Long May She Reign(40)

It wasn’t comforting, but I nodded again, and Holt steered me toward the door. “Smile, Your Majesty,” he said, “and all will be well.”

Servants opened the double doors, revealing the throne room beyond. “All bow to Her Majesty Queen Freya, ruler of Epria!” a guard shouted.

People must have worked nonstop to transform this room since the feast after my coronation. Banners hung from the ceiling—still bearing King Jorgen’s sigil—and paintings were hung on every inch of the walls, making it look slightly less like a dungeon. The coldness had lingered, though, even with the crowd now waiting inside.

Some of the people were familiar—Fitzroy was there, and Torsten Wolff—but there were many strangers, too. A hundred unfamiliar faces, all staring at me expectantly, eyes burrowing under my skin.

Smile. I just had to smile. I could feel the corners of my lips straining, the muscles in my cheeks twitching. They must all have seen the falseness of it, the fear in my eyes.

I slowly crossed the room, heading for the throne. I wanted to stare straight ahead, to pretend I was walking alone, pretend it wasn’t real, but I couldn’t. I forced myself to look left and right, to meet people’s eyes, to smile to them. Challenging myself to notice the details.

This time I didn’t trip. That was a blessing, at least.

I stopped in front of the throne, and felt another jolt of fear. The throne had belonged to the king, and had been designed for a king’s frame, a king’s clothes. My skirt was twice as wide as the seat, and the crinoline was not going to bend. I wouldn’t fit. I could possibly sit over the throne, my skirts ringing it and hiding it from sight, but that didn’t exactly seem like a dignified solution.

But it would be fine. It was fine. I’d just have to stand. Standing would be fine.

I tried to turn gracefully to face the nobles, but the skirt was too large, and I wobbled. A few people in the audience laughed behind their hands, and my face flushed.

But I could do this. I could do this. I just had to say the speech, and everything would be fine.

The words caught in my throat. I knew them, I did, but they wouldn’t travel from my brain to my tongue. A hundred people watched me, waiting, judging, expecting me to fail, and the more I snatched for those perfectly memorized phrases, the quicker they danced away. The silence stretched on.

“Welcome,” I said eventually. It came out as a rasp. “Welcome,” I said again, but that time the word sounded too loud, like I was shouting at them.

Had my tongue always been this large? The room spun at the edges.

I could do this. I could. I just had to speak. Just speak.

“I am delighted to welcome you all back to the capital, although it grieves me that we must meet under such tragic circumstances.” That was right, wasn’t it? The words were stiff, entirely unnatural, but I was speaking them. It was all right. “We have all lost so many friends in this tragedy, and I know we will all feel their absence tonight. But I also know that we are strong, and we can come together in our grief, to honor and remember them, and forge Epria anew.” Once I’d started, the words tumbled out, with the ebb and flow that my father had drilled into me, over and over again. The rhythm of them took over, and I lost any sense of what I was saying or where I was. I just spoke, and gestured, letting it happen.

And then the nobles were applauding, and I crashed back into myself, swaying on my feet.

I had done it. I’d reached the end of the speech. It hadn’t killed me. I didn’t really know what had happened, or what I had said, but my father was smiling at me, and Holt was walking forward, and I’d done it.

I felt proud, flush with my success, but I seemed to have rushed through two days’ worth of energy to support myself through that two-minute speech, and I needed time to sit now, to recover.

But of course, we weren’t finished yet. I had to meet all of the guests, every single one, in a never-ending parade of bows and curtsies.

“This is Sir Leonard, Your Majesty, and his wife, Isabella,” Holt said, as the first couple approached. “They have traveled here from the moorlands in the east.”

“Oh, we were so heartbroken to hear of what happened at the feast,” Lady Isabella said, sinking into a curtsy. “So many good people—it must have been so painful, to be there.”

“I was not there,” I said. “I didn’t see.”

“Thank the Forgotten for small mercies, I suppose.”

“I remember your mother, Your Majesty,” Lady Isabella said. “She was a wonderful woman. She lit up every room she was in. I was much grieved to hear of her death.”

“Thank you,” I said softly. “So was I.”

“Your Majesty,” Sir Leonard said, “when the business of the funeral is over, I am hoping we can discuss the issue of taxation over the marshlands. The people there are not rich, as I am sure you know, and these high taxes from King Jorgen are putting an unnecessary burden on—”

“I will be delighted to discuss such matters with you,” Holt said smoothly, “or perhaps you could discuss them with the treasurer, Her Majesty’s father? After the funeral, of course.”

“I can discuss it with you,” I said, the blunt words bursting out of nowhere. “If people are struggling, I want to know about it.” Holt stared at me, and I faltered. “Although—I’m sure my father will be able to provide more help. But if you wish to discuss . . .” I ran out of words, as suddenly as they’d appeared, but Leonard was looking at me slightly differently now, appraising me.