“I’m going to let you go now,” he said, trying to keep his voice pleasant, though his hackles were raised. “Can you keep quiet if I do?”
He would have liked to suppress the thought, but it struck him how like this was to that time not so long ago when he’d startled a pretty girl by jumping on her from the garden wall (an accident that could very easily have cost him his neck if he hadn’t managed to stifle her screams). What a bungling, awful mess that had led to!
Lionheart shook this thought away as best he could while he gazed down into the baroness’s eyes and tried to make his own expression comforting. Any moment, he expected to hear the sound of footmen or guards pounding their way down the hall. But there was nothing; just the baroness whimpering. “Can you?” he repeated.
The baroness blinked again, then nodded. He took his hand away from her mouth, ready to clamp it back if necessary, but she merely licked her lips and gasped, “What are you doing here? We thought you were dead!”
“Dead?” said Lionheart, frowning and stepping back.
“Yes, dead!” said the baroness, and her gray-streaked hair escaped from its pins and bobbed in tight curls about her forehead. “First you, then Prince Foxbrush and my sweet ducky . . . all disappeared! They say you were spotted about the grounds the day of the wedding, and that you and the crown prince murdered each other over Daylily’s hand, down in the Wilderlands somewhere.” Her eyes widened still more. “Did you not murder each other after all? Or . . . or are you a ghost?”
“I’m no ghost, Baroness, and Foxbrush, last I saw him, was alive.” And now the question he dreaded most to ask. “How long since the crown prince disappeared?”
“Six months,” said the baroness. She gazed wetly up at Lionheart, and more tears brimmed in her red-rimmed eyes. “Six months to the day, almost! He vanished soon after my own sweet girl did—on their wedding day, more’s the pity. Two weddings spoiled! That’s got to be bad luck, don’t you think? And her lovely dress all ripped to shreds . . .”
As she spoke, the baroness’s gaze darted momentarily to the door. Lionheart followed that glance, then strode across the room and shut the door firmly, locking it and pocketing the key. He turned to face the baroness again. The baroness, who sat at his mother’s own desk in his mother’s own chambers. Granted, Queen Starflower had died years ago. But the queen’s rooms remained hers until such a time as a new queen might be crowned.
The desk that had once held documents of state now supported an assortment of perfumes and jewelry and feathered accessories. From that desk, Queen Starflower had given orders and made rulings equal to those of her husband. Now the Baroness of Middlecrescent sat there, looking twice the fool she was by comparison.
It was a crime for such a woman to sit in his mother’s place.
Lionheart swallowed back the bile in his throat. The idea that six months might pass in what had seemed only a night did not disturb him as much as it might have once upon a time. But six months was a long time to a kingdom without an heir.
“There,” he said to the baroness, patting the pocket where the key now lay. “No one will disturb us, not for a little while at least. Tell me what has transpired since Foxbrush’s disappearance. Why, pray tell, are the barons gathering now? Why did I see royal insignias among the arriving carriages? Why is this House done up for a festival?” And why do you sit in my mother’s chair?
“It’s the coronation,” the baroness said, mauling her handkerchief in twisting fists. “They’re all here for the coronation tomorrow morning.”
“The Eldest?” Lionheart asked. “My father?”
The baroness sniffed and dabbed at her face again. “Poor, poor King Hawkeye!” she said. “He died soon after Prince Foxbrush did. Or, I mean, soon after we thought Prince Foxbrush did. No one told him about the murder . . . if there was a murder. Did you murder him? I don’t even know! But we couldn’t bear to tell the Eldest; he was already so low after banishing you. He slipped off gently enough in the end, and he’s with the dear queen now, interred and safe.”
Her sniffs grew louder, and Lionheart feared he might lose her entirely to a storm of sobs. He grasped her by the shoulders, gave her a shake, and demanded, “If my father is dead and Foxbrush supposed so, who are they crowning tomorrow morning? Who has been named successor?”
He did not need her answer. And it was just as well he didn’t, for at that moment, the door handle rattled.
“My dear?” came the Baron Middlecrescent’s voice from the hall. “My dear, have you locked me out?”