The Queen's Assassin (The Queen's Secret #1)(77)

“What happened? Why did you do that?” I asked her.

“It was a mistake” is all she would say. Whenever I asked them to throw the Seeing Stones for me after that, they made excuses or outright refused. Which is why I was insistent on having my fortune read last night; a part of me was dying to know what the fates had in store.

A knock at the door. One of the footmen opens it. The butler walks in carrying a silver tray with a single white envelope on it, along with some peppermint leaves on a tiny porcelain plate. “A message arrived for Lady Lila,” he announces.

“For me?” Who could possibly send something to me here? He lowers the tray next to me so I can take the letter. It’s sealed with a plain, red-wax circle. No royal stamp, no identifying monogram or crest. It’s deceptively simple—exactly why the Guild uses it for secret correspondence. So no matter what’s inside, you know where it truly came from.

Cal is studying the envelope and I know he knows too.

I release the wax and take out the folded parchment. Everybody is staring, watching me. “Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing,” I say as I scan the paper. My stomach lurches. This shouldn’t surprise me. Of course they would know where I am.

It’s a short letter. Only a few lines. The less said, the better, they taught me. Always. Because you never know who else might read it.

Dearest Child,

The ambassador will send a carriage for you this evening. Make certain you and your brother are on it.

All my love,

Mother

“Bad news?” the duchess asks me.

“My brother and I have to see to our mother.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, Cal throws his napkin down on the table as if he’s ready to leave this moment. “Not an emergency, brother,” I say, holding up my hand to stop him. “Mother isn’t feeling well, but that could mean anything.”

The duchess looks as if she’s about to cry or have a tantrum or both. “B-but . . . what about the ball?”

The duke shakes his head slightly but says nothing to his wife.

“We just went to the ball?” I say, confused.

“Not that one, the other one. There’s another. Fine—I wasn’t supposed to say anything. But . . . but we are planning one in your honor.”

Oh, of course. This is Montrice; there’s always another excuse to throw a party. The never-ending displays of wealth, the competition, the fake friendships and backstabbing and constant nonsense. There’s an entire world outside their door they know nothing about—I haven’t heard a single mention of the general hardship of the townspeople since we arrived at the Girt estate. I think of the destitute children I saw when we first arrived.

Why has my mother summoned me? How does she know I am here? What is she going to tell me? She is furious, I am sure.

“When are you planning to host this next ball?” Cal asks the duchess. I want to kick him in the shins. I know he’s being polite, but he doesn’t understand he’s only encouraging her.

“Next week,” she says hopefully. “It was supposed to be a surprise, but now I’ve gone and ruined it.” She stares down at the table and fixes her mouth into an exaggerated pout. Then she perks up as if something has occurred to her and leans across the table toward us, though really she’s addressing Cal. “But you understand why I had to, don’t you? We can’t exactly have a ball in your honor if you’re not there! Will you be gone long?”

“We are not sure,” I say, because I am not. I am not certain we will even be allowed to return.

“I’m sure we will make it back in time,” Cal says smoothly.

“Oh!” The duchess claps her hands. One of the dogs yelps and jumps off her lap onto the floor. “Of course! And when you return, I dare say you could stay forever if you wanted to!”

“Calm down, Aggie,” the duke says from behind his newspaper. I start, as all of us have forgotten he is at the table.

She ignores him. “Promise?” she says to Cal.

“I can’t make any promises.” He’s already burdened with too many promises.

With that, she frowns dramatically.

“But we shall do our best,” he says, ever the consummate guest, the perfect spy.





* * *





I TELL CAL THAT my mother has called for us, but has not said why. I’m irritated and upset, so instead of telling him anything of substance, I confront him about what happened at breakfast.

As soon as he opens the door, I push past him and without waiting for the usual pleasantries, I blurt, “Why do you treat her that way? Like she’s a puppy or a child to indulge.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Telling her we’ll be back. Giving her hope. Leading her on.” I pause. “I’m beginning to think you’ve maybe indulged in more than just her attentions.” The insult leaves me feeling triumphant. Why should I be afraid to say what I feel?

He looks genuinely shocked. “No!” He shakes his head. “Do you think I would . . . and then . . . never mind. You do understand it is in our best interest to maintain good relations with her in case we require her assistance in the future?”

Okay, maybe I should be afraid to say everything I’m feeling. Or at least think it over a little more before I let it fly out of my mouth. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . why did you give in to her tantrum like that?” No matter that we have more pressing issues to discuss.