Page 164 of Reign

“Fine,” Fletcher grumbled, sulking into a seat and flicking down the peak of his cap—shielding his eyes from temptation.

Scanning the chamber, I was relieved to note it was empty.

“Where’s Mr. Bednot?” I asked, half expecting him to emerge from behind the curtain, yellowed finger waggling as he told us it was time to leave.

“Sick,” Jane replied, resting her rosy cheek in her palm as she let out a deep sigh. “He hasn’t shown up for almost a week.”

Emma gave an energetic nod. “He’s left Margaret in charge—well, at least until he’s better,” she added.

Through her raven hair, Margaret’s eyes pierced mine with a stern look that told me Mr. Bednot wasn’t going to get better.

“Cannot breathe,” Billy squeaked from inside my cloak, drawing all eyes toward me.

With a careful tug of the fabric, I revealed the creature hidden beneath.

At the sight of him, Emma stumbled backward.

“Good eve,” Jane said politely, though her wide eyes suggested an unease at the sight of the goblin.

“This is Billy,” I said as he took a small shuffle forward.

“An honor to meet you,” he declared with a theatrical bow.

Margaret tutted. “Why does he look like that?” she asked. Her tone was the same one Mother often took: equal parts nurturing and disapproving.

I glanced at a disheveled Billy: wiry strands of hair sprouting from his flaky scalp like stubborn weeds in barren soil. He was still clad in Bronwyn’s old potato sack, which showcased his gnarly knees and hairy legs.

It wasn’t a pretty sight.

“Don’t feel sorry for him,” I replied briskly, knowing it was a pitiful image. “He’s Regina’s adviser—”

“Was,” Billy chimed in, his tone as bitter as a lemon wedge. “Never again will I lend my wisdom to that wicked witch!”

Margaret frowned.

“Why’s he here?” she asked, her arms folding tightly across her chest.

My mind went blank, unsure of where to begin.

“Can I have an ale first?” I asked, offering Margaret a smile she didn’t return. “There’s much to explain.”

Tankards in hand, we gathered around the trestle table as I recounted the events of the past week. Even for Bash and Fletcher, what had transpired during my time on the Isle was unknown—so I had everyone’s undivided attention.

I painted a vivid picture of the castle’s grandeur—the indulgent feasts, lavish bedchambers, and goblin servants attending my every need. I spoke of Regina’s power, her mastery over weather incantations, and the arsenal of spells she’d created. Then I explained how she experienced visions and heard prophecies, much like Emma. But Regina wielded her abilities as a weapon, cutting through the fabric of the realm around her to shape her favored visions into reality.

When I mentioned how she had lured me into exposing my witchhood to Avice, my words faltered. I couldn’t bring myself to talk about what had followed—the death of my dearest friend, and Dog’s necessary act to spare my life. That part I left unsaid.

Instead, I shared the merciless side of Regina that I’d witnessed: how she hurled Elizebeth against a wall in fury over her failure to revive Wolver; how she coldly beheaded the elven healer; how she robbed Billy of his sight to amplify her prophetic powers; and how she stripped the skin from that tearful selkie who’d washed ashore in Cambas.

Finally, I recounted her conquest of the Isle—stealing it from the fae, dethroning Mabina, and claiming queenship over the stolen lands.

“She sounds terrifying,” Jane murmured, combing her dainty fingers through her auburn locks. “Was she cruel to you?”

I shook my head. “To me, she was generous—almost as if she sought to win my favor.”

“Did Regina give you that cloak?” Emma asked, tickling her palm with the fur trim. “It looks rather regal!”

I shook my head again. “No. It belongs to Fitzroy,” I replied, hearing Fletcher snarl at the mention of his name. “I’m borrowing it because I returned to Cambas in a gown and had nothing practical to wear.”