Long May She Reign(86)

I had nothing. I knew it, my advisers knew it. I could win the support of the people and talk endlessly about the Forgotten, but I couldn’t fight Sten and win, and I’d done little to stop his attack. I didn’t know who the murderer was. It was possibly Holt, probably Holt, but I needed to be able to prove it, and to prove my innocence, too.

I couldn’t sleep now. I needed to use every moment to prepare.

I tiptoed out of my rooms, careful not to wake Naomi or Madeleine. The front door of my chambers was ajar, and two night guards were speaking, their low voices buzzing through the gap.

“But Sten’s a good man,” one was saying. “I know he’s not the heir, not by the way we’ve always done it, but he’s a good man, and a good leader, too. Shouldn’t that count for something?”

“It counts for everything,” the other guard said, “when his opponent is a little girl with no knowledge of war. What can she do against him?”

“Then why are you still here?”

“Safest path, isn’t it?” the second guard said. “And I got nothing against our new queen. She’s a nice girl, at least. If she holds out against him, then good for her. I’ll be happy to support her. And if she doesn’t, then Sten’ll be happy enough for us to join him when she fails. He’s always been a reasonable man.”

“True enough,” the first guard said. “True enough, that.”

I paused by the gap in the door. Their words made my stomach clench, but they weren’t being treasonous, just honest. I couldn’t blame them for wanting to live.

I crept back to my bedroom door and closed it a little more loudly. The guards stopped talking at once. By the time I reached the door again, they were standing to attention, as though the conversation had never occurred.

“Can we help you, Your Majesty?” the guard on the left said.

“No, that’s all right. I’m just restless.” I stepped into the corridor. “I’m going to walk down to my laboratory, I think.”

“Then we should go with you, Your Majesty.”

They should. But after that conversation, I really wanted to be alone. I didn’t want to be protected by people who knew they could not protect me, not now. “No,” I said. “I’ll be safe inside the Fort. Wait for me here.” And, with the authority of a queen behind me, neither of them could protest.

The corridors were eerily quiet. Sconces sent orange light flickering across the stone walls, and the high ceilings vanished into shadow. Sounds echoed and distorted in the stillness of the night, so faraway whispers seemed close. I saw no one.

My lab was empty, too, devoid of Fitzroy for once. Maybe he was actually sleeping, like a normal human being at three o’clock in the morning.

I itched to conduct more experiments, to have focus like I’d had working on the arsenic test, but I had no idea what to do. I had nothing left to test, no leads that science could pursue. So instead, I began to work through the letters again, hunting for anything, anything, that might help. A hint at the king’s illness. A mention of Holt.

Nothing. All I gained was more of the dead king’s words in my brain, this sense of him as a person, with thoughts and fears and priorities and humanity, rather than just the ridiculous caricature I had known.

I didn’t want to think of him as a person. It made all of it too real.

Eventually, the itch of working alone became unbearable. Maybe Fitzroy was awake upstairs. Maybe he’d be willing to help.

I passed no one as I climbed the stairs. I knocked on the door to his chambers, but nobody answered. I knocked again, louder.

No response.

“Fitzroy?” Maybe he was asleep. I pushed the door open slightly. “Fitzroy?”

The lamps inside were lit, casting a warm glow across the room. I stepped inside, leaving the door slightly ajar.

The lights were on in the bedroom as well, but Fitzroy was nowhere to be seen.

That was odd. If he wasn’t in the laboratory, and he wasn’t asleep . . . Maybe we’d missed each other in the corridors.

He couldn’t have gone far, though, if the lamps were any indication. He would be back soon.

I wandered over to the bookshelves on the far side of the room. Even though Fitzroy had only been here a few weeks, he’d moved several books here—a couple of novels, a history book, a copy of The Scientific Method. I picked that one up, smiling. He’d actually listened to my recommendation.

A few sheets of paper fluttered from between two books on the shelf. One fell to the floor, and I bent to pick it up.

I recognized that near-illegible scrawl. It was a letter from his father.

It was private, I told myself. I shouldn’t read it, not without his permission, but the back of my neck prickled as I stared down at it. A single word caught my eye: heir.

I couldn’t help myself. I read through it at breakneck speed, as though my rudeness didn’t count if I did it quickly enough. But the words didn’t make sense, couldn’t make sense, so I read it again, slower, waiting for the meaning to change.

The words stubbornly remained, so I read it a third time. And a fourth.

It was a draft of a decree. A decree to ensure that Fitzroy could never, never inherit the throne.

My hands shook. I grabbed the other pages from the shelf. The king had requested an adviser’s opinion on the decree. His sickness made him contemplative, he said, and more concerned about the succession than ever. He must be certain the crown was in good hands. And that could never be Fitzroy. If he did not have any other children, his brother must be heir.