Long May She Reign(22)

“Of course I don’t want you to be queen,” he said, his voice low. “My friends are dead. Someone murdered them and made you queen instead. Why would I be happy about that?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. And I was. I needed him to understand that. I hadn’t wanted this any more than he had.

“Where were you?” he said suddenly. “During the banquet? How did you survive?”

“I was at home. With Naomi.”

“Home and safe.” He spoke softly, but the words were almost mocking. He turned away. “I will leave to your studies, Your Majesty.”

“What about your book?”

“I will look later. I find I’ve lost my interest for reading.”

With a nod at me, I strode back out of the room. Once he was gone, I placed the book on the table, and flicked to the final pages again, adding one more note.

Sten suspected me.





EIGHT


QUEEN MARTHA HAD HOSTED MEMBERS OF THE COURT almost every night, rotating ladies into favor and extending invitations to whichever gentlemen she found the most entertaining. I’d only been invited a couple of times. I’d spent the evenings sitting as close to the corner as possible, answering the queen’s smiling questions as quickly as I could. Her ladies had echoed my responses, laughing and tossing their hair and thinking how strange I was, and although the queen said I was wonderful entertainment, I made whatever excuses I could to avoid going again.

Now it was my turn to host. “I know you don’t enjoy these things, Freya,” my father said, while a maid fluttered about, trying to convince my hair to adhere to a giant wire form in the shape of a bow. Some women could have achieved this look with their hair alone, or so the maid had muttered when she thought no one was listening. But I couldn’t, and my father had insisted that nothing else would do.

Naomi had already gone to bed with a headache. So I had to get ready without her help. My father had scowled when I told him, but her brother was dead. Why should she have to pretend to be happy if she just wanted to hide away?

“You have to act like one of them, to make them accept you. When I married your mother, no one in court wanted me there. I was just a merchant’s son. I didn’t belong. But your mother just smiled and continued to be her lovely self, and I talked to them, Freya. I dressed like them, I acted like them, I charmed them. And eventually, they forgot. My differences became endearing, and then they simply became normal. But the first step was proving I was the same as them. That has to come first.”

The maid hissed through her teeth as another strand of my hair slipped out of her hands. I swallowed the urge to apologize. “But you were just trying to join them. You weren’t trying to lead them.”

“You still have it easier than I did. You are a noble. You are the rightful heir to the throne. If you act the part, you will convince them.”

I didn’t really believe it, but I nodded. My hair tumbled again, and the maid bit back a noise of frustration.

“Sorry,” I murmured. “I’m sorry.”

“I want you to walk into that room,” my father continued, “and smile at everyone as you enter. Make eye contact, but make sure it’s a benevolent sort of smile. One that shows appreciation, but also that you are the one giving favor here. Come, try it.”

I tried.

“Freya, you look like you’re in pain. Look kind.”

“How?” The word snapped out of me. “How can I make a smile look regal and powerful and benevolent and kind and superior and welcoming and whatever else, all at the same time? It’s just a smile!” I’d never thought about my smile before. I couldn’t possibly consider all those things and look even vaguely natural in the process.

“You saw Queen Martha smile.”

“Queen Martha’s smile was mean.”

“Then imitate that, Freya. For goodness’ sake.”

“You said to look kind!”

My father sighed and pressed a hand to his face. I’d never seen him so frustrated. But it wasn’t obvious or easy, whatever he thought. He had been a born courtier, and he hadn’t even been born to it. My mother’s and father’s talents seemed to have canceled each other out, leaving me no skill at all.

I closed my eyes. I had to try. Just—just try.

“What about my mother?” I said eventually. “Did she smile like that?”

“She could,” my father said. “Yes, she could.”

Then I’d think of my mother, and try to smile like her.

My father continued to list rules, and I repeated them in my head, drumming them deep. I had to sit in the center of the room, and remained seated. Encourage people to approach me with smiles. Correct the harp player if the music was not cheery enough. Encourage people to dance, but not dance myself, not tonight, not with my clumsy feet. Suggest a game, something fun—perhaps charades. I couldn’t let grief settle into the room.

Could I really be so callous? Plow on like nothing had happened, smooth over absences that no one would really be able to ignore? But my father had survived something like this before. He had convinced the court to accept him. He knew what I should do.

According to tradition, I had to host the court in my own rooms, so servants had cleared a parlor on the top floor of the Fort. The entire remaining court was already there by the time I entered. I paused in the doorway. The old tapestries had been removed and replaced with colorful paintings in gilt frames, making the room look brighter, but taking away its one defense against the cold. Red-velvet chairs had been placed under a huge chandelier, and hundreds of candles and oil lamps flickered around the room, making it almost as bright as day.