Long May She Reign(51)

Naomi stood and stretched again. “You must be tired,” she said. “You haven’t been getting enough sleep.”

“Who needs sleep?”

“Where did you go last night? I came out to look for you, but . . .” She shrugged. “You weren’t there.”

I looked up again. If she’d wanted to talk to me, on the night of the funerals, and I wasn’t there . . . “I’m sorry. I thought you were asleep.”

“I woke up. It’s all right, I was just wondering. Were you working?”

I nodded. “Not that I made much progress.” I drummed my fingers on the table, wondering how much to tell her. But my conversations weren’t secrets. There was nothing unmentionable about them. “Fitzroy was there.”

“Fitzroy?” She shot me a sideways glance. “Is that why you didn’t make much progress?”

“Naomi!” I stared at her, and she grinned.

“Well, you’ve never mentioned Fitzroy before. Last I heard, you didn’t know him at all. And now he’s helping you in your lab? How suspicious.”

“Suspicious? You think he’s manipulating me?”

“Noooo.” She drew out the word, the vocal equivalent of an eye roll. “I’m just wondering why you never mentioned that before. Why you’re keeping secrets, hmm? Why you didn’t get any work done, maybe?”

“It’s nothing like that. It’s—new. We talked, like I said, about the murders, and . . .” How could I possibly describe it? “He wasn’t what I expected.”

“So you invited him back to your lab?” She still spoke in that teasing, singsong voice, elongating her words, eyes dancing.

“He was just there, when I went to work the night before the funerals. And then last night, too. I think he’s lonely.”

“Yes, that’s why he keeps coming to your lab. He’s lonely.” She leaned in closer. “I think he likes you.”

I could feel myself blushing, but it was ridiculous. Nonsense. “Naomi, you haven’t even seen him.”

“As though he could possibly resist.”

“He could easily resist.” But my stomach twisted as I said it. Fitzroy didn’t like me, not like that, it was completely nonsensical. We were working.

“Wait,” Naomi said. “You actually like him. I was just teasing, but you actually like him. I can tell by your face.”

“I can’t like him. I barely know him.”

“But you like him.” The grin melted off Naomi’s face, and she sat back on her stool. “Oh, Freya, be careful,” she said, in her normal, steady voice again. “He’s the old king’s son.”

“I know that.” I scraped my fingers through my hair. “He’s just—not who I thought he was.”

“Who did you think he was?”

“Just—nobody. An idiot. You saw how he acted in court.”

“And who is he?”

The answer was too big, too nebulous, to put into words. “Fitzroy,” I said. “Just—Fitzroy.”

“Freya—” Her voice rose in warning, but I shook my head.

“We should get back to work. We have a lot of research to do.”

“All right,” she said slowly. “But if you want to talk—”

“I know.” But not then. Her teasing had knocked something loose inside me, like the realization that your finger hurt after someone pointed out it was bleeding. The knowledge buzzed at the edge of my thoughts, but I didn’t have time to examine it now, not with so much else going on.

I barely knew Fitzroy. He was an interesting person. That was all.

I had far more important things to worry about than him.





SEVENTEEN


THE TRIALS STARTED EARLY THE FOLLOWING morning.

I’d expected more of a mix of people, from what Norling had said, but only courtiers waited in the throne room, sitting on wooden benches. An aisle passed between them, leading to the throne. My council sat behind a large table, facing the rest of the court, and guards lined the walls.

This time, at least, someone had taken my skirts into consideration. I still wore about ten layers of them, but the wires were missing, making me look like a confection, but a human-sized one, and one that fit in the throne.

Even then, it was lucky I was tall. My long legs only just reached the floor when I sat. I forced myself to sit straight. I couldn’t let the throne overwhelm me. I had to look like I was in control.

Once everyone was settled and Norling had talked through the formalities, the guards led the server of the poisoned tarts into the room. She was trembling. Her black hair had matted around her shoulders, and she looked at the ground as she walked, chains rattling between her wrists.

“Felicia Cornwell,” Norling said. “You have admitted to attempting to poison your queen. If you name your co-conspirators, Her Majesty may see to have mercy on you.”

The woman continued to tremble. “I didn’t work with anyone. I acted alone.”

“You worked alone?” Norling said. “You found the poison alone, prepared the food alone, broke into the castle alone, got into Her Majesty’s rooms alone. Is that what you are claiming?”

“I was already a servant at the palace,” she said. “But—yes. I worked alone.”