Long May She Reign(41)

“Of course,” he said. “I will take you up on that.”

More people followed, and I tried to greet them as I should. But I felt slightly detached from it all, and nothing seemed quite right. When I stretched my smile wide and tried to be friendly, welcoming, I felt like I was mocking the occasion, too cheery for the funeral of the entire court that came before. When I attempted to be somber, I was too quiet, too cold, an unwelcoming figure with nothing much to say. And when my true thoughts burst through, I felt a rush of relief, just for a moment, before I remembered how unqueenly I was being, and shoved the thoughts away.

After what felt like days, we settled down for the evening’s first entertainment. A stage had been built at one side of the hall, and the crowd flowed toward it. A few chairs had been placed there, too—mostly for elderly nobles, but one, nearest the stage, for me. And it had no sides, no arms, which meant I might actually fit in it, skirts and all.

I sank onto it, grateful for the support. I couldn’t quite catch my breath, and the sounds around me were a little too loud, buzzing in my ears. But this would be time to recover. Then I could face whatever came next.

The performer was a storyteller, with a light box from across the sea. He told a story as the images shifted and changed, about a poor maiden whose younger brother had been caught stealing bread. She had dressed up as him to protect him, and had been sent into the army as punishment in his place. It had happened during Epria’s dark days, when all was war and pain, and the Forgotten had left this world to its corruption. But the Forgotten still watched Epria, still exerted power when they wished it, and they favored this girl’s bravery and intelligence. They protected her, gave her power, and helped her save the kingdom from ruin.

The Forgotten were represented by many shadows and shapes—the twist of the wind, the silhouette of a dragon’s wing, the elegant curl of a swan’s neck. I knew the story, like everyone in court, but the performer was an excellent storyteller, and he made even the most familiar parts thrilling, capturing the wonder of this one poor girl with so much bravery inside her.

I’d seen similar performances before, of course, seen the way artists manipulated light to animate shadow. The whirring picture boxes, the many distinct drawings transformed into one image by speed and flickering lights, the way parts could be added or taken away for greater effect. But I’d never seen a show like this. The light seemed to obey the storyteller’s will, bringing the story to life.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

I jumped. I hadn’t noticed Madeleine Wolff move beside me. She leaned close, one jewel-covered hand resting on my wrist. “The way they use the light—one has to be aware of it, of course, when one paints, but he seems to be able to control it here. So fascinating.”

I nodded. She leaned closer still, her painted fingernails digging into my skin. “I wanted to warn you. Be wary of my cousin.”

What? I forced myself to look forward, eyes on the show. “Your cousin?” I murmured. “Why?”

“He is a good man, and he means well, but . . . he is blinded by his grief for the old king. I think he suspects you had a hand in his death. He doesn’t have any proof yet, but—he is not your ally, Freya. Be careful with him.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“You saved my life. And you deserve to know. You’re far better than he thinks you are.” She leaned back, the same sweet smile on her face. “Such talented work,” she said. “I must speak to the performer after it is done.”

She slipped away, leaving me to stare after her. My heart was pounding. I’d known Sten suspected me—certainly that he didn’t like me—but it was different hearing someone else saying it, confirming my suspicions. Her behavior was so strange . . . did she know more than she’d said? Was Sten plotting something?

The show ended, and I applauded with the others, before hurrying toward the performer. Madeleine’s parting comment could have been a hint that the performer knew something, that I should speak to him myself. But Holt rested a hand on my arm, steering me firmly away. “A good performance, was it not, Your Majesty?”

“Yes,” I said. “I wish to thank the performer. To discuss his work.”

“Oh, these men never want to reveal their secrets. Come. I think this story has given the court much to reflect on. It’s time for the feast.”

And he shepherded me away.

We were served peacock on golden plates, but no one seemed willing to eat the birds. People made a show of it, sticking their forks into the meat, even moving them near their mouths, but not swallowing a bite.

I had to eat, to reassure people, but I could barely taste it. I had to force every chew. I couldn’t stop thinking about what Madeleine had said during the performance, what I had said during the introductions. I really shouldn’t have told Lady Patricia that I liked her hair. I’d meant it politely, but it had sounded forced, hadn’t it? She probably thought I was mocking her. And that stupid smile I gave Sir Viktor—he probably thought I was an empty-headed idiot. And my speech . . . I couldn’t really remember much of it, but that was worrying, too. Maybe I’d mixed up the words, and not noticed. Or what if I’d skipped part of it? And it was probably a monotone, and if they all thought I was bored of them . . .

One of the visiting nobles stood. He held his golden goblet in the direction of the high table, smiling slightly. “A toast,” he said, his voice ringing through the hall. “To our rightful queen, who protects us from harm.” He raised the goblet higher and took a long drink. Everyone in the hall followed suit.