Page 38 of The Court of Venus

“Very well. You play the king. Go on.”

Roland knitted his fingers together. A shake of his head. “No, I’ll play myself. I think the only way we can convince the king you’re real is if I see you too. We both had a hand in his death, and so Prospero’s ghost has come to haunt us both. To seek answers.”

“And what shall Prospero ask?”

“Questions about the circumstances surrounding his own death, questions only the king would know. What was his intention with exaltation? How was it accomplished? And so on.”

Roland circled me slowly again, his gaze assessing. He straightened my shoulders, fine-tuning Prospero’s gait, his manner of speaking.

He reminded me of particular quirks. The way Prospero used to play with his torn ear when he was frustrated, or how he’d avoid what he truly wanted to say until he was forced to be direct. “And do you remember how he’d repeat everything several times for emphasis?” Roland coughed and puffed up his chest. “Late again? I’m concerned, Roland, that you’re a terrible influence on Prince Hal, yes, a terrible influence, neglecting your studies to disappear into the city all hours of night—” Here he tsked. “—and I’d remind you … yes, I would remind you, that you are Bianca’s primary example, too, and you must see how she follows you with her eyes. It is your duty as the eldest to guide them both, and Hal a future king … oh, go then. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, bright and early. Bright and early!”

I gaped at him. He only shrugged. “We spent a lot of time together, didn’t we? And as I said, he reprimanded me often enough.”

“You deserved it.”

His eyes narrowed.

I stood before the mirror in agony, whetting my voice like a blade until I even thought it was Prospero speaking from my mouth. I embedded myself in him, became him. As Roland studied my reflection over my shoulder, I reminded myself I was Prospero. Not Bianca. Not a woman who yearned for anything, or anyone. I was Prospero, dragging myself toward one thing alone: to discover the secrets of exaltation.

Roland finally declared he was satisfied, circling me once again with his hands tucked behind his back. I hardly had to touch his mind to sense his desperation, his belief that this was his final chance to hold the king’s wrath at bay.

“It’s afternoon,” I reminded him.

“I am aware, yes.” The king often slept through the day and most of the night, he’d told me. “Thank the Planets,” added only under his breath.

“I meant—I can only hold this form for an hour more. At most.”

“That will be enough time. Prepare for the king to be unpleasant.”

Roland vanished into Richard’s bedchamber. I was to follow only after he lit the tapered candles inside. I waited in the dark, listening to the storm and Roland’s gentle murmurs within, until his hand slid out and beckoned me forward.

In the massive four-poster bed was a heaving, coughing figure. The king. Rolled over on his side, a pool of damp beneath him. The stench of the room, of his body within it, was foul.

I could hear the king’s whispers, never as quiet as he believed them to be.

A ghost was supposedly transparent, an echo of what they had been in life. I’d read descriptions comparing them to colored glass, all light passing through their frame. In this dim, musky bedchamber, I too was a morbid trick of light. The king wouldn’t know the difference.

“Dickon,” I said in Prospero’s voice. An affectionate nickname, one I knew the king used when he and Prospero were boys. They were tutored together, as Hal, Roland, and I were.

The king’s eyes widened, and he scrambled away from me on the bed with surprising dexterity. His hands shook. Roland played his part well, exhilarated by the theatrics of the moment. He unsheathed his sword and pointed it at the knot of my throat.

“How dare you,” I said.

His scowl nearly slipped. “Not one step closer, specter.”

“Roland, my boy. You know that blade can’t harm me.” Pushing past him, I knelt beside the bed and reached for the king’s hand.

He jerked away. “Is Balthasar in this castle?”

I shook my head calmly.

“How have you come here then?” The king reached out to brush the ring on my finger. Then, he grasped at his breast. “Am I dead?”

“No, Your Majesty.”

“Are you?”

When I nodded, the king rocked back and forth. Waves of sorrow and anger broke through him. He ran his tongue along his gums, and his eyes fled around the room, seeking the door, the window, any escape.