I grab it up, feeling sick, and see the other girls quickly turn away. They mistake it for suspicion—as if I think one of them will take it from me. But they’re not the reason for the queasy sadness churning through me.
Yesterday—the closeness I felt with Ina, the kinship, the shared secrets—was a soap bubble, growing and glimmering in me, but now it’s broken. I thought Ina was . . . well, not my friend, that would be foolish, but something. That I was more than just a servant to be paid off. There’s at least a few years inside the bag. My cheeks burn in humiliation. But as I stuff the money furiously beneath my pillow, a snide, calm voice in my head informs me that it’s not sweet, oblivious Ina I should be angry at. It’s myself—for forgetting who the both of us are, for daring to think that I could mean something to the future queen of Sempera.
Shame mixes into the turmoil inside me. I’m no closer to discovering the secret behind my father’s death—his murder, as I’ve begun to think of it, the time pulled from his blood killing him as surely as a knife to the heart. Have I grown distracted, my head turned by Ina’s beautiful gowns, Caro’s friendly gossip, Roan’s smiles that seem just for me, and forgotten the promise I made by the lakeshore after Papa died?
I didn’t stay here at Everless to make friends with Ina Gold. If I’m to spend my days serving the Gerlings, I want Papa’s death to mean something. The need for knowledge flares in me, brighter than ever.
I must see her. The Queen.
Over the next few days, I invent reasons to approach her, finding little tasks that will bring me to the long hallway where her rooms are in hopes of catching a glimpse. I tell Caro I’ll deliver any messages the Queen needs. I carry her worn clothes, heaps of velvet and silk, to and from the laundry. I make tea in the mornings and evenings, and leave it by her door while the guards stationed there glower at me.
When I go to the Queen’s door at sunset one day to deliver her evening tea, the guards are absent. I knock and set the tray down just outsider her door. But then I linger longer than I should, standing there in the empty hallway until the tea has surely lost all its warmth, waiting for the Queen to appear. Just when I’m on the brink of giving up and going back to the dormitory, the door opens.
It’s a long, confused moment before I realize that the woman who has stepped into the hall is, in fact, the queen of Sempera. She looks more like one of the drunkards who stumble out of Crofton’s worst taverns in the early hours of the morning. Her flame-colored hair is knotted and tangled, and her clothes seem to have been put on in the dark—the buttons on her gown are only two-thirds of the way done up, revealing a swath of white skin across her chest. The corners of her mouth are stained with dark red smudges that could be lipstick or blood.
She takes a halting step forward, and I nearly fall backward in my scramble to get away. But my shoulders slam against someone’s chest; small but strong hands close around my upper arms, keeping me upright. The scream is halfway out of my throat when Caro yanks me around to face her.
“Shh, Jules,” she murmurs, her eyes huge in the dark hall. “It’s all right.”
She sets me aside like a small child and walks toward the Queen. I stare in confusion as Caro lays her bare hand over the Queen’s heart. Our untouchable ruler lets her eyes drift shut and leans into Caro’s touch, seeming to draw strength from it. A moment later, she turns and vanishes back into her room without a word. You will not lay a hand on her, even to assist her, I think, but it seems Caro is different. Side by side in the dim light, they almost look like mother and daughter, the Queen’s eyes reflecting Caro, their posture the same.
Caro turns to me, sighing heavily. “I’m sorry you had to see that, Jules,” she says. “Sometimes Her Majesty lets her duties get in the way of her well-being and doesn’t rest like she should. She has night terrors.”
I’ve seen nightmares, I think, my own and others’, but never anyone who looked like that, like they’d crawled out of a grave. But my terror is still stuck in my throat, so all I can do is nod. Caro puts an arm around me, and warmth flows back in. I wonder if that is what the Queen felt a moment ago.
“You must keep this between us, Jules,” Caro says softly. Another secret. “If word of her weakness got around . . .”
“Of course,” I say hurriedly, regaining my voice. “I serve the Queen.”
Caro leans closer. “Jules, you must understand something. You know the Queen—you’ve seen her—” She stops, stares at me as if to make sure I’m listening. “The Queen will soon die. Blood-irons cannot save her. Nothing can be done. In just a short time, Ina will be married, and Sempera will have a new ruler.”
Questions flood my mind. Will I ever know if my father died for a reason? Looking for something—anything—to do, I bend down and pick up the cup of tea I’ve left outside the Queen’s door. The cup rattles in its saucer. Caro gently takes them from me.
“Now,” Caro says gently, “while the Queen rests, why don’t we do something for ourselves?” I stare at her. “Soon Ina won’t have a moment to herself, what with getting ready for the wedding. She wanted one last frolic before . . .” Her brow furrows. Despite the forced lightness of her tone, her revelation about the Queen’s death hangs in the air. “She’s a married woman.”
Frolicking and marriage are as far from my thoughts right now as the moon. But I let Caro pull me along, not knowing what else to do. “I’ve just been to the stables,” she tells me, low and excited, as we hurry down the hall. “I’ve arranged for a carriage to take us to a tavern that I know in Laista. We’ll have a party, just the three of us.”
The sumptuous carpets quiet our footsteps all the way into the wing that contains Ina’s rooms. When we knock on her door, Ina opens it immediately. It takes me a moment to recognize her: she’s done up her hair with silver pins and flowers. Her dress is a confection of tulle and lace with a neckline that makes me blush.
“So nice of you to join us, Jules,” she says, giggling, as Caro propels me inside. “Have a drink?” She is already holding something by the neck—a green glass bottle of sparkling liquid. She proffers it to me.
The look on my face must be sufficient answer, because Caro tucks a defensive arm around my waist. “Ina, give the poor girl time to adjust,” she whispers, turning me away from the princess and toward a massive, open wardrobe, which spills silk and velvet in every color I can think of and then some. “First we need to find her something to wear.”
“Oh . . .” My weak protest is swept away when Ina dives in, pulling out one dress after another until her arms are heaped with them.