But surely she must have imagined that.
“I have an important message to deliver,” she said, reassured by the Queen’s calm demeanor. Even so, Sofia’s mouth was as dry as the paper used for tracing patterns. She tried to moisten her mouth and swallow. “It’s a matter we felt you must hear directly.”
The Queen crossed her ankles and studied Sofia with curiosity. “We? Who else is involved with this most urgent matter?”
Sofia bit her lower lip so hard that she almost winced. Would Antonio be cross if she mentioned his name? He’d never met the royal family, had never had his due. It was past time for that to be rectified.
“I speak of Antonio, Your Majesty’s head tailor, master of the royal clothier workshop.” She gestured toward the dress. “The beading and lace were done by his hand.”
“I’ve long admired his work. His family has a long history in the castle. It is about time I met him.” She called to her maid. “Ysabel, fetch Antonio. Tell him to meet us in the garden by the angel statue.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ysabel said with a bob before hurrying out.
The Queen turned to Sofia. “Let’s go for a stroll, shall we?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sofia said, echoing Ysabel.
They went down the corridor, descended a grand staircase, and made their way to the sweeping castle grounds out back, which ended in the distance with the rise of a mountain peak. All along the way, servants bowed and curtsied. The Queen nodded, smiled, and continued moving in the most regal manner imaginable. Sofia noticed several surprised looks when others noted her, surely wondering what a commoner was doing with the Queen.
Once outside, they strolled along pebbled paths lined with trimmed hedges and flowerbeds. When they turned a corner, there was the angel statue — and Antonio already there waiting for them.
The way from the workshop must be much shorter than from the Queen’s chambers, Sofia mused.
His face lit up when he saw her, but almost as quickly, his eyes widened at the sight of the Queen, and he bowed low.
“You may rise, Antonio.” The Queen sat on a stone bench and propped her hands on her lap as Antonio stepped beside Sofia. “Now then. How about you two tell me what the fuss is all about?” When they stood there in shocked silence, she tried again. “I assure you, I don’t typically grant audiences such as these. This is entirely unexpected, unplanned, and likely never to be repeated. You may want to know that several
trusted guards are near me at all times who have undoubtedly followed us from the castle. Others are watching from windows — don’t bother trying to find them; you won’t.” She added the last when both Sofia and Antonio looked up at the castle windows.
The Queen laughed lightly then added, “Whether their presence reassures or concerns you should tell me quite a bit about your loyalties and motives.”
She watched as if studying them out. Antonio took Sofia’s hand and squeezed it. His closeness helped her feel more at ease. Together, they could prevail.
“We believe,” Sofia began, “that the valet of Crown Prince Gregorio has—”
“Marcell?” The Queen leaned forward slightly. “What about him?” Her narrowed eyes showed that she didn’t particularly approve of the man, and that she was waiting to see whether Sofia and Antonio did.
The sight strengthened Sofia’s resolve. Antonio nodded his encouragement, so she went on. “We believe that Marcell has deliberately tried to delay or even cancel the wedding.”
The Queen reacted ever so slightly — something at the corners of her eyes tightened, although Sofia wasn’t sure if she’d imagined it.
“Tell me everything,” the Queen said urgently.
Sofia and Antonio exchanged another look. This time, she encouraged him to speak. He knew as much about Marcell’s actions as she did, and it was Antonio who deserved to be acknowledged as master tailor.
He relayed the story about the impossible requisitions and Marcell’s claims that they had come from the Crown Prince — something the Queen vehemently denied.
Then Sofia told of how Marcell came down to the workshop with the aim of destroying their work, and of how he’d succeeded in ruining some fabric and the master schedule, which caused delays.
“Yet it was thanks to that very disloyal behavior that Sofia and I were away from the castle for dinner,” Antonio went on. “If he hadn’t ruined the brocade, we wouldn’t have gone shopping for more.”
