The Queen's Assassin Page 26

  The black glass they’d discovered during the hunt, the same substance that the monks were mining in Baer Abbey, had to be recently found, he decides, if they had only started excavating. Since it was on the duke’s estate, then all signs point to the Duke of Girt as the conspirator. Cal blinks and wonders why he didn’t feel as confident before. It was right in front of him. It’s as if he was in a fog, and now his mind is clear.

  Shadow’s aunts and mother didn’t know why Princess Lilac was in Montrice, only that the Aphrasians are set to assassinate her. He hopes that, wherever she is, the princess is safe for now. Is the princess in Montrice to marry King Hansen maybe?

  And if the King of Montrice does not marry the Princess of Renovia, then which kingdom has been chosen? Stavin has the fiercer army, but Argonia commands an armada. Montrice will show its hand soon, and Renovia must be ready.

  Cal feels the pressure of his task on his neck, on his chest. He will keep the princess safe; he will unmask the conspirator before they can hurt the royal family. If he fails, the princess will die. So he must not fail.

  As for his dreams of a different life, of one with Shadow—if she feels the same way about him—then he must earn his freedom as soon as possible. But he needs to know her heart. He has hope, but not certainty, and her sudden coldness is not promising.

  * * *

  THEY SPEND TWO DAYS this way, avoiding each other—or rather, with Shadow avoiding him. He respects her need for privacy, but as the days pass, he worries more and more about what upset her so greatly, and if it could be related to him in some way. Perhaps her mother saw into his heart and deemed him unworthy of her daughter.

  Eventually, the morning before the party, they bump into each other in the main entry hall: Shadow, carrying a straw basket filled with fresh flowers, on her way inside from the market; Cal, just back from a final fitting with the tailor.

  “Have I done something to offend you?” Cal blurts out.

  She startles, then answers softly, “No. I am not upset with you. I am not upset with you at all.” Her eyes well up with tears.

  “Would it help to talk about it?” he asks.

  “I . . .”

  The front door flies open and bangs against a column near the doorway. Duchess Girt descends upon them like a hurricane of hoopskirts, making Cal feel stifled even though they’re standing in such a cavernous space. Forget the hurricane, she reminds him of an enormous confection, piled with frosting, her hat the cake topper. That’s all he can picture now: a talking dessert.

  “Hello, hello!” she calls. “Did you miss me?”

  “Very much!” he says smoothly. “How was your trip?”

  “Oh! Don’t ask. The country is so boring. Nobody who is anybody was there at all! The duke spent all his time in stuffy meetings and I sat around doing needlepoint, of all things. I missed an opera, a night at the theater, and the king had another reception, I’m told.” She puts the dog she has been holding down. It runs off into the house, probably to chew up Cal’s boot again.

  Cal’s suspicions are raised doubly. The aristocracy descends on the countryside only after the fall social season is over, so whatever drew the duke away must have been important. And if the duke is the conspirator . . . ? Cal glances at Shadow and wonders if she has the same thought as he does, but she is only watching the dog as it scampers down the hallway.

  Duke Girt walks in, followed by a team of footmen overloaded with luggage. He walks right past them without saying hello, disappearing down the hall. They hear the door to his study shut and lock.

  “That all goes up to my room,” the duchess says about the luggage. The staff begins marching up the stairs with all of it.

  Another footman enters, holding a single trunk. “That goes in the duke’s room,” Duchess Girt tells him.

  “Yes, my lady,” he says, following the others.

  “Everything ready for the party, I hope?” she asks, while smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirt from traveling. She looks them both up and down and grimaces. Without her influence, they both reverted back to their own simpler wardrobes.

  “Yes indeed,” Shadow says. “Cal saw the tailor this morning, before you came back. Isn’t that right?” She looks at him.

  “That’s right,” he says. The tone of her voice . . . something is peculiar about it. Or maybe it is just the mood. It’s odd hearing her sound so distant.

  “Excellent,” the duchess says, clapping her hands together. “What are you planning to do tonight, Lord Holton?” She looks at him expectantly.

  “I was up very early this morning; I’m afraid I’m already incredibly tired. I was planning to go to bed.”

  She tsks. “That’s too bad. Of course, now that I think of it, I’m tuckered out myself. Traveling does that, doesn’t it? In any case, we should save our energy for the party—there will be no sleep that night! Isn’t that right, Lady Lila?”

  Shadow smiles sweetly at the duchess. “Yes, my lady, no sleep at all.”

  * * *

  CAL DECIDES TO ASK Shadow directly what is the matter. If he hasn’t done anything wrong, why does he feel as if he’s being punished? Why did she go from being his friend, his partner, kissing him, to ignoring him? If she’s decided she wants him out of her life and for him to have nothing to do with her, fine. But he has to know.

  He takes a deep breath and raises his hand. Lowers it. Turns to walk away. No—you need to know. Before he loses his nerve he knocks on the door.

  No response.

  He knows she’s in there. And that she recognizes his knock. He tries again.

  The door opens. A lady’s maid stands there. “The lady is indisposed at the moment, my lord,” she says.

  Cal peeks into the room. Shadow is sitting on an upholstered chair in front of the mirrored vanity, wearing a floral-print satin robe, her short bobbed hair wrapped in tubes of various sizes. She locks eyes with him for a second before they dart away. She pinches the bridge of her nose. “It’s all right, Cornylia. Let him in.”

  Let him in. As if she’ll merely tolerate him. That, of all things this past week, hurts the most.

  She puts on rouge in the mirror while he waits, clasping his hands in front of him, to be addressed. Then she puts down the feathered puff on the vanity tray and looks up at him.

  “Shall we have the first dance? Surely as guests of honor, we can claim that?” he says with a smile, trying to lighten the mood.

  He waits for her customary quip. Instead she says, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  The sadness in her voice is like a punch in the stomach. “Why?”

  “I can’t say. Not yet.”

  “Then when?” This is agony. He lowers his voice. “What am I to do? How do I continue, not knowing what’s happening with you?”

  Shadow’s expression remains impassive, but a tear slides down her cheek. She quickly wipes it away. Takes a deep breath. “Your orders haven’t changed, Cal, but mine have.”

  “And you can’t share them with me?”

  She looks down at her lap. “No,” she says so quietly that he almost can’t hear.

  The silence between them stretches for an age. Shadow won’t look him in the eye, and Cal feels dread in his heart and a temporary weakness in his knees. All his dreams turn to ashes in his mouth. There is no future here; she has withdrawn from him. She is a closed door and he is out in the cold.

  Without another word, he walks out, the door swinging closed behind him. “Excuse me, sir!” the lady’s maid exclaims when he passes, despite the fact that he bumped into her and not the other way around. She hurries back into the room as he walks away.

  His first thought: I’m not attending this party. His second thought: Of course I am. I’m Caledon Holt. I am the Queen’s Assassin. He feels particularly murderous tonight.

  His third thought: This is why I vowed never
to fall in love.

  * * *

  CAL WAITS UNTIL THE revelry is in full swing—and he’s had a few drinks—before making his appearance. It’s not as grand as the Small Ball at the palace, but it’s impressive nonetheless, and the crowd is substantial. He’ll give Duchess Girt credit for that. She knows how to throw a party. And the Montrician nobles know how to show up.

  Speaking of Duchess Girt . . . He spots her standing near a table of sweets, talking to some of her friends, other aristocratic women donning the same elaborate costumes and garish makeup—white faces, bright red mouths, pink rouge, sharp eyebrows.

  He takes a glass of champagne from a passing tray. Across the room, he sees Shadow. Just as beautiful as the last time. She’s wearing the same dark blue dress, but her hair is styled differently—worn naturally, without a wig, her short hair sleek against her forehead.

  Shadow is dancing with King Hansen. A slow waltz. Too slow. Cal hates the sight of them together—he has to stop himself from pulling them apart. That’s not gentlemanly behavior, he tells himself. And Shadow is doing what he asked of her. Becoming closer to the king, trying to gain his favor. He resists the urge to interfere.

  Not only is she dancing, but laughing and smiling, too. He hasn’t seen her that way in days.

  The song ends and Cal is thankful, but now she’s dancing with one of Montrice’s young lords, Earl Something-or-Another. Cal can’t keep their names straight.

  Cal makes a beeline for the duchess. “Excuse me, may I have this dance?”

  She is shocked, but thrilled. She hands her glass to one of her friends and grabs Cal’s hand. “Yes, of course,” she coos.

  He spins her out to the dance floor and she melts into shrieks and giggles. People begin talking about them behind their fans, which only encourages him. He pulls her in tighter. “Oh my,” she says breathlessly.

  By tomorrow morning everyone in Montrice will believe he’s sleeping with Duchess Girt. He scans the crowd, looking to see if he’s being watched by the only person who is his intended audience tonight.

  Finally, he spots her, being led in a passionless dance with that priggish earl. Shadow catches his eye but turns away, her gaze stony.

  Good. That’s what he wants. He feels petty. Vengeful. And maybe, possibly, just a little bit drunk. He looks right at Shadow as he twirls the duchess.

  Shadow narrows her eyes at Cal, then gives the hopeless sap she’s dancing with her most seductive gaze. The earl is smitten, and Shadow snaps her fan open and closed at him.

  Cal flushes bright red to the tips of his ears, his heart pounding with fury.

  The song ends. Dancing couples pull apart to clap for the orchestra. Cal turns to look at Shadow, but her dance partner is clapping alone. She’s already gone.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Shadow

  THE APHRASIAN CONSPIRATOR IS HERE. I can feel it. It’s overwhelming, almost suffocating. As if the air is too dense. There’s someone at the party working with dark and malevolent magic. The talisman from my aunts is tucked into a pocket of my underskirt, and it’s been humming all evening, growing hot, then cold, then hot again.

  While the duke and duchess were away, I slipped from the house with a shopping basket, as if I were going to the market in town; instead I combed the woods where the hunt had taken place to see if I could find more obsidian shards.

  The sun was high in the sky when I found a tiny shard. I swept that onto a leaf and put it in the pouch. I feel it grow hot and then cold again against the outside of my thigh. Sometimes it gets so hot, I’m afraid it’s going to burn me, but somehow it doesn’t. It’s responding to a dark mage, I’m sure of it.

  Duke Girt is the obvious culprit, but he came late to the party and the obsidian was humming even before he arrived. I’ve been making the rounds all night, dancing with everyone I can, to see how it reacts. It also gives me an excuse to stay away from Cal.

  I can’t think too much about him, lest my heart break any more than it already has. I can’t think about what my mother has asked of me. But there is no going back now; there is only a way forward and there is no escape. I promised my aunts I wouldn’t run away this time.

  So I stay where I am, even if I can’t bear to see the hurt on Cal’s face. I have to tell him, but I am too afraid. There’s also a small part of me that can’t bring myself to tell Cal because it believes this won’t be real until I do, that maybe it won’t be true until I utter the words out loud.

  An earl and a viscount and a marquess take turns twirling me around the dance floor. Young, old, and in between, it doesn’t matter. A few of the boldest among them try to place a wandering hand in the wrong place without so much as a blush, or get their foul beer-tainted breath so close to my face I could faint. Or punch them in the teeth.

  But I do neither. I plaster a phony smile on my face and keep it there. I am a spy, maybe not a Guild spy, but a spy nonetheless. I need someone to slip up and say something. The combination of too much spirits and the masculine desire to brag and impress a pretty face should work to my advantage, and I have Cal to thank for that lesson.

  Still, I’ve had no luck so far. All I have to show for my efforts are cheeks that feel bruised from smiling.

  I spot Caledon across the room. He looks so lost. It makes my stomach knot. I should just tell him. Why can’t I? We are both here on the queen’s orders now. Not that it matters. If only we had been able to speak our hearts to each other before the other night, if only we’d had a few more days of innocence. He must be nothing but Caledon Holt, Queen’s Assassin, to me now.

  I’ve been suffering with this for days, alone. But it is my burden to carry; he already has his own.

  But then he walks right up to Duchess Girt and asks her to dance.

  Naturally, she jumps at the chance.

  Fine, let him flirt with the duchess.

  Did he kiss her the way he kissed me? I cannot help the hot blaze of fury that fills me at the thought. He kissed me like he wanted to become part of me—is that how it felt to her that day in the library? That his soul was in his kiss? And that he would love her forever?

  The worst thought: Yes, of course it was the same. Because he’s adept at acting. At lying. It’s what he does. I have to remember there is nothing between us and never was; it never had a chance to flower. And he can always find other girls to kiss and dance with, of that I am certain.

  “Lady Lila, is everything all right, my dear? You look a bit flushed.” My dance partner, Lord—oh, I don’t remember his name—asks me.

  “I’m quite all right. I think I just need something to drink?”

  “Say no more. You wait here. I’ll return shortly.” My eager suitor rushes off somewhere to fulfill my request, just as a footman appears with a tray of wineglasses.

  I accept one and decide to flee the ballroom rather than watch Cal dance with the duchess. But when I turn the corner I run right into my suitor. “Oh,” he says, looking at the wineglass in my hand and holding a similar one.

  “I’m sorry, my lord, but I think I’ve broken my heel, and I’m off to . . .”

  He kneels on the floor. Overeager, this one. “Let’s have a look. I know a thing or two about shoes . . .” He grabs the bottom of my skirts and tries lifting them up.

  I immediately slap the top of his head with my fan. He puts his hands over his head and stares up at me in surprise.

  “Sir! A gentleman does not lift a lady’s skirts!” I begin to fan myself frantically, as if I’m in need of smelling salts.

  He blushes and jumps to his feet. “Please accept my apologies, my lady. I did not mean . . . I only meant to . . .”

  “Well, I never!” I shout. I harrumph for emphasis and storm away. That should take care of him. He’ll avoid me for the rest of the evening out of sheer humiliation.

  I walk through the hall leading away from the ballroom, then s
top to remove my tight heels so that I can continue. When I bend down, I feel the talisman knock against my upper thigh. I realize the metal hasn’t reacted in a while. The farther I venture into the private areas of the house, the colder it gets.

  Now that I’ve thwacked a nobleman on the head, I’m feeling bold.

  Tiptoeing, shoes in my hand, I creep up the stairs toward the duke and duchess’s private bedchambers.

  I pause to listen. It’s silent upstairs. I’m not sure what I’m doing or what I’m looking for. I don’t have a plan, exactly. I just know that I’ll know when I find it.

  Each of my footsteps creaks on the wood floor. I’m positive I’m alerting everyone in the house to my actions, but of course that’s silly, because there’s a loud party going on in the ballroom and the entire household, including the staff, is there right now.

  The duke’s bedchamber is at the end of the hall. I run my finger along the striped wallpaper. It’s textured, so the sensation is extra satisfying.

  I realize maybe I had a little more champagne than I think I did.

  But then I am not alone.

  The Duke of Girt appears in the hallway, and he does not look surprised to see me. “Why, Lady Lila,” he says, cordial and friendly. He smells familiar somehow, underneath that perfume. “What brings you here?”

  “I . . . I was looking to get some air,” I say weakly, as the talisman hums.

  “Shall we step out to the balcony?” the duke asks. “So we can see the fireworks?”

  The obsidian is humming so hot it almost burns my skin, but there is only one answer I can give: “That would be lovely.”

  I realize where I smelled that scent before. It’s from the forest, when I had a predator hunting me, the day I stumbled upon Baer Abbey. The unmistakable smell of rot and death. It smells like my would-be assassin.