Of Silk and Steam
Page 33
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Taking a deep shuddering breath, she gathered herself. Not the time for weakness. She had to…to collect herself. Protect her household, her loyal staff members…
Only then could she turn to the bed. A shaking hand reached out, flipping the bed pane over the cat’s body. Still warm.
That was the thought that undid her.
A sob caught her by surprise. Mina bit into her knuckles, her knees going out from under her. Pressing her face against the counterpane and moaning into it as her hands curled into claws in the carpet. She wanted to scream her pain and rage out into the world. All of her losses compounded upon her—her brother, Stephen; her grief-stricken mother; and her father, slowly fading before her eyes. All she’d ever wanted was to create a safe place for herself and those she loved, and Balfour had sent his Falcons to destroy it.
Mina grabbed the edge of the counterpane as she dragged herself onto her knees. Barrons’s warning rang in her ears. If they meant to cow her…
I will kill the prince consort. I’ll kill them all.
“Your Grace!” Grimsby’s voice intruded, his hands clutching at her shoulders. “Your Grace, you must get up.”
She turned and somehow his arms slid around her, rocking her against his shoulder.
“Phillips, please remove the bedspread and see Her Grace’s cat buried outside in the garden. Beneath the roses, if you would. Miss Boadicea always liked to play there. Would you like that, Your Grace?”
She nodded, her face buried in the stiff starchiness of his collar, clinging to him.
“Then see that you shut the door. Her Grace is not to be disturbed, and this is not to be mentioned,” Grimsby warned.
Movement shifted around her. She wanted none of it. Then the door clicked shut, leaving her in a wretched state on the floor in her butler’s arms.
“There, there,” he murmured. “I’ve set the footmen to searching every inch of the house and checking the windows and doors. I assume they came through the bedroom window.”
“They’re gone,” she whispered, pulling back and pressing at her dry face. Nausea swirled through her.
Grimsby saw the look on her face and pressed her head down hurriedly. “Take deep breaths, Your Grace. Nice and slow.”
She did, surrendering herself into his care. When was the last time anyone had looked after her?
Barrons flashed into her mind again. The bath. The way he’d toweled her off so tenderly. A mirage in her mind, for it wasn’t real—but for the first time, she wished she’d been weak enough to turn away when her father demanded that he infect her with the craving so that she could rule the House of Casavian in his absence. Weak enough to sign a thrall contract with some blue-blood lord to be pampered and protected for the rest of her life, or until the contract expired.
Cold enough to turn away the day she’d found the crown princess crying in the garden the morning of her wedding.
Regret left a bitter aftertaste in her mouth. But you didn’t make those choices. You chose this path. Now don’t drop your head because it’s turning into a horrible slog.
“You won’t protect poor Hannah by sending her away,” Grimsby murmured. “You know she’s safer here beneath this roof.”
Mina shook her head, trying to hold her breath to calm herself.
“If you see her on her way, she’ll be alone in the world,” he continued. “Here, she can be guarded, now that we know what to expect.”
Grinding her hands into her eyes, she wiped away her grief. “Tell her…tell her that I didn’t mean it.”
“There’s also a message from the Duke of Morioch downstairs, calling a session of Council to order. It just arrived,” he said gently.
“Council?” For Morioch to be calling a Council session in the middle of the day… Something was afoot, or else they’d have waited until night. The darkness twisting inside her grew until the room sprang into black-and-white clarity. The scent of blood filled her nostrils, bringing with it a wave of red-hot fury the likes of which she’d never felt before.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Anger burned hot and furious, but she caught herself on the verge of it. Giving in to what she wanted to do would only bring further grief on her household and destroy her carefully nurtured plans.
Be patient. A mockery of the very words she’d whispered to her queen. Only now could she fully understand how it felt to receive them in the face of such pain. That, and that alone, stopped the wash of red heat through her veins, letting her think again. Her queen had borne far worse than this, a thousand times over, and only recently had she let it begin to wear on her nerves.
Mina would go to Council, sit at the prince consort’s table, and smile as she sipped her blud-wein. She owed it to Alexandra.
And in her head she would assuage her grief and anger by plotting the prince consort’s downfall in excruciating, explicit detail.
Part Two
The Betrayal
“If an injury has to be done to a man it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared.”
—Niccolò Machiavelli
Ten
Mina unpinned her mechanical spider brooch, letting her fingers brush against the wall where she deposited it as she walked past. The device could record sound from up to thirty feet away, with almost an hour’s worth of tape spooled in its tiny body. All she had to do was activate the tracking beacon in her pocket, and she would be able to find it again.
Barrons stood at the top of the stairs that led to the Council chambers, speaking to the Duke of Malloryn. The two had formerly been close friends, though the relationship had become strained over the years, she’d noticed.
As Malloryn caught sight of her, Barrons turned, his dark gaze pinning her with an intensity she couldn’t miss. Malloryn gave her figure a lazy perusal but Barrons cut straight to her face, his eyebrow arching as if in question.
There was no way Barrons could see any sign of what had happened in her expression. She was flawless, her hair curled back artfully and her lips painted the vibrant red that only she dared wear. Still, the sensation left her slightly restless. Did he see some sign of what had occurred?
“Malloryn.” She tipped her head to the other duke.
“My dear Lady Aramina,” Malloryn murmured in that mocking drawl he always affected. He was rarely serious, at least in public, though the sharp cut of his eyes showed his true nature. In the privacy of his bedroom, he’d been an entirely different man, but that had been many years ago. He continued, “Two Council sessions called in two days. Something’s afoot.”
Only then could she turn to the bed. A shaking hand reached out, flipping the bed pane over the cat’s body. Still warm.
That was the thought that undid her.
A sob caught her by surprise. Mina bit into her knuckles, her knees going out from under her. Pressing her face against the counterpane and moaning into it as her hands curled into claws in the carpet. She wanted to scream her pain and rage out into the world. All of her losses compounded upon her—her brother, Stephen; her grief-stricken mother; and her father, slowly fading before her eyes. All she’d ever wanted was to create a safe place for herself and those she loved, and Balfour had sent his Falcons to destroy it.
Mina grabbed the edge of the counterpane as she dragged herself onto her knees. Barrons’s warning rang in her ears. If they meant to cow her…
I will kill the prince consort. I’ll kill them all.
“Your Grace!” Grimsby’s voice intruded, his hands clutching at her shoulders. “Your Grace, you must get up.”
She turned and somehow his arms slid around her, rocking her against his shoulder.
“Phillips, please remove the bedspread and see Her Grace’s cat buried outside in the garden. Beneath the roses, if you would. Miss Boadicea always liked to play there. Would you like that, Your Grace?”
She nodded, her face buried in the stiff starchiness of his collar, clinging to him.
“Then see that you shut the door. Her Grace is not to be disturbed, and this is not to be mentioned,” Grimsby warned.
Movement shifted around her. She wanted none of it. Then the door clicked shut, leaving her in a wretched state on the floor in her butler’s arms.
“There, there,” he murmured. “I’ve set the footmen to searching every inch of the house and checking the windows and doors. I assume they came through the bedroom window.”
“They’re gone,” she whispered, pulling back and pressing at her dry face. Nausea swirled through her.
Grimsby saw the look on her face and pressed her head down hurriedly. “Take deep breaths, Your Grace. Nice and slow.”
She did, surrendering herself into his care. When was the last time anyone had looked after her?
Barrons flashed into her mind again. The bath. The way he’d toweled her off so tenderly. A mirage in her mind, for it wasn’t real—but for the first time, she wished she’d been weak enough to turn away when her father demanded that he infect her with the craving so that she could rule the House of Casavian in his absence. Weak enough to sign a thrall contract with some blue-blood lord to be pampered and protected for the rest of her life, or until the contract expired.
Cold enough to turn away the day she’d found the crown princess crying in the garden the morning of her wedding.
Regret left a bitter aftertaste in her mouth. But you didn’t make those choices. You chose this path. Now don’t drop your head because it’s turning into a horrible slog.
“You won’t protect poor Hannah by sending her away,” Grimsby murmured. “You know she’s safer here beneath this roof.”
Mina shook her head, trying to hold her breath to calm herself.
“If you see her on her way, she’ll be alone in the world,” he continued. “Here, she can be guarded, now that we know what to expect.”
Grinding her hands into her eyes, she wiped away her grief. “Tell her…tell her that I didn’t mean it.”
“There’s also a message from the Duke of Morioch downstairs, calling a session of Council to order. It just arrived,” he said gently.
“Council?” For Morioch to be calling a Council session in the middle of the day… Something was afoot, or else they’d have waited until night. The darkness twisting inside her grew until the room sprang into black-and-white clarity. The scent of blood filled her nostrils, bringing with it a wave of red-hot fury the likes of which she’d never felt before.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Anger burned hot and furious, but she caught herself on the verge of it. Giving in to what she wanted to do would only bring further grief on her household and destroy her carefully nurtured plans.
Be patient. A mockery of the very words she’d whispered to her queen. Only now could she fully understand how it felt to receive them in the face of such pain. That, and that alone, stopped the wash of red heat through her veins, letting her think again. Her queen had borne far worse than this, a thousand times over, and only recently had she let it begin to wear on her nerves.
Mina would go to Council, sit at the prince consort’s table, and smile as she sipped her blud-wein. She owed it to Alexandra.
And in her head she would assuage her grief and anger by plotting the prince consort’s downfall in excruciating, explicit detail.
Part Two
The Betrayal
“If an injury has to be done to a man it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared.”
—Niccolò Machiavelli
Ten
Mina unpinned her mechanical spider brooch, letting her fingers brush against the wall where she deposited it as she walked past. The device could record sound from up to thirty feet away, with almost an hour’s worth of tape spooled in its tiny body. All she had to do was activate the tracking beacon in her pocket, and she would be able to find it again.
Barrons stood at the top of the stairs that led to the Council chambers, speaking to the Duke of Malloryn. The two had formerly been close friends, though the relationship had become strained over the years, she’d noticed.
As Malloryn caught sight of her, Barrons turned, his dark gaze pinning her with an intensity she couldn’t miss. Malloryn gave her figure a lazy perusal but Barrons cut straight to her face, his eyebrow arching as if in question.
There was no way Barrons could see any sign of what had happened in her expression. She was flawless, her hair curled back artfully and her lips painted the vibrant red that only she dared wear. Still, the sensation left her slightly restless. Did he see some sign of what had occurred?
“Malloryn.” She tipped her head to the other duke.
“My dear Lady Aramina,” Malloryn murmured in that mocking drawl he always affected. He was rarely serious, at least in public, though the sharp cut of his eyes showed his true nature. In the privacy of his bedroom, he’d been an entirely different man, but that had been many years ago. He continued, “Two Council sessions called in two days. Something’s afoot.”
