Page 53 of The Crimson Throne
It’s my fate now, getting blood on my hands. Cecil made me a murderer, and I—
No. I don’t know if I actually killed that rival of his. ButImade myself an attacker.
Murder’s always been what I was barreling toward, and I’ve been fighting it for years, but I’m so bloody tired of fighting it. I’m so close to getting free of it—but I won’t, not until I do this, will I? It’s destiny, one last blow of the curse.
Alyth’s in front of me.
I don’t know for how long, didn’t even realize we’re now alone in this big, empty room until I lock on her scowling face.
Those eyes dip over me, studying me through my skin, seeing my bones and soul. “You’re upset,” she says.
“Wouldn’t you be?” I snap. I don’t even try to soften it. “Getting accused of being linked to a boar like him. Being asked to get close to him. I’ll have to spend time with that absolute prick now rather than—” Don’t say too much.
I cut myself off and scrub a hand down my face, around to the back of my neck. My fingers get caught in the necklace from Cecil, and I damn near rip it off just for somewhere to direct my anger.
My eyes close. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be yelling at you. It’s just been a long few days, and I can’t be arsed to hold my tongue.”
Alyth hums. It’s thoughtful, not furious, and makes me look at her.
“You really hate him.” It’s not a question. She’s seeing something in me, whatever it is she can read.
“Obviously,” I say. My arm drops. “What about me makes you think I wouldn’t?”
Alyth’s eyes follow that tracing path still, down my face, down—and stop. On my neck.
I realize a beat too late that I dislodged that necklace, and she can see it.
13
Alyth
I know that necklace.
Iknowthat thrice-damned necklace.
“Where did you get that?” I demand, crossing the short space between us and grabbing the amulet. The braided leather yanks on Samson’s neck, making him take a stumbling step closer to me, his breath catching, somehow both soft and sharp at the same time.
“My father gave it to me,” he says.
My eyes skim over his aura, and I don’t even try to hide the fact that I am looking around him, not at him.
He’s not lying.
He’s not lying that his father gave him the amulet, but I know this amulet is the same one on Darnley’s portrait of his mother, the one that hangs in Holyrood Palace. Lady Lennox’s painted face would look smugly down on me anytime I had to be in the king consort’s chambers, and I could never forget the Celtic knotwork design. It was such an odd choice for a woman who claimed to be devoutly religious to the Catholic church.
But…
Samson’s aura is blue and yellow; he’s telling the truth, and he’s confused.
Telling the truth as he knows it, I think. The amulet may have been given to him by his father, but where did his father get it? Samson said he lived in London, and Darnley’s been in Scotland since his marriage, but the necklace was his mother’s…
“And your mother was from London…” I muse aloud.
Samson nods, his jaw tight.
Was your mother a member of Elizabeth’s royal court? I think to ask, then shake my head, dismissing the question. Of course she was. For Samson to be a secretary, to know how to read and write—his mother must have been noble. Perhaps his parents separated, with his father serving Laird Latimer in Scotland…I shall have to explore that further. Later though. The more pressing issue is: “Was your mother friends with Lady Lennox?”
Lady Lennox—Darnley’s mother—is Scottish, but she’s long been in England. First as a member of court, now as a royal prisoner.
