Page 17 of The Dead Queen

Kissing Hunter is nothing like the daydreams I had when we were growing up. His mouth is sweet, with a hint of champagne, likely sipped to bolster his courage before the ball. His lips are soft, kissing me with a tenderness that takes my breath away. And his body is warm against mine, solid and reassuring.

This is easy, easier than I ever imagined. What started as performance for our audience slips into something unexpectedly very real.

The kiss feels like the home I’ve always longed for—comfortable and safe.

When he slowly pulls away, I’m almost disappointed. He’s looking at me, his face in mild shock. Then he puts a hand to my cheek and smiles. The expression transforms him, making him look younger, more like the boy I grew up with.

All around us, I start to notice the quiet whispers and nervous giggles. The sound ripples through the crowd like a gentle breeze. I break my gaze away from him and meet the hundreds of eyes watching us from behind black masks. The array is dizzying—glittering black rams with curled horns, peacocks with intricate feathered designs, delicate hares with long ears, serene doves, and sinuous serpents. The entire animal kingdom seems to be represented, all dyed with midnight.

But what strikes me most is their expressions. They smile kindly, in a way they’ve never smiled at me before. I’m so used to being the scorned one. The regretful, rebellious heir. The mistake. I’ve never experienced outward approval like this. Not since Grandmother.

Hunter was right. The world loves a love story.

I look back at Hunter and he winks. Then he faints flat out on the dance floor.

Chapter 7

There’s a panicked rush to help my lovesick fiancé off the ground. I’m pushed out of the way, clearly not the court’s favorite partner in this fairytale couple. It’s like being battered by a tornado of black sequins and feathers.

“Someone get him some punch!”

“Fetch a healer!”

“Help me carry him!”

I allow myself to be pressed into the back of the crowd, unnoticed. Then, I slip behind a tapestry and out the nearest servant’s exit. The thick fabric muffles the sounds of the ball as I pass through, like stepping from one world into another.

My steps echo down the narrow hall lit by dusty lanterns. When I look behind me, I notice my red skirts are trailing silver glitter, like stars escaped from a celestial ball. I give my dress a good shake, watching as the glitter falls to the floor, then I continue on. There’s not much time before I’ll be missed. This could be my only chance to find the answers I need.

I tiptoe past the kitchens with their fires blazing, the heat radiating through the walls. Through a half-open door, I see tables filled with cakes and pastries ready to be brought into the great hall. Cooks’ assistants rush to and from the enormous wash basins, picking up discarded bowls and stirring spoons wherever they find them.

Feeling lighter than I have any right to in this heavy dress, I dash up flights of stairs. I gather my skirts to avoid tripping on the stone steps that have been worn smooth by centuries of use. My breath comes in quick gasps, the corset restricting my lungs as I climb higher and higher.

Finally, I reach the door near Father’s chambers. I peek my head out into the corridor, my heart pounding. Two bored-looking guards stand at the opposite end of the hall from his grand doorway, making it impossible to sneak in without them seeing me. This dress isn’t exactly discreet. I close the servants’ door, the latch clicking softly.

Then, it hits me. If my father has kept a mistress secret long enough for her to be visibly with child, then there must be another way inside his rooms. I continue down the dim servants’ hall. The further I walk, the fewer sconces line the walls until there are none at all. I summon my golden light from the depths of my core, holding it outstretched in my hand like an offering. It’s no help. The hallway is a dead end.

Frustration builds up inside me. I pause to think. Why would a hallway lead nowhere?

It wouldn’t.

I drag my fingertips along the seams of the stones running next to my father’s quarters, searching for any irregularity, any hint of a hidden passage. The stone is cold beneath my fingertips as I feel the rough surface. A few feet back from the dead end, I feel a slight shift in airflow along a dingy tapestry. The tapestry looks like it’s been in this dank corridor for decades, if not centuries. I hold my hands just above the surface of the fabric. It’s moving gently in an invisible current.

It’s a doorway.

I push the fabric aside. Beyond a hidden doorway, there’s a short, dark stairwell that leads to the back side of another tapestry. Light glows around its outer edges. I scramble up the steps, lifting my skirts so I don’t trip.

The only light in my father’s room comes from several lanterns along the walls and a low fire in the hearth. Their glow is muted, casting long shadows that dance and flicker across the ornate furnishings. It’s also chilly. The air carries a crisp edge that raises goosebumps along my skin. When I look around, I realize where the breeze is coming from. One of his windows is open, allowing the cool night air inside.

I run to his writing desk. It’s enormous, with dozens of drawers filled with paper and notebooks scattered about. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Anything to do with Grandmother’s death. A letter, a journal, or a notice of some kind. As king, my father would need to keep everything, preferably in some semblance of order, which these clearly are not. It slows me down considerably.

I move to a nearby cabinet. More papers are strewn about in front of it. Royal decrees. Minutes from important meetings. Notes from his lovers, their perfume lingering on the delicate paper.

Nothing about Áine. This was my last place to find clues, but there’s nothing here. The realization settles like a weight in my stomach. I’ll never learn what happened to her. I’ll never know why I lost the person I love most in this world.

I can’t help myself; I kick the cabinet in frustration. Then I scrape my hands over the desk, scattering papers everywhere in my fury. The sharp edge of a document cuts into my palm, but I barely notice the sting. The papers float to the ground, pale ghosts caught in a breeze from the open window.

It takes me far, far too long to realize the papers I’m digging through chaotically are in no particular order for a reason. They’re mixed and wrinkled. My father is meticulous in everything. He would never leave his papers in such disarray.