I suppose this is what someone who doesn’t hate her mother would do.
With a quick nod, I try to look serenely bereft, then tilt my head to Saber to indicate he should follow. We trail the stretcher down the hallway to the lift, where the aide presses a button and we descend into the rarely seen basement levels of Versailles Palace.
“It’s not a morgue in the full sense of the word; we so rarely have need,” the woman says, smiling patronizingly at me as we enter a rather bare room. “You said up in your apartments not to disturb your father at this time?” she queries.
“That’s right,” I say. “He’s…not well.”
“All right.” She glances down at her tablet. “I’ll give you a moment alone while I file my reports. Please request assistance from M.A.R.I.E. should you need any.”
Then she leaves through a plain door with a little square window in it, and I watch until she disappears from view.
It really is a modern world down here. Modern and sparse. The walls are white, not a fresco or gilt buttress to be seen, and other than Saber and me, everyone is wearing maintenance jumpsuits or those shapeless so-called scrubs. I feel hopelessly out of place, even though my neo-Baroque life is situated just meters above my head. Will I ever feel at home once I’m out in the world?
“I can’t believe she’s gone,” I whisper. “She’s been the driving force in my life since…forever. And now—conquered. But not really. Maybe not ever.”
“How do you mean?”
“She’ll have planned for this, somehow.” Assuming her death didn’t trigger some sort of release, at minimum I’m going to have to track down the video of the King’s confession in that dark hallway. There might be multiple copies, depending on how carefully she tried to inure herself against the possibility of dying in a mysterious accident. Well, the joke’s on her; she truly did die in a mysterious accident, but the King had nothing to do with it. “Everything I’m wrapped up in can be laid at her feet, because she wasn’t content simply controlling my father’s shares. She always wanted more.”
Saber crinkles his brow. “Family trait?”
I let out a snort. “Please. No. My father never even wanted what he got, much less more of it. Given half a chance, the King would probably…” My words trail off as the realization slams into me. “My father. The King. What have I done!”
I TEAR FROM the room as quickly as I can, my skirts raised high, ignoring the clattering of Glitter containers and sprinting for the lift. Hopefully the woman in the office will assume I was overwhelmed by my emotions. And she won’t be wrong—they simply aren’t emotions that have anything to do with mourning my mother. As soon as the lift doors close, I slump against the wall.
“I’m so foolish,” I mutter.
“I don’t understand,” Saber says, breathing hard.
“My father. I left him completely vulnerable. I always think of my mother as the powerful one, but she was only powerful because she controlled my father. My father is the source of power. He’s the one with the votes.”
“Votes?”
“How soon could Justin have really heard?” I say, speaking more to myself than to Saber. “Maybe I’ll be on time.” But I’m not optimistic. A death in the palace—especially his future mother-in-law? His Highness would have been informed immediately.
And unlike me—a novice at the power game—he would have seen his opportunity instantly.
The doors to the Grayson apartments are closed and all is quiet. I tap in my code tremulously, half anticipating that it will be denied. Were I the King and I arrived first, I’d lock me out. The fact that the doors respond to my code and open gives me a spark of hope.
The empty atrium gives me another.
A quick code entry and facial scan get me into my father’s office, and my heart races when I see the room cordoned off with tape barriers but otherwise empty. I want to yell for him, but my heart feels as though it’s blocking my throat. Without a word to Saber, I turn and hurry down the hallway, not bothering to muffle the clicking of my heels. I swing around into my father’s bedroom, my shoes skidding beneath me as I take that final corner.
The King is standing behind my father, who’s bleary-eyed and sitting in a small armchair. On his shoulders rest the King’s many-ringed fingers, clasped almost protectively.
But I know who the predator is here.
I hate that he’s caught me off guard, and I force myself to pause, to stand tall, chin lifted, shoulders rolled back.
“My love,” the King says mockingly. “We were just discussing you. When I broke the unfortunate news of your mother’s death, your poor father expressed a wish to make some rather long-due amends to you.”
“Step away from him, Justin. He just lost his wife.”
“You fear for his safety?” His Highness asks melodramatically. “I wouldn’t dream of harming him.”
“I should say not,” I snap. “You need him.”