Long May She Reign(44)

“What are we looking for?” he said.

“If it’s acidic, the paper will turn red.”

“And that’ll help us?”

“It’s useful to know.”

I dipped the paper in the poison solution. It turned light red.

“Acidic?” Fitzroy asked.

I nodded. “It’s not enough to prove arsenic is present, but—it’s useful. Perhaps the kitchens can use this to test drinks, at least. Make sure nothing is suspicious.”

“That would help.” He continued to stare at the solution. “So what’s next?”

“Acid,” I said. “We try and dissolve it in different acids, and see how it reacts. If it has a smell, or a color, or releases a gas . . .”

“Acids.” He nodded. “What should I do?”

I glanced at his hands. “Nothing. I don’t have any gloves that’ll fit you. Acid is dangerous—”

“I’ll be careful.” He looked down at his hands as well, and then glanced back at me, with a slight look of desperation. “Please, Freya. I need to help.”

I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t. But—“Collect some beakers,” I said. “And some pipettes. We’ll need to use a different one for each solution.”

He was too close. He was at least a foot away from me, but he was far too close. I carried my notes over to the far table, where the bottles of acid all waited in a line.

Science was supposed to be calming. It always helped me focus, no matter what was happening around me. But with Fitzroy here, I felt scattered, so aware of him that I couldn’t be aware of myself.

We worked in silence for a while, except for the occasional question about measurements. I labeled each beaker as we went.

“This is good,” Fitzroy said, “if you figure it out. Not just for the testers. You could sell it to other kingdoms, or paranoid nobles and merchants. The kingdom can always use more money.”

“This kingdom doesn’t need any more money. What would we do with it, make a fountain of liquid gold?”

“Freya.” He paused until I looked at him. “You really don’t know, do you? The court is rich, but where do you think all that money comes from? The treasury is broke. We need money.”

In all the years my father had worked for the treasury, he’d never told me that. “Are you sure?”

“I’m very sure.”

“So we sell some of the court’s riches. Some of those jewels, and the gold. We have lots of money, even if it isn’t coin.”

“You can’t do that, either. People won’t like it. They’ll think you’re not fit to be queen. People won’t trust you.” He watched me, unblinking, and I stared back, heat creeping across my face. “It’s a good idea,” he added, in a softer voice. “Selling the jewels. But it’s not realistic, not now. The poison test . . . that’s good. If you can do it.”

I looked away. “I’ll do it.”

“How do you know?”

“Because. There has to be a way. I’m not going to let myself fail now.”

“And you feel that way about solving the murders?”

“I have to.” We had shifted closer again as we talked. He was less than half a foot away now, and I could have sworn I could feel the creases on his sleeves against my skin. He was so unsettling. Nothing about him made sense. I ran my fingers through my hair, shoving the sensation away.

“You have to,” he echoed. “Because you cared about my father and the court? Or to protect yourself?”

The words should have stung, a fierce accusation, but from Fitzroy, it sounded like a genuine question. Like the answer itself less important than the act of knowing it.

“Partly to protect myself,” I said quietly. “Partly to protect everyone. If there’s another attack . . . a lot more people could die. And it’s my responsibility, isn’t it, to make sure that doesn’t happen. Not that it was your father’s fault, that everyone died, but now that we’re warned—”

“My father was a horrible person.”

I stared at him. The statement had come out of nowhere, shattering everything around it, but he continued to measure out the acids, like he hadn’t said anything at all.

“What?”

“My father. He was awful. He didn’t care about anyone other than himself.” He spoke levelly, but anger lingered beneath the words, long-suppressed feeling pressing against the surface. “If you weren’t exactly who he wanted you to be, he’d punish you until you changed. And I was never who he wanted me to be.”

“Fitzroy . . .” I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know him well enough to disagree. “I—I’m sure that’s not true.”

“Of course it’s true.” He sounded so matter-of-fact as he said it. “He wanted me to be a real son. A real heir. But I couldn’t. So then he wanted me to not exist at all. But I couldn’t do that, either. If he’d picked one or the other, it would have helped, but he changed his mind several times a day. Even if I could do what he wanted, I’d never get the chance before he switched it again.”

“You were a real son.”

He laughed. “I told you, Freya. I’ve always had to work to make people accept me. I’ve always been a threat. If my father had a real son, I would have been a threat to him. If he didn’t, I was a threat to everyone else. If I was too serious, I was a dull disappointment. If I was too frivolous, I didn’t deserve the honor of being his son. And I could never give my opinions if they went against his, or refuse to give an opinion if asked. I spent every minute of my life trying to count. I tried so hard, I don’t even know who I am any more. And none of it mattered, in the end.”