Long May She Reign(35)

I inserted pages for Madeleine, for the Gustavites, for the vague and nebulous “cook” and “kitchen staff” and “tasters,” before Naomi and I started to add to each page. Everything we knew about the person. The people close to them who had died. Their relationship with the court. Their behavior since the banquet.

Naomi had a lot more to contribute than I did. She noticed the details—that her great-aunt Katrina doted on Elva’s twin children, and could never have wanted to kill them, that Carolina had looked rather green for most of the evening, that this person and that person had been caught up in a fight. My observations were mostly restricted to gossip I’d overheard—not exactly reliable—and what I’d seen since we’d moved to the Fort.

Dagny kept batting the pens away every time we put them down, so Naomi started balling up spare pieces of paper and throwing them for her. So far, two crystal jars and one silk bed-hanging had been damaged by her frantic pursuit of these new makeshift toys, but at least it kept her from troubling us. And watching her tear around the room made Naomi smile.

“We’re going to need to talk to everyone,” Naomi said quietly, as she watched Dagny chase the fifth paper ball under the wardrobe.

It was pretty much the last thing I wanted to do. We’d not only need to speak to people. We’d need to charm them, challenge them, guide the truth out of them. Judge them on their stories and their excuses.

But I could do this. I could speak to people. I’d spoken to Holt, and to Madeleine. I’d stayed calm, when the city was in chaos. I could cope with this. It was too important for me to shrink away, to hide behind Naomi and hope the answers would appear out of the air. It was just another problem, another question to unpick. I could do it.

“Then where should we start?” I tapped my fingers on the pages. “My advisers blame the Gustavites, but we can’t exactly go out and interview them. If we had that book, or more of their propaganda . . . but my advisers are very determined for me not to see any of that.”

“But they’re not determined to keep me away,” Naomi said. “So that’ll be my task tomorrow. I’ll see what I can do.”

“You’re brilliant,” I said. “You know that, right?”

She shrugged. “I guess it’s been said. Once or twice.”

But that left me with interviewing duties. At least people couldn’t refuse to meet with me, like they might with Naomi. Even spending time with a suspect might make things clearer.

Sten’s name seemed to glare at me from the page, challenging me to question him. But that conversation in the library had unsettled me. He seemed to suspect me, genuinely, truly. The murderer wouldn’t do that.

I’d speak to someone else first. Ease myself into the investigation. I scanned across the row of names again, and my eyes settled on William Fitzroy. Not technically in the line of succession, but close to the king. He had always been in the center of court. Even if he was innocent, he must have something useful to tell. Some secret to uncover.

“All right,” I said. “Tomorrow.” Tomorrow, we’d begin.





TWELVE


THE ODDS OF FINDING FITZROY ALONE SEEMED pretty slim, so I needed to exert some of that queenlike authority and summon him. I could hardly go into the makeshift throne room for this, so I strode down to my half-furnished laboratory. Perhaps a meeting in an ex–torture chamber would startle some honesty out of him.

If my guards were surprised by my request, they didn’t show it. One of them disappeared to deliver the message, and I waited by the far cupboard, trying to figure out what I was going to say.

Ten hand-shaking minutes later, my guard knocked on the door again. “William Fitzroy, Your Majesty.”

I turned. Fitzroy stepped into the room. Gone was his rumpled, grief-racked look. His blond waves were swept back with casual confidence, and his blue eyes were alert again. Like nothing had changed. He looked princely, and for a moment, he stared me down, like he was challenging my place. I stared back at him, forcing myself to meet his gaze, my heart pounding. Then he offered me a shallow bow.

“Your Majesty,” he said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

William Fitzroy, courtier extraordinaire. Why should I be afraid of him, when he’d never had a serious thought in his life?

He was serious when you saw him in the corridor, a voice in me said. When he told you you didn’t belong.

I stepped forward. My heels wobbled beneath me. “Fitzroy. I wanted to talk to you.”

“I gathered that.” He moved farther into the room, letting the door swing closed behind him. “This is an unusual meeting place, Your Majesty. Unless you’re planning to torture me?”

“No!” The word shot out of me, and I blushed. “This is my lab,” I said, forcing myself to sound confident, in control. “There’s not a lot of choice for space in the Fort.”

“Ah, so you’re planning to experiment on me.” He strode past me, elbow brushing mine, to peer at the jars lined up on the cupboard tops. “Hemlock? Arsenic? What are you doing down here?”

“Those were already here.” More words rushing out before I could stop them. Why was I letting him unsettle me? “From before.”

“Strange, that the labels haven’t faded at all in a hundred years. And the bottles are so clean. They must have been blessed by the Forgotten, don’t you think?”