The Queen's Necklace

by Teresa Edgerton

  “But why?” Now that Jarred saw her so rarely, the fascination exerted by his queen was affecting him less. Though some impression lingered of the pleasure she had bestowed during their wedding trip, the memory of pain was considerably sharper. “I don’t say you are wrong, but if you are right, what does she hope to gain? If I die—and it seems to me, Francis, that my life is slipping away—then she loses everything when Rupert succeeds me.”

  Purcell shook his head ruefully. “I have no idea what she hopes to gain. Nor do I know who she really is, with her mysterious past and her Goblin servants. Not who she claims to be. I have spoken with travellers from Montcieux and Château-Rouge—no one knows anything about the Debrûles.”

  He gave a half-humorous sigh. “If Mr. Guilian were here, no doubt he would spin us some fanciful story, as have some of the wilder imaginations down in the streets, who have named her the Queen of the Goblins—but I am a practical man, and can see no practical purpose behind this plot of the queen’s. She cannot hope to rule in your place, for she has neither popular nor political support. And if you were to die—as my cousin, Doctor Wildebaden, and I are determined you shall not—she must step aside in favor of Lord Rupert. Unless—” The old man caught his breath sharply. “Unless, Your Majesty, it should happen that she is pregnant with your heir and hopes to be named regent after you are gone?”

  Jarred moved his head wearily from side to side. “I don’t think so. We have not—we have not shared the same bed for so many months.” But as his eyes moved listlessly around the room, he chanced to notice something. Throwing off the bed-clothes, he struggled to rise. “Francis, she may have a way of gaining both popular and political support. My music box, the one that sat on that table there for so long—it seems to have disappeared!” He fell back, breathless, against the feather pillows.

  The philosopher and his cousin exchanged a puzzled glance, no doubt wondering if the king was delirious. The physician stepped forward again to check his pulse.

  Jarred laughed weakly, mirthlessly. “No, gentleman, I am not wandering, though I am undoubtedly agitated. Francis, you remember that jeweled casket of silver and satinwood? The one with a miniature golden city inside, and a hidden movement that played twelve different tunes? Did you never guess what it really was? With your knowledge of clockwork and other machines, I thought you had guessed long ago that our famous Crystal Egg was considerably less than it seemed—and the music box considerably more.”

  A tense, attentive look came into the philosopher’s eyes. “The music box is the Winterscar Jewel? I admit that I knew the Egg was a sham, but as I never had the chance to examine the music box closely—then, too, you kept it here so openly and I had an idea that you must keep the genuine engine somewhere safe under lock and key.”

  “It seemed perfectly safe where it was. My father and grandfather both kept it right here in this room, and nothing ever happened to it. I thought that to lock it away after so many years would cause people to wonder, people to suspect—people in other countries who had reason to know that the so-called Jewels are all of them fakes.”

  The two old men exchanged another glance; some unspoken question seemed to pass between them. “But does the queen know?” said Purcell to the King. “Did you ever confide in her?”

  “I never said anything to anyone. Rupert knows, of course, but it was my father who let him in on the secret, before I was even born. It was only proper, as he was the heir.”

  Jarred made another effort to rise, and succeeded in raising himself up on his elbows. “It may be that we suspect the queen wrongly. There have been so many strangers inside this room, so many doctors and their assistants—it might have been any one of them. Even without knowing its true nature, they might have been tempted by the precious metals and the gemstones.” He fell back again, panting. “Though there are other costly things in this room, smaller and more easily carried away.”

  Purcell clasped his hands behind his back, began to pace the floor. “I think we must go on the assumption that the queen has it—who else would dare? And if she does, then she certainly has the power to inflict grievous destruction on the city of Tarnburgh. That is, assuming she has the least idea how to manipulate the Philosophic Engine inside.”

  “Whether she knows or not, even for her to make the attempt could be—catastrophic.” Suddenly so tired that he could hardly think, Jarred looked pleadingly across at the two old men. “What are we to do, to get it back again?”

  “At the moment, nothing,” said Purcell, coming to a halt beside the bed. “But perhaps we will be able to come up with some plan. In the meantime, we must concentrate our efforts on your full recovery.”

  “How are we to do that? The truth is, I sometimes wonder if I want to get well, if the effort to recover is even worth it.”

  “That is your illness talking, Your Majesty, not the man that I know and respect,” Purcell said sternly. He had taken charge now, had slipped back into the long abandoned role of schoolmaster and mentor. It was necessary to do so, in this time of crisis. “You will get well and perhaps very soon.”

  “How?” said Jarred, fretfully. “Have you some miraculous medicine to give me?”

  “There is a tonic that should do you some good,” Doctor Wildebaden answered in Purcell’s place. “But the greatest good, I think, will come when you simply stop ingesting any potion or poison the queen may have been slipping into your food. From this time onward, do not eat or drink anything, unless it should come directly from my hands.”

  “So,” said Madame Solange to Ys, across the mahogany table in the queen’s private dining room. “It is to be a reconciliation, is it? After so many weeks of ignoring me, of sending my letters back unopened, you have determined to be gracious and to allow me the privilege of actually breaking bread with you?”

  Ys bit her lip and bore the sarcasm as patiently as she could. She had not even been certain that Madame would accept her invitation, had been greatly relieved when her former governess sent a favorable reply. It would not do to put her whole scheme in jeopardy, now, with intemperate language.

  “I need your help,” Ys said quietly. “I am in desperate need of your help, and I am not too proud to humble myself. I have made a dreadful, dreadful mistake.”

  “I take it,” Madame answered coldly, “that you do not allude to the mistake you made in treating me so shabbily? No, I thought not. But I know my duty, even if others do not. Tell me what it is you have done, and I will do whatever I can to help you undo it.”

  Ys lifted the crystal goblet beside her plate, took a very small sip. “It is the king. I think I have gone too far and he is actually dying. And he can’t die yet—that would ruin everything.”

  “It would indeed.” Madame Solange lifted her own glass and swallowed half the contents. “A pity you didn’t think of this before. But am I to understand that you have already ceased to administer the potion that you had from Sophie?”

  “I stopped long ago. He hasn’t had so much as a taste in almost two months, yet he shows no sign of recovering from the effects.”

  Madame appeared to consider carefully, twirling the stem of the wine glass in her hand. “There is something that we might try. It may prove effective, it may not. Best, I think, that I should see him first, before we attempt to do anything.”

  Ys nodded eagerly. “I will take you in to see him directly after supper. That is the hour when I always visit him, after the physicians have all been in. Now that I’ve been hoping to see him improve, I thought it best not to change my habits, for fear that someone would suspect a connection.”

  Madame signified her approval with a stately inclination of her head. “A wise precaution. Perhaps you are not so shatter-brained as I had thought.”

  Ys changed color at this patronizing speech, but she lowered her eyes and tried to look humble. “Perhaps we should begin to eat,” she suggested, reaching for the small silver bell that sat on the table.

  At the sound of the bell, the doo
r opened and a train of Padfoot and Ouph servants came into the room, bearing a great variety of covered dishes, bringing with them a steamy, savory smell. Though initially Ys had brought only her cook and a single maid-servant with her, by now her entire household staff was made up of Goblins. She had known that this would excite comment, as indeed it had, but she had also discovered that she simply could not bear the repeated touch of Human hands.

  If Madame thought anything of this, she uncharacteristically held her tongue, and helped herself lavishly from several dishes. She had always been a large feeder. Ys took less and only picked at her food.

  “You do not eat?” said Madame, hesitating between a dish of jellied cockcombs and some damson tartlets.

  “Not very much,” said Ys, rejecting with a shudder some larks stewed in egg-shells, forcing herself to nibble at a salad made of endives, lettuce, and grapes. “The nausea never seems to entirely pass. Will I feel like this the whole time that I carry this child?”

  “For some months longer, though it will pass eventually.” Madame lifted a golden fork to her lips, then grimaced distastefully. “This tastes very odd. I have never had anything quite like it before.”

  “Oh dear—” said Ys, on a faltering note. “I had hoped you would like it—it was intended as a peace offering.”

  “I do not dislike it,” said Madame, swallowing, then running her tongue over her teeth. “The spice, whatever it is, does impart a certain—relish to the dish. It is just that the taste is so bizarre. What does your cook call this?”

  Ys suddenly put aside her show of diffidence. “My cook? This dish was prepared by Jarred’s own chef, and I believe that he considers it something of a specialty. I was counting on you not to recognize the taste.” Turned reckless with triumph, she was unable to contain her glee. “You’ve never suffered as I have—never put lip to lip or tongue to skin with a Human male.”

  Madame put down her fork. “What do you mean?” she asked in a queer, tight voice. “What are you trying to tell me?”

  “Only,” said Ys, with a wild laugh, “that there was salt enough in that single bite to kill you twice over. You think yourself so damnably clever, and you never suspected at all!”

  Madame pushed back her chair and jerked to her feet. As she did so, a spasm passed over her entire frame. She bent double for a moment, then straightened with enormous difficulty, and forced out a reply. “You little fool. Did I say that you had gained common sense? This is the single most foolish thing—” Another convulsion shook her from head to foot and caused her to gasp for breath.

  Ys was on her own feet by now, dancing with excitement. “Foolish, am I? But not so foolish that I couldn’t fool you. The great Valentine Solange, so vastly superior to all the other short-sighted Goblins—but you never thought of this, did you? You never thought that I would be revenged for all the years of humiliation that you heaped on my head?”

  Madame collapsed in her chair. As another pain racked her, she fell forward, facedown on the table. With a tremendous effort she raised herself up on her forearms, lifted her head, fixed Ys in the midst of her exultant dancing with a glance of unutterable scorn and contempt.

  “Of course I knew. I never thought otherwise. You wouldn’t be worth much if you were incapable of that.” Her eyes rolled back in her head, the breath rattled in her throat, but she was able to push out a few more words. “But—not yet, you little—fool—not until—” Then all of the strength drained out of her, and she fell forward again for the very last time.

  44

  Hoile, Bridemoor—6 Pastoral, 6538

  Wilrowan was pacing the worn plank floor of his cell when he heard the sound of a key grating in the lock. The door swung open, and an exceedingly dapper figure in a gentleman’s riding dress sauntered into the room. For a moment, Will could do nothing but stare at him; then he found his voice. “Blaise. I have no idea what brings you here, but I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my life.”

  “No doubt,” said Trefallon, raising a shapely eyebrow. “As to what brings me here: why it is just the usual thing. Do you think I’m in the habit of visiting gaols except under the necessity of securing your release?”

  “Then I am doubly glad to see you. When do we leave?”

  Blaise stepped aside, gestured toward the door. His coat and breeches were dusty and his boots splashed with mud, but his bow was as cosmopolitan as ever. “Whenever you like. I brought with me an order from Rodaric. The constable heaved a great sigh of relief, and promptly turned over your effects. Apparently, you’ve not been a model prisoner.”

  Will’s volatile spirits plummeted. He scowled ferociously. “Nonsense. I’ve been no trouble at all.” Picking up his hat and his coat, he strode past Trefallon, through the door, and into the long narrow room where the constable kept watch. Remembering his promise, he scattered a handful of coins on the floor, made a vulgar gesture in the lawman’s direction, and proceeded out to the street. There, he found the buckskin gelding waiting for him, already saddled and bridled, along with a leggy chestnut stallion, apparently the property of Blaise.

  Will untied the reins, vaulted into the saddle, and was halfway down the village street before Trefallon caught up with him, reining the chestnut in from a canter to walk beside the gelding. “If this is an example of the manners you’ve shown, I don’t wonder your gaolers are pleased to see the last of you.”

  Will gave a short, explosive laugh. “You couldn’t prove that by me. Apparently, I was the first prisoner they’ve had in fifteen months, and the most dangerous one ever. All the louts and boobies in the district have been in to gawk at me, and I’ll swear the constable charged for the privilege.” Then he grinned sheepishly. “I did say I was glad to see you. Though I still don’t know why it was you instead of Nick that Rodaric sent to my rescue.”

  Blaise was suddenly very much occupied—brushing the dust off of one sleeve, squinting down at the no-longer-perfect polish on his boots—before he could bring himself to meet Will’s eyes. “I did stop in Fermouline, with the idea of bringing Nick and the others with me. But they—Wilrowan, the inn where Nick and Gilpin were staying, the Rouge-Croix, it isn’t even there anymore. Somebody exploded the place with gunpowder.”

  “Gods!” said Will. He felt all the blood drain from his heart at the thought of such reckless destruction. “How many people were killed?”

  “They dug twenty-one bodies out of the wreckage, many burned beyond recognition. I have no idea if your men were even there, but nothing has been seen of them since. Of course, if they felt there was, likely to be another attempt, they would want to lay low. Still, it looks very bad.”

  Will had a sick feeling that he was responsible, not just for Nick, Gilpin, and Odgers, but for all of the other people who were killed. If he had not shown himself to the Maglore woman on the ferry—

  “I’m sorry. I should have broken the news more gently. You have known Nick since he was a boy, and they were all three under your orders. You must feel this—”

  “Of course I feel it!” Wilrowan interrupted him savagely. “I was fond of Nick, and it goes to my heart to lose the other two as well. But don’t waste your pity on me. He is Lili’s cousin, and he is—was—only nineteen.”

  They rode in silence for a time, and the only sound was that of the horses’ hooves on the stony road. Eventually, however, Will became impatient for answers. “Just how much about this business have you been told?”

  “Everything,” said Blaise. “The Chaos Machine, the entire fantastic plot—and the real reason for your bad behavior all winter long.”

  Will gave him a sidelong glance. “I wanted to confide in you, but Rodaric was adamant. What made him change his mind?”

  Again Blaise hesitated, winding the reins around one hand, leaning forward to pat the chestnut on the side of its muscular neck. “There has been no official announcement, but the disappearance of the Mountfalcon Jewel is an open secret since all of the mines had to be boarded up. There have been ri
ots in Hawkesbridge, and I didn’t care for the mood or the mutterings that I heard in some of the places I stopped on my way here.” Blaise shook his head ruefully. “I know you resented all the gaping rustics back in the Hoile, but as for me, I envy their innocence. The world is changing, Wilrowan, and not for the better.”

  He remembered something and dipped into his coat pocket. “I recovered this from the constable,” he said, handing over Will’s pistol. “Along with a number of interesting little bottles and flasks. Which reminds me: when I spoke with the king, Lady Krogan was there. I believe she had something to do with bringing me into the secret; she certainly took an active part in the entire interview.”

  “My grandmother?” Will was scarcely surprised. “Did she tell you that my wife is up to her ears in this business as well?”

  “Yes. Though you said nothing about Lili in your letter to Rodaric. I wonder why?”

  Will felt a rush of blood to his face. “Because I couldn’t be sure how and why Lili was in it. I am ashamed to say so, but for a time I even wondered if she might not be—on a different side than you and I are. I know it was absurd, but until I learned of her involvement with the Specularii, some part of me doubted Lili. And even now,” he added with a gusty sigh, “I still don’t know if she was the one who stole my warrant and had me locked up.”

  “We will ask her when we see her,” said Blaise. “And on that note, perhaps you can tell me just where we are going?”

  They had come to a brook—clear water running over gravel—but it was shallow and could be forded. Will and the buckskin led the way. “To Catwitsen, I believe. It’s where I was heading before. Unless you have some better idea.”