Page 40 of The Crimson Throne
The cure for my curse could be in the very castle behind me. I could be days out from holding whatever fae item doomed me in my hands.
For all I might like what little I know of Alyth, she’s a stepping stone. Nothing more.
My smile is properly charming. Suave and smooth. “That’s an awful big responsibility for a lady to take on, innit?”
Alyth studies me. Lets a beat of silence pass. “Who said I was a lady? Secretary.”
Then she walks off, and I hold my breath in her absence.
9
Alyth
I’m so disgusted by the sight of Darnley’s temper tantrum that I practically flee the yard. But I feel Samson’s eyes watching me, burning right through me, and I’m reminded so intensely of that damn dream I had last night that I know if I stay around him a second longer, he’ll spot the splotches of telltale red spreading on my skin. Even though he needles me every time he opens that mouth of his, I can’t seem to drive him from my thoughts.
I go immediately into the kitchen, stealing a jar of marmalade, another of cream, and a cloth-wrapped bundle of scones, and then I head back to my own quarters, where I kneel in front of my hearth, logs laid in the center but no fire lit.
It’s time to tempt a brownie.
Brownies are shy things, preferring to stay hidden. But they’ll come out for me sometimes, if I ask nicely.
I radiate my magic, warm and welcoming with a promise of more treats than the usual bowl of cream I set out every night. Sure enough,a shadow takes form after a few minutes, and the silent, small steps of a little brownie girl creep closer to me. I hold out the tiny wax-stoppered jar of Mary’s own orange marmalade, a gift from her sister-in-law, the queen of Spain.
The little brownie waits for me to set the jar on the hearthstone and lean back before she darts forward. The jar is only wide enough for a spoon, but the brownie is about the size of a small cat standing on its back legs. I open it for her, and she dips her whole hand into the jar, scooping out a palmful of sticky orange jam sprinkled with thin strips of candied rinds, then licking her hand and sucking on each fingertip.
I let the brownie eat in silence. That’s the way of things with the fae: give first, request second. Or at least these minor fae, like brownies. The high fae, the ones who rule the Seelie Court, are different. A prince of the Seelie Court would never gobble up marmalade and then pay off the debt with a favor. No, someone like my father would know exactly what the favor would be before he agreed to accept the offering, and he would make sure there were loopholes in any agreement that would bind me to him and give him the better deal.
But the brownies are dear little things, and they care only about making the house they live in a home, even if that house is actually Stirling Castle. I’ve chatted with this particular brownie before, and while she never gives me a name, I think of her as Kitty in my mind, for the way she licks her knuckles clean, just as she’s doing now, her tiny pink tongue darting out and finishing up the remainders of marmalade that cling to her fuzzy skin.
“I’ll make your fire so warm tonight,” she says, practically purring.
“Actually, I wanted to ask a different favor of you.”
Kitty pauses, mid-lick, her tongue stuck to the back of her left hand as her eyes narrow to me.
“Can you please ensure the queen’s chamber stays locked and no one enters it throughout the night?” I unwrap the scones slowly, noting the way her eyes track the treat. I pour the cream into the bowl I keep at the hearth.
Kitty turns her attention back to her grooming, but I see a little nod. “Will jam up the doors and locks,” she tells the back of her hand, then giggles. “Jam.”
She reaches for a scone, tossing aside the bit of cloth I wrapped it in and dunking it into the bowl of cream before grabbing up soggy handfuls of crumbs and stuffing them in her cheeks.
“Not even the queen’s husband should enter,” I add.
Kitty pauses, her head cocking. “He’s her mate,” she says.
Many things are black-and-white to the fae. I am good, because I give Kitty gifts. The queen is good, because the castle, Kitty’s home, is hers, and the queen works to keep it nice. The queen’s husband is good, because he is married to the good queen.
Except…
“The husband is her mate,” I agree. “Lord Darnley. But…he is not a good mate.”
Kitty scowls, thinking over what I said while she eats more soggy crumbs.
“I…worry,” I tell her. Kitty is older than me; she’s lived in the castle for generations. She has seen some of the political turmoil of past kings, the mistresses kept in bedrooms down the hall from their wife’s chambers.
“Mary is—” I start.
“Kind Mary,” the brownie says, then sticks her tongue out. “Unwise to say the name.”
