Artfully garnished platters of venison, conger eel, roasted pork, lamb pie, seafood critters, almond cream, sugared fruits, pear tarts, custard, and all the wine in the world. The sight and smells of the lavish banquet Elsbeth is hosting in my honor make me queasy, so I've eaten little, my stomach no longer accustomed to such decadence.

"I'm so glad you agreed to this, sister." Elsbeth folds a napkin and dabs her mouth. "You had that council eating out of your hands." She reflects on the council meeting earlier today, when we informed them of our decision to share the crown.

My head aches from all the names and faces of an entirely new assembly of councilors. In my absence, Elsbeth has replaced every single one of the former rats—as she likes to call them. I suppose she's not wrong but that doesn't mean that the councilors she has chosen instead, didn't paint me black when they had the chance to do so.

I haven't forgotten.

Their expressions when they so easily tainted me with a dark and cruel fate are forever branded in my brain, same as I remember Elsbeth's hand on that very same paintbrush.

I haven't told her one of her new councilors already approached me, whispering in my ear how she would always be a threat to my reign, how he and a number of nobles were prepared to back me up when I would reclaim my birthright. After all, hadn't Elsbeth committed treason by sending me to Baile na Grod?

I suppose she has.

A jester, not my jester, is making fun of the beheading of my former lord chancellor. For the occasion, he has crafted a puppet with a detachable head that sprouts red paint when chopped off with a miniature axe. I suppose I should find it funny. Perhaps I would if it weren't for the casual use of red paint. Just keep reminding me, fuckers, go ahead.

When—hurrah!—that little piece of entertainment is over, Elsbeth raises her cup, and the other courtiers follow her example. "To new beginnings!" she says.

"Hear, hear!" they shout in unison.

Rats.

I chug back the remainder of my cup and plant it on the table with a loud clunk. "Shall we dance? Where's the music?"

Beaming with satisfaction, Elsbeth claps twice and musicians emerge from the shadows. I truly believe she wants to make this work, that she believes that what she did was the right thing to do. I'm not sure whether I should be happy or sad to find out that my sister is not so levelheaded after all. She's insane.

I search out the crowd and let my gaze fall upon a handsome man, the new Duke of Bardigrah. His father, the former duke, recently succumbed to a mysterious fever. Poisoned by his wife, some say. Frequented a dirty whore and caught the whoring-sickness, others whisper, but all of that doesn't matter now. What matters is that with his wavy hair, strapping young body, and pearly white teeth, he's the prettiest new addition to this court and I am a Queen.

I extend my hand and he curtsies to kiss it. He leads me to the middle of the room and behind us other couples follow. Soon, the harp and lute guide our feet in swirly patterns around the room.

I've always liked to dance, the sway of it, the way it frees us from chairs and tables and feeling stuck.

The Duke dances as well as he is pretty and to top it all off, seems to be proficient in polite conversation aka sucking up. "My family and I rejoice in seeing you back on the throne that is so rightfully yours, your majesty. My father always spoke very highly of your statesmanship."

I give him a curt nod as our hands touch before we take a turn about the room in opposite directions. It is true that nor his father, nor he, showed up at my trial to besmirch me in black. That's something, I suppose, but they didn't show up to paint me red either. I'm keeping tabs. They're excruciatingly simple.

"Your father was a remarkable man," I say when we face each other again, "My sincerest condolences. I regret that I was prohibited from attending the funeral and paying my respects to your family. Will you convey my sympathies to your dear mother, the dowager duchess?"

This time, it's his turn to nod and then we part again. All couples are about to be switched up through a fixed scheme of intricate sashaying, but I have practiced this since childhood and my feet know the way without giving it much thought.

I simply allow my body and thoughts to float with the music and absentmindedly, drift into the hands of my next dance partner. Our fingers curl into each other while I point my toe and tilt up my chin.

My heart jolts and breath hitches when I see the man attached to my hand. I almost loose my balance but he delivers the right amount of pressure to keep me upright.

White face, black-rimmed eyes, lopsided grin.

Lachie, not as surprised to see me as I am to see him.

We've been back for over a week and I haven't seen him in the palace since. I believed him gone though I didn't have the heart to inquire.

But here he is, touching my hand, looking at me with that gaze that scorches my soul. "Your majesty, how have you been?" he dares to ask before the dance steps lead us apart again.

The audacity. The nerve. The ...

"You lied to me," is all I can grit out the next time we meet.

"Never."

Liar, liar. My heart screams as we take the next turn. "You had me believe you followed me to Baile na Grod because of your father."

"That wasn't a lie."

It takes every ounce of my self control not to slap him right here and now. "You went to Baile na Grod in service of my sister."

"Can't both be true?" he asks, his voice soft in a way that triggers too many memories, memories of rugged circumstances but tender encounters, of something naked and beautiful.

It doesn't take that big of a leap of faith to believe him. Both can be true. I can see how they can, but that doesn't mean I don't resent him.

"You should've told me."

The cadence of the music changes once more, our cue to flutter back to our former dance partners. Before we part, he tugs me closer than is customary and whispers, "I should've told you. I'm sorry." His breath against my earlobe almost sends me spiraling.

The Duke's eyes nearly pop out of their sockets, glancing over his shoulder as he draws me close again. "Is that ... him?"

"That's Lachie Greer, the only man who had the courage to paint me red," I say dryly. We pass the rest of the dance in silence, which is very well, because my thoughts are loud.

I'm sorry? Does he think it's as easy as that? That I'm going to let him off the hook with a single—I'm sorry. Not a chance.

When the dance is over, I down another glass of wine and wipe my brow. Unfortunately, I'm sweaty, trembling, and ready for war. I will kill that man.

While new couples assemble on the dance floor, I search the crowd for Lachie, for his slender, cat-like physique, sinful gaze and bloody face-paint, not surprised at all to find him lurching in the shadows, that sneaky fucking bastard.

When he sees me stalking toward him, he retreats further into one of the alcoves in the darkest part of the room.

"Why? Why didn't you tell me?" I shove him against a wall, both hands at his chest.

He grabs my wrists but doesn't bother to remove them. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try me!"

"For once in my life, I didn't want to be someone else's servant. For all I knew, we could've spent the rest of our lives on that island, and fool of fools, I wanted my shot at being something else, something more human, more equal."

"So you could seduce me?"

His face contorts with disgust at those words and no longer does he want to hold my wrists. He backs me up till I bump into a vase on a pedestal. Instinctively, my hands reach behind me to keep the damn thing from tumbling off.

"So we could be real," he spits out.

What's that even supposed to mean? I think I know but I don't want to know and I hate these conflicting emotions so much that I want to break down and cry but I won't. I won't cry. Not before this fucker.

"You told me you loved me." The words gush from my mouth, like a river of pent-up tears bursting through a dam. Why? Why is this the thing I feel compelled to lay at his feet? I never even loved him back so who the fuck cares?

Lachie. Lachie cares.

He just stands there, looking at me as if he can see right through me and very calmly says, "That wasn't a lie. I do."

Not I did, but I do. He loves me. He has to be lying. He has to be lying because I can't handle this kind of truth.

"Listen," he says, "I know how the world works. I'm not here because I think a queen can love a jester. I always knew I was going to Baile na Grod to die there or to return with my heart broken but apart from not being completely honest with you, I regret nothing. Do you hear me, Mari? I regret nothing."

He reaches for my hands again but I clutch to the vase behind me, speechless, paralyzed, and Lachie, sensible as he is, lowers his hands to his sides again.

"I'm leaving tomorrow. I've already informed Elsbeth," he continues, "My mother is dying and I'm going to spend some time with her, but I didn't want to leave before making sure you're alright. I'm glad to see your sister kept her word. You're a magnificent queen, Mari. You always were and always will be."

I can't handle him calling me Mari. I can't handle the thought of him leaving. "Lachie."

"Don't cry!" he says, pressing his thumb and index finger to his eyes. "Already, all sorts of pretty noblemen are lining up for you, as they should. Make sure to pick a good one!"

And then he's gone, making that expensive china shatter to the palace floor and leaving me to pick up the shards.

WC 1790 words
TWC 20434 words