Long May She Reign(76)

“Excellent. Oh, but you seem to have run out of sacks. I think there are some piled in that closet. Let us check for you.”

She began to walk toward the door, but the man stepped forward. “Hang on,” he said. He reached for my jar. “Let me take this. It looks cumbersome.”

“No,” I said, fighting not to stutter. “I’m all right.”

“What’s in there? Spices?”

“Rubbish,” I said. “Things I swept up.” I didn’t sound particularly convincing.

“I’ll take it. Dispose of it for you.”

Logic said I should give him the jar. If he opened it, he’d find nothing worthwhile inside and discard it. It was the safest course of action, the most sensible thing to do. I knew that. I knew it, even as I flinched away from him, my arms tightening around the jar. I knew it even as I knew my actions had been suspicious, that he’d never believe it was worthless now.

The man snatched for the jar. I dodged back, but I didn’t move quickly enough. His fingers scraped against the ridges around the rim, and his nails found purchase. He tugged as I pulled away, throwing me off balance. The heavy jar teetered, and I tried to tighten my grip, but the man snatched again, and it fell. The pottery smashed on the floor.

I dove after it. “You idiot.” I shoved the shards aside. One rough edge scraped my finger, drawing blood. There had to be some dye left, something stuck to the pot . . . but I could barely see in the darkness, and the floor was dusty, unswept since the night of the banquet. I couldn’t see anything.

“Freya!” Naomi grabbed my arm and hauled me backward. Madeleine ran for the wooden door, wrenching it open to reveal another dark corridor beyond. Naomi yanked me along, too, half dragging me across the room and into the corridor, as Fitzroy ran behind us. One of the men shouted, but Madeleine did not stop. Honey-brown hair streamed out behind her as she led us up the stairs, through doors, up and around and out into the palace gardens again.

My sides burned. I could barely breathe. But I kept running, gripping Naomi’s hand, the taste of grass choking in the back of my throat, until we were out on the city streets again.

“I don’t think they followed us,” Naomi said, when we stopped for breath. “Just didn’t want us to interfere.”

I leaned against a wall, gasping. “We lost it,” I said. “We lost the dye. We lost the proof.”

“But we still know,” Madeleine said. “We know what caused it.”

“No. You don’t understand.” Without the dye, I couldn’t prove it. Why would anyone believe me without proof? “I have to prove it wasn’t me. How can I do that now?” It’s lost in the dust.

“The dye didn’t prove that,” Naomi said softly. “It was just a start. And you still know it’s poisonous. You’ll find something else.”

I nodded, my breath rushing out through my teeth. She was right. There was no point in panicking now. We still knew the dye was responsible. We had something. “We need to go through the letters again,” I said. “If we can find where he ordered it from, or who might have suggested it to him . . . that’s what we have to do.”

The letters were less than helpful.

It was easy to tell which notes had been taken by a scribe, and which had been written by the king himself. The scribes’ handwriting was always elaborate but clear, their pens flowing across the pages. The king’s writing was nigh illegible, a mixture of jagged scratches and ostentatious loops. But as I tried to decipher the words on page after page, reading his comments on proposed laws and taxation decisions and pleas from his advisers to find a new wife who might give him legitimate heirs, I had to admit that he, too, was not exactly as I thought. Yes, his court was wasteful, dramatic to the point of ridiculousness, but he’d responded with care to every issue presented to him. And there were so many issues—as many as I had faced and more, a deluge of needs and questions and problems to be faced.

But then I’d pull another page from the pile and see his demands for more and more—more jewels for the queen, more clothes, new paintings to fill the supposedly “empty” parts of the palace. A better cook, additional guards, more and more things, while he waved away concerns about finances with a casual flick of his pen.

Then, after what felt like a hundred useless pages: “I found something.”

Fitzroy looked up from his own pile of papers. “What was that?”

“Here.” I scanned the page again to be sure. “Listen to this. ‘We’re continuing the search for King’s Yellow, as Your Majesty requested. The people here call it orpiment, and they tell us that it can cure all manner of impossible ailments. One must suspect they are merely trying to raise the price, but we will continue to negotiate.’” I looked up. “King’s Yellow. That would fit.”

“But it sounds like he’s talking about a medicine, not a color,” Naomi said. “Who would confuse arsenic with medicine?”

“It is a medicine,” I said. I’d heard it before, the details lurking deep in my brain. “I think—I’m not sure.” I flicked through the pile of letters, as though the answer would be hiding there. “I’ve heard of it being used. In very small amounts, when someone is very sick.” To purge the sickness out of them.