“Your aunt? Sten’s mother?”
“Oh, no,” she said. She glanced over at her cousin, who was now talking to Holt. “No, no my father’s youngest sister. She is only ten years older than Sten, you know. No, Sten’s parents both died, when he was quite young. He’s lived with my family ever since I was born. And then, when my mother and father passed away, my aunt took control of the estate, and he brought me to court, to keep me out of her hair. I suppose the estate is technically mine, but . . . my aunt loves running it, and she is welcome to it. I much prefer being here. And so does Sten, I think.”
“Does he? He never looks like he enjoys court that much.”
She laughed. “That’s just Sten. He’s not as serious when you get to know him, I promise.”
Of course not. King Jorgen would not have chosen a best friend who lacked a sense of humor.
She leaned closer. “Don’t look now, Your Majesty, but William Fitzroy is staring at you.”
I couldn’t stop myself from glancing over my shoulder. Fitzroy still stood alone in his corner, eyebrows pulled together.
“I said don’t look,” Madeleine said. “He’s been watching us talk. I think you might have an admirer.”
She wouldn’t say that if she’d seen how he looked at me a few days ago. He was probably wishing we were alone so he could tell me exactly what he thought of me again. I sneaked another glance at him. He’d walked away.
“How are you coping?” Madeleine added, in a lower voice. “With being queen. It must have been quite a shock.”
“I—I’m managing.”
Madeleine took my hand with both of her own. Her skin was creamy, smooth where mine was callused and scarred from experiments gone wrong. Even her nails were perfect little ovals, colored pink with tiny jewels on each tip. “I want to help you, Freya,” she said. “Please, think of me as a friend. If you need anything . . .”
“Your Majesty?” A servant floated toward us, holding a tray of pastries. “Would you care for a tart?”
I didn’t, really. My stomach was still roiling with nerves. But it would be too awkward to refuse. Unsociable, maybe. “Yes,” I said. “All right.” I picked a tiny pastry off the silver tray and smiled at the server. She bobbed into a curtsy, keeping the tray perfectly balanced. Madeleine smiled and reached for one as well.
I held the tart in front of my lips, steeling myself to eat it. The fruit smelled sickly sweet, and my stomach turned again. But there was something else there, too, a strange scent . . . slightly bitter, but almondy, too. I couldn’t see any almonds in the tart, unless they were baked into the pastry.
Almonds, I thought. I knew something about the smell of almonds, some long-forgotten fact . . .
Cyanide. Cyanide smelled of almonds.
“Don’t eat it!” I knocked the tart from Madeleine’s hands. “It might be poisoned!”
The servant dropped the tray. It clattered on the floor, sending tarts flying everywhere. Someone screamed. I stared at the crushed pastry, the smears of raspberry on stone. Poison.
Two guards ran forward and grabbed the server by the arms. Her legs flew out from under her, and she stumbled.
Madeleine clutched my sleeve. She was gasping for breath, eyes huge, skin white. “It’s all right,” I said. “You didn’t eat it. It’s all right.”
I wiped my hands on my skirts, scraping any remnants away.
Sten crashed across the room and grabbed his cousin by her shoulders. He spoke to her in a low murmur, and she nodded, as another guard grabbed me and started hurrying me out of the room.
My father ran up, too, as the guards practically pushed me into the corridor, so fast I stumbled. The shouts faded behind us, but I could still feel it in the air, the panic radiating through the walls.
My bedroom was eerily quiet. The guards searched the room, pulling back curtains and tugging open wardrobes like an assassin might be curled up in a corner. Naomi peered out of the side room—her new bedroom, once they had finished preparing it. Her eyes were red, and her hair was braided for sleep. “What’s going on?”
“Poison,” I said. “I think someone tried to poison us.” The words hit me then, what they really meant. Someone had tried to kill me. Me, personally, directly. My legs shook. I sank into a chair.
“What?” Naomi ran over. “Are you all right? Is anybody hurt?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I mean, I’m all right. I don’t think anyone is hurt.”
“All clear in here, Your Majesty,” the guard said. “Is it all right for this girl to remain with you?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. She lives here now.”
“Then I’ll lock the door, if it please Your Majesty. Until we are certain things are safe.”
I nodded. I didn’t know what else to do. My father strode over and squeezed my shoulder. “Things will be all right, Freya,” he said. “I have to go and help deal with this. I’ll return when we know more.”
I nodded again. There was little else I could do. And then my father was gone, and the door was locked, leaving me and Naomi alone.
Naomi grabbed my arm. “What happened, Freya?”
I stood, nervous energy filling me again. I needed to move. I told her about the strange smell, about my suspicions, and I paced, my feet thudding against the floor.
“But everyone will be fine,” Naomi said, a little too loud, a little too fast, once I was finished. “Nobody ate any of it, did they? Everyone will be fine.”
“Madeleine couldn’t breathe.”
“But she didn’t eat it. She was just scared, Freya. She must have been scared.”
I nodded. It made sense. But what if she was hurt? One bite of cyanide was enough to kill. What if someone had eaten some before they were brought to me? What if Madeleine had taken a bite, and I hadn’t noticed? What if more of the court was dying, right now, from poison meant for me?
“The servants brought them straight to me. It was aimed at me.”
I’d expected this to happen, but that didn’t make it any less terrifying. Someone wanted me dead. Me, specifically me. And I had no idea who it might be.
The killer would have let Madeleine die, too, if I hadn’t stopped her from eating the tart. That had to mean Madeleine was innocent, didn’t it? That the killer at the banquet did not want her to be queen. Unless the servant was an innocent bystander, unaware of the poison, not knowing that she was only meant to give the tarts to me.
Over an hour passed before my father appeared again, looking pale. “You were right,” he said, once the door closed behind him. “The tarts were poisoned.”
The words weren’t as frightening as I’d expected. The possibility of being poisoned, the question of it, had made my legs shake, but now it was fact, it was concrete, with details and truths to unlock. I could deal with facts. I hurried toward him. “How do you know?”
“The taster. She tried some and was ill immediately.”