Page 70 of The Court of Venus

Hal, I am grieving, and it will never end, and I despise myself, and I thought I would rather live in the past with you than create any kind of future. Now I do not know what I want. I am afraid of my own desires. I am so lonely in my vengeance. What are you?

But he would never reply. He was dead.

I hit my head again and again against the wood. He was dead, he was dead, he was dead.

Now someone had heard me and was knocking on the door. And with every passing moment, time left us behind.

Part II

Waxing Moon

Seventeen

The House of Roet has ruled Alvion for five generations. William Roet, a man with a dubious claim to the throne through his great-uncle, a royal bastard, won the Battle of Stanich with the help of his Jupiter magician and his army of giants.

—THOMAS FEYDON, A HISTORY OF MAGIC IN ALVION

Bess squinted into the dark. “Mistress Bianca?”

I grunted, stretched out a hand and unlatched the wardrobe. Her annoyance flared when she saw me tumble out. A relief, at least, to have my magic again. Tracks of tears had dried onto my cheeks and my eyes were swollen, my body stiff.

Instead of explaining myself, I asked her to help me pack a trunk.

“Where are we going?”

“Lionesse.”

“But why?” She would be silent the entire journey, I was sure, bitter at being separated from the queen. Roland would surely bring all the members of his household, but I had only frowning Bess to accompany me.

“Because Roland said so.” I knew she would accept his authority over mine. With quiet resentment and a curious glint in her eye, she began packing my things.

I sat on a bench in the garden, waiting for him. It was another cold morning. Knee-high fog unfurled along the paths. He parted it when he arrived, the sound of his footsteps scattering birds into high branches.

I felt a tug on my earlobe. “So, how was it? Being me?”

I said nothing. Only pulled my ermine mantle tighter around my shoulders.

But his eyes pinned me down and held me, as if my hands were tied behind my back, my head being lowered slowly onto the block. His magic was dangerous, his beauty a trap that would clench its teeth around me if I lingered too long. When I was a girl, I’d never allowed myself to forget it.

Trusting him might still prove fatal. And yet, I longed to show him the past I’d buried deep. I had never spoken of Hal, never felt safe enough to indulge in memories of him. I struggled to admit the depth of my loss even to myself.

Until the wardrobe, wrapped in the warmth of Roland’s coat.

“Well, Mouse? I’m held in suspense.”

“I was caught,” I said bitterly. “It was a new Moon last night and I forgot. Somehow, I forgot.”

“Kitty saw you?”

I nodded, lowering my head to breathe into my palms for warmth, but he sat beside me and took my hands in his instead. Rubbing them together, he created such friction I no longer shivered. “What happened?”

“I hid in my wardrobe until morning.” I paused, my mind turning to the moment my face had slipped, to the story Kitty had been about to tell. “Why does Fulke despise you?”

“Oh. That.” His tone was dull. “Fulke Roet’s sister, Edith, was one of Gertrude’s ladies. Do you remember her?”

Fair hair like Fulke’s was all I could recall. “I had just returned from Lionesse,” explained Roland. “The king, in the early days of our friendship, would give me…” He hesitated with his wording, grinding his teeth. “Targets. My task was to sense what they wanted most, so he could withhold or twist it to his advantage. Some only wanted ambassadorships, a certain income a year.” Another beat of hesitation. “And some wanted me. Edith was unfortunate enough to desire me above all else. Before you ask: No, I didn’t love her, and she knew it. She knew the king ordered me to her bed as a spy, as a way to humiliate Fulke and the faction supporting him. But she was in a cold, fruitless union, so she sought me out often, despite the danger. When her husband found us together, arranged by the king, of course, he publicly shamed her and cast her out. Fulke has never forgiven me for the ruination of his sister, the smear on his family’s name. My only consolation is that I never used a drop of my magic to do it.”

He rested his elbows against his knees, hanging his head. I said his name. Said it again. Finally, he lifted his gaze. I poured my sorrow and my horror into him. Words were not enough for what he’d endured—and what he endured still. For I remembered all the lewd tales. Stories of Roland, chewing the king’s food like a mother bird.