Long May She Reign(21)

I scribbled all these points down on one half of the paper, and then, on the other half, I wrote, They have motive. It was hard to imagine that one person would kill hundreds of others in one go. It was too big. But a group, one with political motivations, one that thought they were acting for justice . . . that seemed possible.

Next, there was Madeleine Wolff. If I hadn’t left the ball, she would have been queen. That gave her motive, too, or at least suggested that someone might have acted on her behalf.

Holt had said she’d been away from the capital for a few months. She could have traveled to the countryside to keep herself safe, or to remove herself from suspicion. But if she’d organized this from afar, she would have left a trail of evidence behind. It would have been hard to be subtle with messengers traveling back and forth. But it was possible that someone had murdered everyone to put her on the throne, even without her knowledge.

William Fitzroy, the king’s son, was my next thought. How had he survived, when everyone else closely related to the king had died? But he wasn’t a likely suspect, not really. People always whispered that the king would make Fitzroy his heir, but he hadn’t actually done it, not yet. When the king died, Fitzroy had lost not only his father, but also his chance at the throne—and why would he murder hundreds of people he knew, when the throne could come to him through much less bloodthirsty means?

I hesitated, then added Torsten Wolff. The king’s best friend, and another surprising survivor. I had no evidence against him, beyond the fact that he unsettled me, but still, that feeling . . . he might have wanted to give Madeleine the throne, or planned to supplant her in the chaos, with her so far away. He seemed the type who would be capable of stealing his cousin’s inheritance—serious, angry, aggressive.

But was he really the kind to murder his supposed best friend to do it? I didn’t know.

And then—I paused, my pen barely brushing the paper. Then there was my father. He had always been ambitious. How else did a common merchant end up with a daughter in line to the throne, acting as adviser to the king? He had the motive. But his expression, when he saw me in the lab . . . he had genuinely thought I might be dead. He’d have prepared better if he wanted to take the throne. He wouldn’t have insisted I attend the ball.

Unless that was a plan to save me from suspicion. Unless he’d only panicked because I had disappeared.

I frowned and added his name. This was research. It didn’t matter how I felt about the evidence. I just needed to record it, and the truth would emerge in the end.

There were my other surviving advisers, too. Holt. Thorn. Norling. I didn’t really know enough about them to know if they had any motive. What could they possibly have gained, unless they wanted me as a puppet queen? Thorn had missed the banquet, which was slightly suspicious. But it didn’t mean much.

I stabbed the nib of my pen into the paper. I couldn’t solve this by plucking suspicious names out of the air. It was too imprecise. I needed to know everyone who had attended, everyone who had survived . . . the guests, the servants, everyone. Then I could work down the list and see where the evidence fell.

“Your Majesty?”

I jumped, and the pen snapped in my hand. Torsten Wolff had walked through the doorway.

He couldn’t see what I’d been writing. Not my suspicions of him, not my words about his cousin. I slammed the book shut. “Can I help you?”

“Isn’t that what I’m supposed to say to you? As queen?”

My heart was pounding, for no good reason at all. I forced myself to take a breath. “Were—were you looking for me?”

“No,” he said. “No, as hard as it may be to believe, I was looking for books.”

Obviously. Because we were in a library. Now I looked skittish and stupid.

Try, Freya, I thought. You suspect him? Try speaking to him. Try distracting him.

“Holt said—he said you were interested in military history.”

It was a start.

“Among other things,” he said. “And you, Your Majesty? What interests you here?” He moved closer, until he loomed above me. He might have been a scholarly man, but he was built like a wall. He peered at my book. “Etiquette lessons? Surely court has prepared you beyond some old man’s ramblings.”

What could I say to that? If I agreed, I looked stupid for even touching the book. If I disagreed . . . well, if I disagreed, I just looked stupid.

I snatched the book to my chest. Better to look naive than have him investigate further and find my notes. He was probably the type who thought writing in books merited beheading, accusation or no.

“You will need to do better than this, if you wish to hold on to the throne. The court does not forgive mistakes.”

I squeezed the book tighter. “Are you threatening me?” It was amazing how clear things became, when I really was in danger. No lip-chewing over the right thing to say. My stomach was twisted into knots, and my hands shook, but something like strength rose in my chest, driving me to speak.

But he looked surprised by my words. “Threatening you? I would never threaten you, Your Majesty. It was a warning. Or advice, if you prefer.” He stared at me, his bushy eyebrows pulled into a frown. His jaw was so square it could have been smashed out of stone. “Why? Is there a reason I should threaten you?”

“I know you don’t want me to be queen.”