“You know why. He wants to find out who conspired with her.”
“With her. Not with you.” His lips twist with bitterness. “There was no conspirator within our walls, not in the way Zander has painted it. Not in a way that might lessen your blame. But I’m not sure he sees that. I’m not sure he sees anything anymore, beyond his keen focus on all things Romeria.”
“That’s not true.” Even with Atticus’s chastising words, warmth spreads through my chest.
“What I witnessed the other night in the alleyway—”
“There were guards around, and we looked suspicious.”
His flat expression says he doesn’t believe a word. He studies his hands for a long moment. “They will never allow you to be queen, not after what has happened.”
“It’s a good thing I don’t want to be.”
“You two are quite the pair, then, because I’m not sure Zander wants to be king.” He slides from his seat and leaves without another word.
I watch him stroll away, his shoulders sagging.
“Did you hear any of that?” I ask when Elisaf returns.
“I did, Your Highness.”
“And I assume you know what Zander suspects happened on that escort to Cirilea?”
Elisaf’s brown eyes flash to me, understanding in them. He confirms it with a nod.
“So he just lied to my face.”
Elisaf frowns. “What should he have said? The truth?”
“I guess not.” Not if he thinks no one knows of his indiscretion. I sigh. “I don’t trust him. I think Atticus wants to be king.”
“Of course he does. He is King Eachann’s second-born son. He has a claim to the throne, should something befall Zander.”
“Exactly.”
“That does not mean he conspired to take it.”
Clearly, Elisaf holds Atticus in high regard, too. “So then what was this visit about?”
“He is frustrated by his brother’s choices, and I believe he was taking your measure.”
“For what?”
“That, I do not know.” He settles into his chair and returns to his book.
But my thoughts wander to my memories. To Tony, contemplating his options as his brother lay dying on the floor. While the big oaf may not have had anything to do with orchestrating Korsakov’s demise, he saw the opportunity to rule the crooked little kingdom.
What would a brother do to rule an actual kingdom?
“The only time the little urchin stops talking is when he’s hiding!” Corrin glowers as she yanks the silk coverlet over my bed. “It took us over three hours and the help of a guard to find him earlier!”
I laugh as I finish off some shading on my sketch. “I assume they’re settling in?”
“A family suite in the servants’ quarters. Oh yes, I should think so. I have half a mind to lock the room from the outside until she can chase after her own youngins.”
“Please don’t. I can speak from personal experience when I say being locked in a room for a month sucks.”
“You deserved to be locked up,” she counters.
“You’re right, I did. But they don’t. They’ve been through enough. Did you see her swollen ankles? And how tired she looks? That table was literally covered in food that she made herself. Their keeper is a monster. He’s likely been abusing them for years. Who knows how many others there are?” Just thinking about that smug face makes me grit my teeth.
“I was helping her into the bath, and I noticed marks on her body. She told me he’s been feeding off her and allowing others to do the same. Regularly. That kind of strain on a pregnant woman …” Corrin shakes her head as she fluffs my pillows.
“See? I think I’d pull up a chair and clap if he were in the death square.”
Her lips twist. “I’ve already had their markers exchanged for the royal ones. She’s been trying to get into the kitchen, you know. Said she wants to earn her keep and prove ‘Queen Romeria didn’t make a mistake.’” She air-quotes that last part with her fingers. “Everyone’s calling you queen. I don’t know what you two are waiting for anymore. You might as well get married now.”
My heart flutters. “Because this isn’t real, remember? Zander’s on a conspiracy theory kick, and I’m going along for the ride so I’m not locked in a room for the rest of my life.” Atticus’s words still linger in my mind a day later, a somber echo of what I, too, have speculated, about this possible accomplice within these walls. And if I have questioned, and Atticus has questioned, surely Zander has doubted it too. Yet, he keeps me at his side, stoking flames of discontent among aristocrats who do not wish to see a Ybarisan as queen, let alone one shrouded in such dark whispers as murder.
Corrin snorts and gives me a knowing look that makes me wonder if she’s somehow privy to our intimate moment in Zander’s bathing room yesterday. That moment, however fleeting, certainly felt real, but I haven’t seen a hint of him since. It’s as if the vampiric king of Islor is hiding from me. “Dagny said your gown will be ready in time for tournament day.”
“Great.” The day is approaching quickly.
“If there’s nothing else, then? The kitchen is busy preparing for the hunt, and I have plenty to do, including attempting to fix a lavender dress I found in a sodden, torn heap.”
I avert my sheepish smile and thrust the page toward her. At least she’s not pressing for details on how it happened.
Her forehead creases as she collects it. “This is me,” she states with surprise.
“Yes.”
Her perpetually hard eyes soften as they scour it. “I’ve never had a portrait of myself. Thank you, Romeria.”
It’s the first time she’s ever used my name. “And thank you for your help with Gracen and her kids. I know it was probably a lot to dump on you, but I couldn’t leave them there.”
She slowly rolls the paper. “I will admit to regretting my initial reaction, after I learned more about their situation,” she says quietly.
“Is that an apology?”
“From Corrin? Impossible,” comes Zander’s voice from behind me.
He stands in the doorway of my terrace. Nervous excitement rushes through me at the sight of him, and at the flood of memories of our last encounter. Somehow, he becomes more attractive every time I see him.
I attempt a cavalier attitude as I say, “Now I know why you moved me so close. It’s so you can show up unannounced, any time you please.” It won’t be long before my racing pulse gives me away, if it hasn’t already.
“Your Highness.” Corrin curtsies and then, with a smirk my way, departs.
I set my pencil down on the coffee table and steady my breathing as I regard the king, wearing his usual simple tunic—today in white—black pants, and black jacket, tailored to a carved body I’ve seen and felt unclothed.
Will we pick up where we left off?
Just the thought makes me dizzy.
Zander strolls in, stops at the threshold to my sitting room, and leans against the door frame casually, his arms folded across his chest. “Could Corrin’s apology have anything to do with a certain baker and her soon-to-be three children you confiscated from their keeper?” he asks evenly.