I shook my head. “They might claim to have escaped my brother, but it’s just as likely they are lying. They could be spies, or worse, insurgents with orders to stir up what chaos they can.”
“Insurgents? There are children amongst them. Stones and sky, there are babies still in their mothers’ arms!”
“Roland is a child.”
Fred threw the jug of wine across the room, where it splattered against the wall, the air filling with the smell of cinnamon and cloves. Souris promptly ran over to the mess and began licking it up.
“A child can point a pistol as well as any man,” I explained. “Letting them in Trianon would put all those whom we know to be loyal at risk, which would be a disservice to them.”
“I’m not turning them away.”
I sighed, and sipped at my drink only to find my cup was empty. “I don’t recall giving you a choice in the matter.”
Expletives fountained from his mouth, and I catalogued a few away for future use.
“You can’t turn them away, Your Highness.” Sabine came into the room wearing a gown that was too elaborate and costly to be hers, and judging from the sheen of her hair, she’d heeded my earlier advice and bathed. “It is a strategically poor decision in the long run,” she continued. “The people of the Isle will see you as callous and cruel, and they will hate you for it and seek to betray you.”
“Don’t they understand–”
She held up a hand. “No. They don’t. You must think of another solution.”
I set my cup down and extracted a map of the city from a pile, spreading it out smooth. “Is there room at the Bastille?”
“Putting famers and their families in a prison lousy with vermin and disease is no better.”
Frowning, I traced a finger over the map. “The opera house, then. It is easily secured, and it’s likely more comfortable than any residence these farmers have ever known.”
Sabine closed her eyes and muttered something I couldn’t make out before saying, “It will do.”
“Provide what they need,” I said to Fred. “They’re your responsibility.”
He turned and left without acknowledging the order, and Sabine gave me a black look as she sat, crossing her ankles beneath her chair.
We’d been through this earlier, her explaining that my reactions were inappropriate, hurtful, and offensive. That Cécile’s magic had wiped away not only the emotions I felt from her, but also my own. I believed her; knew, logically, that my mind was altered from its normal state. But I felt no displeasure or discomfort with the change – quite the opposite, as my ability to focus on a singular problem for hours at a time could only be an advantage.
“Is Cécile alive?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“What if she’s hurt? Would you know?”
I shrugged. “Likely.”
“What if she needs your help?”
It seemed to me that Sabine was missing the logic behind why Cécile had created the seeds in the first place. “If it is dire, she can always use my name.” I refrained from adding that if there were a way to eliminate that particular avenue, I’d do it. Cécile had all but offered to promise never to use my name, but I hadn’t taken her up on it. That had been a mistake.
“I’m going up into the tower,” she said. “Are you coming?”
I shook my head. With Fred gone and Sabine lingering outside, I’d have a rare moment alone to think, and I intended to use it. Ignoring her exasperated snort, I waited until I heard the click of the door latch shutting, and then sat on a chair and let myself slip into my thoughts.
Nearly everything I knew about the fey was information I’d been told or read. Nearly all, because, for a brief moment at the height of summer, I’d been in Arcadia and met the Winter Queen. It was into that memory that I delved.
It had hurt. The moment when my heart had stopped and I’d felt the bond between Cécile and me sever almost completely, the few frayed threads doing nothing to combat the feeling of loss. The empty void in my mind where my sense of her, and all her kaleidoscope of emotions, had lived.
Darkness.
Then the scent of grass and flowers and rain had filled my nose, and I’d opened my eyes to meet the verdelite gaze of a woman, her breath icy against my cheek. “Greetings, mortal.”
I’d tried to scramble back, but my wrists and ankles had been bound to the earth with ice, which, inexplicably, I couldn’t break. I reached for my power, but it wasn’t there.
“The last fleeting moment of consciousness of a soulless thing has no magic, mortal.” She smiled, revealing a mouth full of fangs. “You’ve little time – she has little time – and we’ve much to discuss.”
Cécile. If I was dead, then she… “Who are you,” I demanded, though I already knew. This was Arcadia. We were in a meadow, and all around things grew lush and fragrant. Alive. Except, where her hands rested, the grass was brown. Death snaked out and away from her, leaves changing color and falling from the trees, petals withering into dried little husks. Which should not be possible. Not at the height of summer, in the depths of my uncle’s court.