“You should have,” I said. “I trusted you.” It was too late to change it now. He opened his mouth, like he was going to say something else, and I could feel the weight of it in the air, the way things would shift . . . and then he turned away, shaking his head. “You know there’ll be consequences,” he said. “For claiming the Forgotten chose you. People are going to expect a lot.”
“It can’t be worse than execution.” I forced myself to smile. “And how do you know I’m not their chosen one? You saw that lightning.”
He didn’t seize the joke. He stared at me, his expression still serious. “You don’t believe that.”
“No. But others will.” I looked back at him, William Fitzroy, not a prince but son of a king. Far kinder and far cleverer than I had ever imagined. My friend. My—something. But he had lied to me. I understood why, but . . . he hadn’t trusted me.
And I’d imprisoned him.
It was a poor basis for any kind of relationship. Not insurmountable, but it would linger. I didn’t know where things would go from here, but . . . it wouldn’t be easy.
I wanted to say something, something bold, but the words wouldn’t come. I stood a foot away from him, wanting to move closer, wanting to touch him, wanting to act, willing him to act. But I had no reference for this, no theory to work from, so I stood, waiting, hoping, until Fitzroy spoke.
“What are you going to do about Madeleine?”
And the moment was gone.
I looked about the room again, at the stool where Madeleine had sat. “Leave Madeleine to me.”
I knew, in my heart, what I needed to do.
It was the dead of night when I returned to Madeleine’s rooms and opened the door. And there was Madeleine, as elegant as ever, her legs tucked beneath her as she slept in an armchair. I paused for a moment, watching her, letting myself remember all the good of our friendship. Then I crept forward, and Madeleine opened her eyes.
“Freya,” she said. “Have you come to deal with me now?”
I tossed a bag at her. “Take this. It’s money, food, a map. Take this, and leave.”
Madeleine stood. “Freya?”
“I don’t care where you go. But you have to leave this kingdom. You have to go, and never come back.”
“Freya—”
“If I ever see you again, if you are ever heard of in this kingdom again, I will have to kill you. You know that I will.” She stared at me, refusing to look away. “I don’t want to have to kill you, Madeleine. I really don’t. But I will, if I have to. So go, and do not come back.”
Madeleine nodded. She clutched the bag to her chest. “Thank you. Your kindness—”
“Don’t.” My voice shook. “Please just—just leave.”
Madeleine nodded. She sank into a curtsy. Perfectly composed, even now. “You are a good queen, Freya,” she said. “A good queen, and a good friend. Don’t forget that.”
She stepped forward until she was level with me, and then she paused. For a heartbeat, our eyes met. Madeleine nodded a final time, and hurried out of sight.
I sighed into the empty room, my eyes settling on the sweeping mural that Madeleine had left behind. The kingdom, as she saw it. The thing she wanted to protect, and the thing she had nearly destroyed.
I stared at the sweeping red paint until my eyes blurred, and then I walked away.
The sun filtered through the palace’s high windows, lighting the ruined corridors. They had been ransacked, looted, fragments of urns dusting the floor . . . but there was potential, too. There was hope.
I walked slowly, savoring the brightness of the morning, until I reached the council room. Mila and Carina walked behind me, promoted to chiefs of my guard now, wearing their new uniforms embroidered with my crest—a bolt of lightning on a violet field.
The door to the council room was ajar, and I stepped inside. The chamber had already been stripped of its most extravagant decorations, leaving a map of the kingdom on the far wall, a single large table, and several shelves of books on history, agriculture, language, and religion. Fitzroy smiled at me as I entered, and I smiled back, before glancing around at my council, mine, with my father, with Holt, with Naomi, with Norling, with several seats left empty for the people who could fill them, for people whose advice I could trust, whose different perspectives would help me know what to do.
I might not truly be the chosen queen. I should never have stood here, with the crown on my head. But I was here now, I had held my place, and I was going to rule well, or as well as I could. I was going to make sure all the bloodshed led to something good after all.
I slipped into the chair at the head of the room.
“All right,” I said. “Let’s begin.”