by Vicky Savage
“That certainly went well, don’t you think?” Drew says in his typical droll fashion.
“Shall I have him arrested?” Jacob asks, still irate. “You’d be entirely justified, and you have several witnesses.”
I rest my elbows on the table and momentarily cover my face with my hands. Ryder squeezes my shoulder reassuringly. Having Harold arrested might solve a number of my current problems, but it doesn’t feel like the right thing to do.
“No, Jacob,” I say. “He’s very angry. I suppose he has a right to be. He’s grown rich during his short stint as Lord High Steward, but I haven’t treated him very well since my return to Domerica.”
“He had no cause to speak to you that way,” Ryder says.
“Maybe not, but he’s lost a lot in the past two days—not only his sister, but any dreams he had of running the country and growing even richer.” I blow out a long breath. “What I would like is for him to have an armed escort back to Hempstead this afternoon. And, until we figure out who’s trying to have me assassinated, his comings and goings need to be watched at all times.”
“That seems the most reasonable course of action,” Father says. “If you like, I’ll make the arrangements with General LeGare.”
Smiling gratefully I say, “I hate to ask it of you, Father. You’re not even Domerican. But that would be very helpful if you wouldn’t mind.”
“I shall always be your father, first and foremost.” He stands and kisses my forehead. “By your leave?” he says formally.
“You know you never have to ask,” I say.
Turning to Jacob and Lorelei, I say, “I’m sorry you had to be involved in that. I have copies of these documents for you. The others will be filed in the Royal Offices on Monday. Jacob, would you mind getting in touch with the other Council members and letting them know about these changes?”
“It would be my pleasure.”
“Thank you all for coming.” I stand, and everyone else does also. “I will see you at the farewell celebration.”
I’m drained after my confrontation with Uncle Harold. I hope that at least Osrielle is happy with my decision. My fondest desire at the moment is to lie down in Ryder’s arms and have a nap before dinner, but Maria arrives with word that Prince Andrew and I are requested to meet with Jennifer Osborne as soon as possible to approve the plans for Mother’s farewell celebration.
“Would you like me to come along?” Ryder asks.
“That’s sweet, but there’s no reason for both of us to suffer through it. Drew and I can handle it. You must have things to attend to in Unicoi Village. You’ve hardly been home at all. Things around here will be busy for the next few days, and for the next two weeks until the wedding, really. I’m sure Unicoi matters are piling up on your desk, Chief Blackthorn.”
He smiles. “It’s true. Lately I haven’t been as attentive to my duties as I should have been. Catherine and the Council of Elders have been working hard to help, but there are some issues which require my personal attention. Shall I see you tomorrow, then?”
Selfishly, I want to say, Yes. I’m not sure I can make it through another day like today without him, but I know he needs time to take care of matters in Unicoi Village. “You should work tomorrow, and I probably should look over the files on Mother’s desk. Just come early for the farewell celebration. We’ll be together then.”
He pulls me to him and nearly gets stabbed in the chin with the point of my ridiculous crown. I wore it for my meeting with Uncle Harold, but I’m over it now. “Help me out of this thing, please, so I can kiss you properly.”
Ryder begins pulling hair pins out of my do and passing them to me. “How many are there?” He laughs. “Am I hurting you?”
“No, just get it off me.” I’m laughing now too, as the pins continue to pile up in my palms.
Soon the crown comes loose and my hair cascades freely down my shoulders. What a relief! It feels like a fifty pound weight was just lifted from my head. Ryder combs his fingers through my hair and smoothes the flyaway strands. “Better?” he asks.
“Much. Now let’s try that again.” I move in close. His intoxicating scent, his heat, his parted lips set my pulse racing. He cradles my face in his gentle hands and presses his warm mouth to mine. My heart thrums loudly in time with his. I reach up to free his hair from its ribbon and it falls like a silk curtain around our faces. Aah, yes. This is right; this is good. This is why I’ve chosen to remain here. To have this sumptuous kiss, and more, every day for the rest of my life. Two more weeks, only two more weeks and we’ll be together forever.
“Until Monday, then,” he says hoarsely.
“Can’t wait,” I whisper.
Making a quick stop at my room, I lock the crown in my jewelry chest and run a brush through my hair, finding still more hairpins. My long-sleeved, high-necked, floor-length dress is a stale, confining prison. I long for shorts and a t-shirt to change into, but that’s not in keeping with my life as a princess—oops, queen. There are a million things I miss about my simple life in Connecticut. Thinking of the pain Dad and Drew will suffer when I leave that life for good makes me ache inside. I’m happy I have them both here, but it’s not really fair, and the guilt haunts me.
Our meeting with Jennifer is to take place in a small sitting room in the family wing. When I arrive, she’s perched in a chair going over her notes, a stack of files at her feet. She immediately rises and curtseys. “Your Majesty, thank you for coming.”
“Please sit down,” I say, taking the chair next to hers. “Where’s Dre—, uh, Prince Andrew?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I was told he had returned to Meadowood,” she says nervously. “He left word that whatever met with your approval was acceptable to him.”
“Really?” Good old Drew. I should have known he’d bug out on me. There’s no way he’s going to sit through a bunch of party details. “All right, let’s send for tea, and you can fill me in on everything,” I say tiredly.
Jennifer’s permanently rumpled brow relaxes slightly, as if she expected me to bail on her too. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
She pushes her red spectacles up on her nose and proceeds to walk me through the schedule for the farewell celebration. It will be held in a large COC cathedral in town, to accommodate the expected overflow crowd. Beginning in the morning, a sizeable procession of dignitaries and palace workers will travel from the palace to the village in carriages and on horseback. Rain will be suspended that day to make attendance at the events more convenient. Jennifer explains that the ceremony will begin with a prayer, followed by speeches extolling Mother’s life. I’m relieved when she tells me I’m not expected to speak.
“We wished to invite Prince Harold to say a few words,” she says. “I was surprised to hear he will not be attending.”
“He had some urgent business in Hempstead,” I tell her.
“Yes. I heard,” she says with a look that tells me she knows his ass was booted.
Our tray of tea arrives, along with a selection of fruit tarts and cinnamon cakes. Once we’re served, Jennifer continues.
“Following the speeches, a large feast will be held in the main hall of the cathedral. Since this is a feast for a queen, it could last well into the wee hours of the morning. The villagers tend to thoroughly enjoy the beneficence of the crown on such occasions and probably will not leave until the last cask of wine is drained dry. Of course, it would not be unseemly for members of the royal family to depart early.”
Whew. I’m definitely not in the mood to be the main attraction at party central—especially when all I feel is a cavernous sense of loss.
“That summarizes the farewell celebration,” Jennifer says. “There are two other matters, however, if you have another moment, Your Majesty.”
“Sure,” I say, although I feel a little drowsy after tea and cakes.
“At some point next week, I wish to meet with you and Chief Blackthorn to finalize the wedding plans. The date is almost upon us, and there is much
to go over. Would such a meeting be possible?”
“Yes. I’ll need to check with Chief Blackthorn and let you know what day works for both of us.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” She pulls a file out of the stack next to her chair. “Also, I have some sketches of the remodeling project for the queen’s suite. Please look at them when you have a moment, and let me know if there is one you like.”
I shake my head in confusion. “What remodeling project?”
“Your mother wished to have her rooms completely remodeled for you and Chief Blackthorn. Something more suitable for a couple. Unfortunately she did not have the opportunity to approve the sketches before her passing, so I’m afraid the task has fallen to you. Once we have the floor plan settled, we can choose colors, fabrics, and furniture. I appreciate that you are terribly busy, but if we can get started right away, it may be ready in time for your wedding night.”
I rub my tired eyes. Trust Mother to think of everything. Taking the file from her, I say, “I’ll look at these when I can. We’ll discuss it next week. I’m sorry, but I really need to lie down for a few minutes.”
Jennifer pops up from her chair. “I’m so sorry to have fatigued you, Your Majesty. I will await your word.”
“Thanks, Jennifer.”
She gathers her files and hurries from the room.
FORTY-SEVEN
In the morning I sleep later than usual, recovering some of my depleted energy. The past three days have felt like the spin cycle on a Kenmore. The violent attack against me, Mother’s death, Uncle Harold’s rancorous departure—it all seems a bit surreal. Amazingly, there’s nothing earth-shattering on my schedule today. About a dozen people had requested audiences with me, but I exercised my royal prerogative and just said, No. I plan to use the time relaxing, going over the things on Mother’s desk, and playing with Fred and Ethel.
Father pokes his head in while I’m eating breakfast and tells me he’s paying a visit to Uncle Harold today, to discuss some of the disturbing comments he made regarding people wanting me dead and to question him about his possible involvement in the attack on me. I wish him luck, but I don’t think Harold’s really going to spill his guts to Father.
My walk with Fred and Ethel is peaceful and enjoyable. They seem happy for the time outside. After they’re quietly tucked in for a nap, I swipe a couple of pommeras from the kitchen and head up to Mother’s third floor office. One of Mother’s shawls is draped across the back of her desk chair. I press it to my nose inhaling the lingering scent of amber and spice. It is a comfort of sorts, but I know from experience that the scent will soon fade, and the memories will grow dim over time. That knowledge leaves me vacant inside.
Thumbing through a few things on top of Mother’s desk, I open a fat file labeled Dome Noir. Under the front flap, is an envelope addressed to me. I break the seal and pull out a crisp sheet of paper.
My Dearest Daughter –
If you are reading this, I am gone, and the joys and burdens of governing our nation are now in your capable hands.
It’s a letter from Mother to me.
We possessed numerous reliable contacts and channels for valuable information in Dome Noir until King Philippe saw fit to impose sanctions on Domerica in response to Prince Damien’s assassination. Unfortunately many of those contacts have been arrested for espionage or deported from the country. Consequently some of our information is now dated.
Mother had spies in Dome Noir? That means she probably has spies in Copula de Vita as well. It must also mean that there are foreign spies present in Domerica. The thought makes me pause and make a mental note to ask LeGare about this.
These are the key details of which you should be aware. First, King Philippe, now advanced in years, has reportedly become infirm, physically and, some say, mentally. We’ve had numerous reports that Prince Gilbert has assumed substantial responsibility for running the country.
That must be why Prince Gilbert is attending my wedding, instead of King Philippe.
Second, Dome Noir is far worse off than we had originally feared. Civil unrest is at an all-time high, and there is talk of revolution within the country. Unemployment, food shortages, and overcrowding have reached critical levels. I counsel you to be cautious in your dealings with Prince Gilbert, as these conditions may prompt him to take even more drastic action against Domerica in order to persuade you, as the Designated Guardian, to agree to construction of a new dome.
Holy crap.
But I encourage you also to view this as an opportunity which provides Domerica with a strong basis for negotiation. Through our own increased food production (largely due to the Unicoi growing methods), we are able to offer greater shipments of food to Dome Noir. In addition, we are well under capacity at Wall’s Edge prison and can propose some relief for their prison overcrowding. You may also consider granting work visas to capable workers to assist in the construction of Unicoi Village. I’m confident that you will devise additional enticements to convince Prince Gilbert that Dome Noir is better off with Domerica as a close friend and ally, rather than an enemy.
She closes by saying how much she will miss Drew and me, and how she regrets that she will not know her grandchildren. I feel overwhelmed and sad and also a little scared.
Tucking the letter back inside the envelope, I replace it in the file. My emotions are still too scattered to rationally deal with these momentous issues today. So I wrap Mother’s shawl around my shoulders and get up from the desk.
Browsing the shelves, I examine Mother’s array of mementoes and her impressive collection of books. In addition to law books and thick historical tomes are volumes of poetry and finely bound novels. Most of the novels are unfamiliar to me, but I’m drawn by the title Shalindria House, written by someone named Penelope Bronte. Curious as to whether she might have been related to the literary Bronte sisters, I pull the book from the shelf and flip through the pages. Curling up in an arm chair, I tuck one leg beneath me and begin to read. “It was a city of Sorcerers and Alchemists, Pagans and Fanatics…”
* * *
I’m awakened some time later by Ralston’s gentle prodding. “Jaden, wake up, my dear.”
“Oh, hi, Rals. I must’ve dozed off.”
He smiles. “Yes, I imagine you’re quite exhausted. But I have Queen Eleanor’s ashes here.” He nods to a lidded alabaster urn on top of the desk.
“Well, what am I supposed to do with them? Do we take them to the celebration? Am I supposed to keep them in my room or something?”
“No, my dear. The urn is meant to be placed in the columbarium below the palace where the ashes of the royal family members are stored.”
“What’s a columbarium?”
“Just an underground vault with niches for urns such as this one.” He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “You could invite Prince Andrew to help you place it there, or we could simply take it there ourselves and let him know it has been attended to.”
“Is there some kind of ceremony or something that goes along with it?”
“Not really, it’s more of a formality. Ashes of the deceased are not considered sacred by the COC, and therefore may be disposed of as the family wishes.”
“Let’s just get it over with then,” I say.
Ralston leads the way carrying the urn, and we traipse down about a zillion stairs to the deep basement of the palace. The last time I was down here was when Ralston and I helped Ryder escape from the small prison. Mother had sentenced him to reeducation for attempting to kidnap me. The issue of reeducation was one of the things that broke up my parents. It’s where a person’s brain is surgically altered to wipe out their entire long-term memory and, therefore, their whole identity. Mother adopted it as a form of punishment for prisoners, an alternative to hanging or maiming. Father believes it’s barbaric and refused to support its use. Reeducation is just another Domerican law I’m going to need to revisit as queen. I’m hoping to put it off as long as possible.
The columbarium i
s tucked away behind a moldy wooden door opposite the prison. To get there, we pass by the tunnel which encloses the stream that supplies fresh water for the palace. Ryder and his men used the tunnel to escape in a small boat. It occurs to me the tunnel could also be used as a way to sneak inside. A couple of guards are assigned to the prison, which is normally completely empty of inmates, but as far as I know, no one watches the tunnel.
“Hey Rals, isn’t it kind of dangerous leaving this tunnel unguarded? I mean, somebody is trying to kill me.”
“I believe it’s guarded at the entrance, outside the palace, but I shall mention it to General LeGare. It may be wise to station men inside also.”
We shuffle into the musty room that serves as the columbarium. Ralston switches on two elaborate wall sconces, but they provide only weak illumination. Rows and rows of arched cubbyholes are carved into the stone walls. Most of the center niches already hold urns. They range from simple to ornate. Some have sculpted busts of heads on top. I assume these are likenesses of the people whose ashes are inside.
