Page 117 of The Crimson Throne
I scan the Great Hall anxiously.Where is Samson?I give myself a physical shake. Itrusthim. And that means I trust he can handle himself.
Regardless, I can’t really lose myself to the revelries at the moment. I drift along the edges of the party. While Mary is usually one for dancing, I’m surprised to find her tucked into a quiet corner, holding her baby while nurses and maids wait nearby. I suppose the party is technically for him.
I have been loyal to Queen Mary since she first arrived in Scotland, dressed in mourning white, so pale and sad, she looked like a ghost. I stood beside her when she chose Darnley as her next husband, despite disagreeing with her. I watched as men opposed her, berated her, used her, and abused her, and I begged her to take action—for herself and for her country.
But in this moment, as she bends her head down to her cooingbaby’s face, whispering promises to him, for the first time since I met her…
She looks happy.
Then her eyes lift. She sees me, and the joy falls from her face. I cannot help but feel the sting of that, bitter and sharp.
“Come to berate me more?”
I cannot tell if her tone is tired or frustrated.
“No,” I say quietly.
She huffs, not satisfied.
There’s some sort of disturbance near the corridor, but I keep my focus on Mary. The Green Lady and the other glaistigs will protect us from any harm tonight.
“Mary, I only care about—”
“Your duty, I know.”
The air leaves my body. She’s right.
“I care about you too,” I offer weakly.
She smiles, and it’s clear she doesn’t believe me.
A shout from across the hall, the sound of pottery smashing on the stone floor. That’s not the first goblet that will be sacrificed to clumsy drunkards tonight.
“We should be friends,” I say. For all the years I’ve known her, I’ve kept the queen at a distance. Perhaps I have judged her too harshly before. We have had very different lives, but our goals are the same.
Much like me and Samson.
Besides, perhaps Ihavebeen closing myself off too much. Samson saw right through me, but he wasn’t wrong. It has been lonely, seeing every person as a threat to be assessed rather than a friend to be made.
Mary looks down at her baby’s face. “That would be—”
Whatever she is going to say is cut off by a nearby scream. The babyinstantly wakes, screeching, and the nurse rushes to him at the same time as two of the queen’s maids shout for a guard. I whirl around, prepared to attack Darnley, magic sparking in my fingers, but—
It’s not Darnley.
It’s Samson.
Samson with a dagger raised high, the tip glinting in the firelight. He’s a dozen or more paces away but coming fast.
And his eyes—a horrid, plain, dull green, empty of all light and emotion.
Something tugs inside me, an alarm ricocheting through my system, a warning, a reminder of the oath he made me swear—
I push it away.
“Samson!” I shout. I have forgotten about magic, about everything. Because this is Samson but not the Samson I know, not the man full of wonder who seeks joy despite all hardships. There’s no smirk quirking up his lips, no crinkle on his brow, no…no anything.
He is nothing but a shell, empty. Just like in Moyra’s cabin, but worse somehow, moving like this, with such purpose.
