Page 77 of The Court of Venus

As I understood the power she’d wielded over me, I was not angry. I only felt foolish. Prospero had told me long ago that magic was simply will, and power a matter of whose will was stronger.

I reached for her mind, my grip so sudden she gasped. I gathered all of my self-doubt, years and years of it, a voice whispering “so weak,” hissing “no fight in you,” and threw all of my own emotion back at her. Tears welled in her eyes. Her mind struggled and writhed under my hand.

“Enough,” she finally snapped.

“I’m sorry,” I said, my canines lengthening. “I thought you had invited us to play.”

She smiled at me. I smiled back. We recognized each other now.

Eighteen

Shining humbly and loyally.

—MARGUERITE’S MOTTO

Full-bellied and drunk, Marguerite and her ladies announced they would rest in the hours before nightfall.

“It is the way of their court,” Roland explained. We were being escorted to our respective apartments, and Bess kept glancing over her shoulder at us as we whispered together. “After supper, they sleep so they can dance and fuck and play all night long.”

“Marguerite’s mind is shallow,” I told him. “She was only amused when you were angry with her. She doesn’t consider you a real threat.”

“Well, when she met me, I wasn’t. I was only a fraction of what I am now.” He ducked his head. “You must understand something about Marguerite: She’s both cruel and impulsive, a terrible combination for someone in power. There is no reason behind most of her decisions. To bind you, a magician far more powerful than her, in your first moments of meeting? She wanted to rattle us—me. Nothing more.” He scanned my face. “We’ll have to play along with her if we want her to tell us the truth about Philippe. We can’t afford to anger her. Or—” His mouth twitched. “Humble her.”

The page leading us halted by a heavy set of doors. “Here you are, Your Grace. Mistress Mortlake.”

Roland and I exchanged a glance.

“Pardon?” I said.

“These are your rooms for your stay,” the page said. Bess stiffened with excitement.

Roland only laughed bitterly under his breath. “Marguerite is trying to torture me.”

“Yes, he’s very particular. If there is even a hair out of place…” I trailed off.

Roland explained to the page, in elegant Lionessian, that we were not married. The page apologized, said he was so very sorry, but these were the only chambers set aside for us by Marguerite.

“I don’t need rooms of my own,” I explained, a little desperately. “I hardly sleep. I’ll only disturb him.”

The page’s face twisted in confusion. After another exchange, too rapid for me to parse—my written Lionessian being far stronger than my spoken—Roland caught my eye. “He says we are Marguerite’s guests, and refusing might offend her.”

The members of Roland’s household, lugged from Alvion, carried our trunks in. He trusted them to know how he liked his rooms kept. Inside the chambers was a writing desk, a long dining table, a small fireplace. Stained glass windows depicting lovers clasped together in clamshells or with entwined fish tails looked out to the churning sea. I could see the wrinkle of whitecaps from here.

Roland inspected the various items left on the writing desk. He spun a globe, dragged a finger down the armillary sphere to catch dust and scowled at the amount he collected. We haggled, then, over the bedchamber, both of us insisting the other take it. Roland, with a drawn-out sigh, finally relented after I swore on every Planet that I had no need for it. We’d take turns dressing and washing. I’d rest as a cat on the sill, if necessary.

Bess ordered my trunk brought into the bedchamber. On the way, she slipped a piece of parchment from the desk into her sleeve—to write a report to Cecily, no doubt.

Once she was out of earshot, tucked into a chair by the window, I turned back to Roland. “You say the court will sleep for several hours. That’s enough time, I think, for us to visit that gallery again and take a careful look at the king’s portraits.”

“Why?”

“The portraitist may have dated them. I’d like to confront Marguerite with as much evidence as possible. Dates, records. Whatever we can find. In the meantime, we’ll do whatever she likes, even if we’re gritting our teeth through it.”

He hummed his agreement, leaned his shoulder against the wood frame. “You won’t enjoy her games, her revels. The chatter. The flirtation. I know you. You’re shy and suspicious with everyone but me.”

“I won’t let her think she’s frightened me.”

After he shut the door, I pressed my ear against it to hear him walk away, but he still stood there, breathing. Seconds passed. A minute. I laid my palm against the wood. Finally, I heard the clip of his boots, his orders for his men to hang his clothes in the wardrobe and fetch water for his basin so he might wash. Bess glanced over at me from where she sat, scratching out her detailed report to the queen. I was no Mercury, but from her arched brow alone, I knew exactly what she described to Cecily.