Page 54 of The Crimson Throne
Samson’s eyes are wide as plates. “Not to my knowledge.”
Truth again.
And not that out of the ordinary, given Lady Lennox’s current status. She tried to get herself named Queen of England rather than Elizabeth, but the line of succession went Protestant.
Queen Elizabeth saw Darnley’s marriage to Queen Mary as enough of a threat to imprison his mother. Noble imprisonment is nothing like the horrific conditions of workhouses or jail for dangerous criminals; Lady Lennox has her own apartment within the Tower of London, even servants. She’s still free to live the life of luxury her wealth and status provides. She’s just not free to leave.
Sticking Lady Lennox in the Tower sent a clear message from Queen Elizabeth to Darnley, King Consort of Scotland: Challenge my throne, and your ma’s head goes to the chopping block.
I narrow my eyes at Samson and release the amulet, throwing it down hard enough to hit him in the chest and make him expel a breath in a near-silentoof. This secretary may not have an ounce of magic in him, but I trustnothingthat comes from Darnley or his mother.
The only thing keeping me from ripping that damned charm from his neck is the fact that it doesn’t have any magical qualities to it. But its origin cannot be a coincidence…and nothing Darnley’s family does can be any good.
Samson is just a tool in some larger plan. His parents may have wits enough to have accepted some bribe from Lady Lennox, but Samson can’t know he’s being used for…something.
My eyes lift and meet Samson’s, and for a moment, I forget about my fears. I know he hates all this—the court intrigue, the lies dressed in lace.
It was so much simpler before we came here. On the road to Stirling, he hadn’t yet been caught in the web of lies Darnley has somehow tangled him into. When we were on that moor, watching a stag in the mist, there was only that moment and all the possibilities held within it.
Do I truly believe he’s innocent, or is that just wishful thinking?
I don’t want to ask myself that question.
So I turn on my heel, in search of different ones, and leave Samson without another word.
***
I go straight to my room, slamming the door behind me and pausing only long enough to ensure the door is locked by both my key and my magic.
My chambers are small, tucked away in a corner. Some of the ladies are shocked I even have a spot here; unlike English castles, most Scottish ones aren’t sprawling behemoths, and not every member of court has residency within the palace. Lairds and ladies of higher rank than me stay in the town at the bottom of the hill.
I keep things modest; my room is a place to sleep, not a place to entertain, but I have a sampler my mother stitched for me hanging from the wall and sprigs of rowan near the window. A fire burns in the hearth, exactly the right temperature. I make a mental note to leave some extra cream out for Kitty.
I sit down at the dressing table near the window. A mirror and a comb rest atop the table, the mirror face down. It’s a hand mirror made of pure silver, with a perfectly circular frame and a short handle that ends in a much smaller circle, carved with a decorative design of interlocking rings that makes a pattern similar to a four-petaled flower.
This is old magic, older even than my father.
Flipping it up so I can see myself in the reflective face, I grasp the comb—the other part of the magic—and swipe the carved teeth over the mirror’s face. Magical items like this are rare; the Red Caps leaned into invention, and they did it with the intent to create weapons. Few fae make items like this nowadays for fear of being seen as Red Cap sympathizers.
“Margaret Douglas, Lady Lennox,” I tell the mirror’s surface.
I can only call a fae creature to the mirror if I know its true name, but a Leth, especially one as weak as Lady Lennox? Her known name will do. Magic will summon her to the nearest reflective surface so we can communicate.
Moments pass, and soon enough, the silver mirror ripples. The reflection no longer shows my face when I look at it. Instead, I see astone ceiling. “Lady Lennox,” I say, louder. When the woman finally peers down, I think my reflection must be shown to her from a goblet.
Lady Lennox leans over the surface. Always slender, the woman looks paler now than I recall, the only sign that she’s not free to leave her apartments whenever she likes. Her chin is pointed, her eyes narrowed. “What do you want?” she snaps.
“How is your prison cell?” I cannot keep the smirk from my face.
“Fine.” Her voice is cold. “And what of your prison?”
“Unlike you, I am not in one.”
She sniffs, but I don’t bother arguing further. I know what she means. While she and her son have so little magic that they can freely move through the barrier, my blood is too fae for me to ever leave Scotland. It’s not a prison though. I have the entire country at my fingertips. She has only stone walls and locked doors.
Lady Lennox leans closer. “Tell me of my son,” she demands.
“He remains an absolute arse, just as you raised him to be.” I speak in acid tones, but she smiles as if I’ve given him a sweet compliment.
