Page 41 of At Midnight

Burner Phone

Flicka von Hannover

Bastien had said I could count on him.

Flicka was downstairs in one of the parlors a few days later, playing with blocks with Alina after lunch. The walls of their guest suite had become too familiar, and Flicka at least needed to see some other walls within the house.

Sophie was off somewhere shopping.

Flicka had delicately suggestedthat she might like to see the shops of Geneva, too, as it had been at least a few months since she’d been downtown to shop for Wulfie’s wedding, but Flicka was evidently still under house arrest.

Some noise happened near the front door, but Flicka couldn’t rouse herself to try to be seen by some delivery person who wouldn’t know who she was anyway.

Another set of hulking-brute guards stoodat the door to the foyer, anyway. They’d probably grab her, and then she’d have anotherunfortunate episode,as she thought of it.

Princesses and queens don’t panic. In times of stress, princesses and queens were serene and efficient, not fluttery. They held the keys and the castle while the kings were off conquering, assuming that they were not at the head of their armies like Queen Elizabeththe First.

Flicka was related to Elizabeth the First, though not directly, of course. Elizabeth probably had produced no children.

Probably.

However, Elizabeth’s grandfather, King Henry the Seventh, had arranged the marriage of his oldest daughter Margaret Tudor to King James the Fourth of Scotland. Their granddaughter had been Mary, Queen of Scots, who was a formidable queen and Flicka’s eleventhor twelfth great-grandmother through the English monarchs and Queen Victoria.

Mary, Queen of Scots had conspired to murder her husband Henry Stewart, the Lord Darnley, because their marriage was a bad one, and then she married the guy who had held the knife.

Pierre should stop and consider who Flicka’s family was before he did stupid things. Her ancestral past was littered with dead spouses.

Heck, Henry the Eighth was her however-many-greats uncle through the same Margaret Tudor, the one who executed two of his wives for the hell of it, and two more of his wives had “died” in his custody.

Pierre should watch his damn back.

Flicka sat on the floor with her back to the couch, stacking blocks with Alina, who clapped her hands because she loved playing with Flicka-mama on the floor.

At least Alina was there. Flicka smiled at her green-eyed baby.

Bastien Mirabaud strode into the parlor. “How are you?”

Flicka gathered her feet under herself and pushed against the couch to stand up. “I’m fine. Yourself?”

That was a lame thing to say. She felt like wet wool pressed all around her, dragging her down. Summoning decent conversation felt like too much effort.

Bastien said, “Sit,sit,” and toppled onto the couch, his long arms spreading over the back of it. “I’m just here to check up on you after the other day.”

“Oh, sure. I’m fine. Would you like tea?” She could handle of some Sophie’s special tea right about then.

“Oh, I’m just here for a moment.”

He was acting weird.

Flicka went with it. “Okay, well, it’s always good to see you. Had any goodWeizenbierlately?”

His sideways glance at her held months of shame. “I can’t believeyouwere delivering my martinis and beer.”

“I did a good job of it, though.”

“You did,” he acknowledged, smiling more. “I didn’t recognize you.”

“We’d never met in person, right?”