Long May She Reign(87)

A third letter discussed plans to send Fitzroy away. Each suggestion had been analyzed based on how valuable it made Fitzroy look—a survey on his father’s behalf, for example, or a diplomatic mission would make him look too important. Perhaps banishment would be better. The king had resisted the idea—Fitzroy was still his son, after all—but had agreed that alternatives were difficult to find.

“Freya? What are you doing?”

I jumped. Fitzroy stood in the doorway, hair mussed by sleep. I tightened my grip on the papers.

“What is this?”

All the color drained from his face. “Freya,” he said carefully. “I know what that looks like, but listen to me—”

“You know what it looks like?” I laughed. I didn’t know why. The sound was too low, too sharp. “Tell me you didn’t put this here. Tell me this is Holt, trying to turn me against you.”

He didn’t reply.

“You hid this from me.” Holt had been right. The certainty of it turned my stomach. “You knew your father wasn’t planning to make you his heir. He was going to exile you! And you hid it from me.”

“I did. But please, Freya, listen.”

He took a step toward me. My heart was pounding in my ears, humiliation burning in my stomach. “What can you possibly have to say?”

“I didn’t know that’s what my father was planning. You have to believe me. I only found out when I read these notes in the lab, I promise.”

“So why did you hide it?”

“I panicked. I thought—I didn’t know what would happen if anyone else found out. Your advisers already distrust me—”

“Are you surprised, with this?”

“I didn’t want you to distrust me, too. I thought, if you read that—I don’t know what I thought, Freya, but you have to believe me. I panicked. But I wasn’t involved.”

“You lied to me. And you harmed my investigation.” The first was worse, it scalded me, stealing my breath, but I had to mention the science, I had to remember what was important. Not me and him. It had never been me and him. “You had the motive, Fitzroy. You had it, and you hid it from me. What else am I supposed to believe?”

“I told you. I lost everything that night.”

“You would have lost everything if that night hadn’t happened. It says it right here, Fitzroy! So don’t tell me you had nothing to gain from his death.” I was shaking now, a mix of anger and fear, the weight of the words thrumming through me. Fitzroy stared at me, his face pale. “Is this why you kissed me? Why you said you liked me? To distract me?”

“No, Freya.” He stumbled forward, hands out, and then paused when I flinched, jolting like he was caught on a string. “I do like you. I think you’re one of the best people I’ve ever met. Please—”

“Stop lying!”

“I’m not lying! Freya, listen to me.” His hands were shaking slightly, but he stepped closer again. “You know what court is like. If I was trying to distract you and make you like me, do you think I’d have done it like that? That I’d have shouted at you, distrusted you, been so slow to do anything nice? To tell you I liked you?”

“You’re clever. I’m sure you could figure out the optimal strategy.”

He flinched. “Please, Freya. Just listen to me. Let me explain.”

“No.” If he had lied before, he could be lying now, and how would I know? I was useless at reading people, so naive. He’d proved that. If I ignored this evidence, because I wanted to . . . how would I ever survive? I’d been the perfect victim for manipulation. Self-doubting, isolated, overwhelmed. All Fitzroy had to do was help me, pretend to like me, and I’d miss every sign of betrayal.

“If you want me to listen to you, if you want me to trust you, then stay here. I’m fetching my guards. If you try and run, I’ll know you’re guilty. If you weren’t involved, as you say, then everything will be fine.”

“And you believe that, do you?”

I forced myself to look him in the eye. My hands still shook. “I have to.”

Fitzroy did not run. I fetched guards to watch his door, with strict instructions that no one was allowed to enter or leave without my permission. A lump had settled in my throat, and it swelled with every word, pressing against my windpipe.

I couldn’t let myself get upset. I had to focus. Sten was still marching on the capital, the identity of the murderer was still unclear, and if Fitzroy was responsible . . . would Sten believe I hadn’t been involved, too? I’d look suspicious, as his friend. Just as Holt had warned me.

I would have to hand Fitzroy over to Sten, or at least ensure that his version of justice was done. And if he was guilty . . . if Fitzroy had killed everyone . . .

I half ran back to my chambers, the world blurring around me. Once I was safely behind the locked door, I collapsed on my bed and let myself cry, the sobs almost choking me. Dagny mewed in distress, her head butting against my forearm. I ignored her.

A gentle hand rested on my shoulder. “Freya?” It was Madeleine. I turned my head to the left, my vision blurred by tears. Madeleine looked beautiful, as she always did. Her hair was pulled into two braids, and although her eyes were vague with sleep, she looked at me with concern. “What’s wrong?”