Page 116 of The Crimson Throne
Darnley smirks at me. “Who said anything about killing Mary?”
The shock of it has my last feeble foothold in reality going slack.
If not Mary, then—
Darnley speaks again, his lips moving, and that spell wraps around me, weaving all sorts of grotesque, wonderful promises. It’s whispers and sweetness and torture and all things I never let myself have.
I’m gone.
29
Alyth
Mary is determined to keep the festivities alive with wine and music if nothing else, and neither cold weather nor the threat of death will stop her.
Darnley’s gone at least.
Only a few hours’ hard ride away, at Kirk o’ Field in Edinburgh. Not nearly far enough. I want Darnley out of Scotland. I want him out of this entire realm. If my father believed me, then perhaps he will take Darnley to be tried by the Seelie Court. That would be the only way I could feel safe with that man still alive. That or if Beira swooped down and took care of him, but I cannot rely on the fae goddess to step in. She will no doubt help, but I cannot dictate in what way.
And once Darnley’s dealt with and the wall fully secured, I’m…
Leaving.
Not Scotland. I can’t leave Scotland with the wall. But I don’t have to stay at a court I’m miserable in, doing a job for a father who doesn’t care about me.
It’s time for me to live the life I want to live.
I just have to survive long enough to claim it.
I scan the crowd again. Music swells, almost inaudible with the noise the guests make, but several people dance in one part of the hall. I watch as an older couple slowly moves together, hands touching. Younger dancers draw more attention, but it’s the way the old man supports his wife’s back, the way she steps closer to him and rests her head on his shoulder that makes my eyes burn. The man lifts his wife’s hand to his lips as the music fades, kissing her knuckles.
The moment shatters as a drunk lady stumbles into me, slurring out an apology. There are more people here than at last night’s revelry. More wine too. Which means, of course, more trouble.
The decorations look woeful now, the wooden castle partially broken, the boughs of greenery already wilting, the reused costumes bedraggled.
“He’s not here.” The Green Lady was gracious enough to bring the glaistigs back tonight.
“Who?” I ask.
“That red lad of yours.”
My fury rises, a defense of him, of me—but then I realize she’s speaking of Samson’s hair, not his nature. Does she know? She recognized he had more power than most other Leths but not what type. Moyra wouldn’t have told her—not out of loyalty to me but merely because she avoids most fae, making exceptions only for a few Leths.
“Is he off with that other man, the tall one?” the Green Lady asks.
“Darnley? Yes.” I scowl. It occurs to me that while Queen Mary told me her husband had retreated, I didn’t have time to confirm that for myself. And I’ve not seen Samson since the stables. He wasn’t in his rooms when I knocked on his door earlier. I thought he’d be here already.
It’s nothing. Darnley probably took too long to retreat to Edinburgh, or Samson is chasing after some clue he left behind. Still…
I shouldn’t have sent Samson after Darnley, I think. As far as I know, the king consort still believes Samson is on his side, but what if that’s changed? What if Darnley somehow knew Samson didn’t support him? I shouldn’t have sent Samson to the man. He shouldn’t have listened. He should have argued with me. He should have fought. That’s what men do—they argue and don’t listen and—
And Samson respects me too much to treat me the way Darnley treats Mary or my father treats me.
The Green Lady makes a sound in the back of her throat. A group of men dressed as centaurs, their backsides lumpy cushions with broomstraw for tails, prances by.
The Green Lady frowns. “I do not understand humans.”
“Neither do I,” I mutter.
