Page 61 of The Crimson Throne
And kept him from seeing me.
This must be how Darnley’s gotten so many weapons across the border—tricking innocent people who don’t know what they carry to bring them to him. And this conspiracy goes far beyond what I originally thought. Samson’s father, William Cecil, the Baron Burghley, is high enough in the English queen’s court to be very worrisome. He’s the spymaster, if the rumors are true. That must be where Samson got his fae blood; the queen’s closest confidant has used glamours to secure his position.
Not unlike how Darnley made himself appear more handsome and charming to Mary.
And poor Samson is a fly stuck in his father’s web.
I think about how he had been so shocked at Kitty and the other brownies who’d accompanied me. What else will he see now that the amulet’s no longer dampening magic for him?
I usually use glamours to appear unassuming and blend into the shadows. But…
I pick up the mirror, not calling on its magic and using it only to look at my reflection. It takes so little to change my face. Nothing at all to smooth my skin, to curl my hair, to make my eyes shiny and bright. I use all my power, always, to protect everyone else, and it takes only a little effort to change the way I look.
To be beautiful.
With a noise of disgust in the back of my throat, I wave away the changes to my appearance. I’m not beautiful.
Someone beautiful doesn’t hold a knife to a man’s throat.
Doesn’t plunge a Red Cap needle into a different man’s shoulder.
Beauty is a weapon for queens to use. Not me.
My only role is in the shadows. In the darkness, where no one can see my bloody hands.
I stand and change out my chemise for a fresh one. My fire is warm, but the stone floor is cold, so I layer on my wool tights and cram my feet into my fur-lined boots. I go for simple this morning: a thick wool overdress and an apron in the old fashion, shawl pinned tight, then cloak, forest green. I grab my mittens, knit in a pale purple wool dyed with thistle flowers. I look like a villager, not a lady, but a lady has far too much cloth to fuss with to go to the woods.
A knock at my door.
Lady Reres waits. While she’s a Leth and friendly to me in private, her rank means it’s rare for her to come to me like this. While her eyes widen ever so slightly at my old-fashioned dress, I know she doesn’t comment because she assumes I have tasks of a fae nature to deal with.
“Lady Alyth,” she says, dipping into a curtsy.
“What’s wrong?” I demand. Her aura is deep purple; she’s here on business.
“Nothing of that,” she says, meaning nothing of Red Caps. “I wanted to warn you. The queen’s been asking about you. She requires you to go to the Great Hall to help with the baptismal feast preparations—”
“No,” I say, cutting her off as I step past her and shut my door behind me.
“No?” Lady Reres steps quickly to catch up with me. “But the queen—”
“Does not control me,” I say. “And I have more important matters to attend to today.” I need to dispose of this amulet Samson brought to Scotland.
Worry flares through her aura, across her face. I do not bother appeasing her concern.
“Spread the word,” I say in a low voice, heading to the stairs. “All Leth on guard.”
She touches my arm, stopping me. “Has the wall—”
“The wall holds,” I say. “But it cannot stop every threat.”
“More weapons?” Lady Reres crosses herself, even though the threat we fear is Red Caps, not the devil.
“Maybe.” I know she’s loyal, but I still hesitate.
The connection between Darnley and Cecil is worrying me. Perhaps Darnley’s aligned himself fully with the English now. Despite the religious differences between the men, Cecil’s made no attempt to hide that his ultimate goal is a united British Isles, yet—
I look up. Lady Reres’s hand is still on my elbow, her face creased with worry. To most of the Leth, the attack on David at Holyrood has been a seed of worry, and the continued tension at court has been watering that anxiety.
