Page 7 of Disillusioned (A Lay of Ruinous Reign #2)

He stepped back, the disappointment in his face very nearly disgust. “What have you seen in Brocéliande?” He swallowed roughly, as if any reminder of her time in that enchanted wood was still jarring for him. “What happened that made you so… so unmoved?”

“The friends you and mother considered as family, plotting to overthrow me. That’s what.” She watched her words sink in. “Vivien deserved it. She was a horrible person.”

Henri neared, got in her face, his own now purple with anger. “Never repeat that outside this room.”

She swallowed, tears loosening without her permission.

Her mind spun with the new information thrown at her, compiled on her nerves for the evening.

How was Henri so blind—how had both of her parents missed it?

Even if they chose to remain blind to the fact that Daemons were no more inherently evil than humans could ever be, they still refused to stand against the Le Tallecs in a way that mattered.

It was so difficult not to fault Henri and Marguerite for their lack of protection of her.

They’d been too preoccupied with protecting their own reputation.

He searched her face, but she pressed her lips together.

“What of the vampires?” he asked again. It was clear he would not let it drop.

“And what of men? What of serpents in one’s own court who disguise themselves as allies and wait for the perfect moment to usurp the crown? What of boys who use their titles as shields as they terrorize whatever and whomever they want until they are satisfied?”

She bent, grasping the hem of her gown and tugging one side up to reveal the long scar that ran from mid shin, across her right knee and to her lower thigh.

The bruises and scrapes were healed, but the shadows of scars were still visible, pink and raised.

Her dagger was visible, tucked beneath her sheer stockings, but he didn’t seem to notice or care.

Henri’s eyes hardened.

“This is from fighting off Sinclair the night he returned to tell everyone I’d run off with vampires.” She turned back to the door. “Vampires were never whom I needed saving from, Father.”

Lilac found Yanna and Isabel waiting at the top of the steps.

She greeted them with a curt nod, not bothering to hide the sheen on her cheeks and swollen eyes as they trailed her to her bedroom.

Taking turns speaking as if they had rehearsed their speech, they informed her a hot bath was drawn, her travel bag set on the bed, and her trunk loaded onto the trolley downstairs.

It had been packed for one week’s time at her request—even if, they reminded her, she would be gone only for a full day at most.

As soon as she reached her door, she bid her maids good night and requested they send up two staff members from the scullery before dismissing them, shutting the door, and locking it.

Lilac expected the knots of dread in her chest to unfurl once she was finally alone, but as she yanked her curtains shut and fumbled with the ribbons at her waist, they only grew tighter, constricting her from within.

In the past week she’d barely eaten, her sleep schedule erratic as she’d dreaded the meeting and facing Kestrel. She was nervous enough.

Once out of her gown, she hastily scrubbed the thick layer of powder off her face and lowered herself into the bath, where rose hips swirled around her shoulders and clung to her skin.

Willing herself to focus on the heat, inhaling the fragrant steam, she slid to focus on the smear of orange light streaming in from beyond her bed.

It was where he had bitten her. Where he’d held her. Even that thought made her stomach flutter.

The next day, Garin was roaming the halls as Father Guillaume’s replacement again, throwing solemn, if not lazy, glances her way as if none of it had ever happened.

He’d then disappeared for what felt like ages, only to show up again the next Sunday to assist the priest they invited from the Paimpont abbey with Mass, feigning all too well the appearance of a young, disheveled deacon—Budoc, they called him—who had learned too late into his vocation that he despised his work.

Henri was quick to suggest sending him back to the clergy in St. Malo, where he’d claimed to be from, and it was this dismissal that had cleverly brought Garin’s disguised time at the castle to an end. She hadn’t seen him in a little over a week.

How, then, had he done it? When?

Her hands shook as she washed herself, swallowing bile. She shut her eyes, trying to block out the image burned in her mind, not wanting to think of the state of rot or the stench of the arm, or the rest of her body.

The leader of the Brocéliande vampire coven was a lethal sort of showman, after all. That’s who he was. He would not pander tact where he saw brutality more fitting.

But it was Garin she’d gotten to know during their short journey together.

The vampire who made her laugh, who protected and challenged her.

Who’d led her to his parents’ farmhouse, knowing they’d be safe there.

He’d taken her and made her come until she felt her body and soul would split beneath him.

That night they left his home knowing more of each other, yet nothing at all.

She’d see him tonight and had no idea what to expect.

Teeth chattering, she dragged herself from the bath and threw a piece of wood onto the fire before collecting Kestrel’s unopened envelope from her drawer.

Handling it at the corner as if it might combust, she tucked it deep into her travel bag, which she’d packed with her little comforts.

She could open it there, where she felt safe.

There was a dress the color of ivy laid across the chair near her vanity.

Although the gold embellishment against it made it fussier than she preferred, it was light enough for summer travel and had a built-in corset, so she donned the dress herself.

In front of the fireplace, Lilac slid her dagger down the side of her garter and pulled on one of the thick cloaks from her armoire, hoping to shake the cold that would not leave her.

Garin had killed Vivien in cold blood; that was, to her chagrin, the most believable part of all this.

Why would he send Armand to her with an arm?

Why hadn’t he done it discreetly—why the need for this charade?

If she was supposed to be finalizing the draft for the Accords tonight, a new treaty to protect Daemons from the cruelty and prejudices of her kingdom, why would he make his revenge such a public ordeal?

The sun was under the treetops when she was ready to leave. Lilac grunted, hoisting the travel satchel onto her back, when a rapid knock came at the door.

“You’ll ruin your posture. Further ,” her mother squeaked, eyeing the bag as she pulled the door open, two fingers pressed to her lips in disapproval before waving them at the bowing pair of flour-dusted men at her rear. Two of Hedwig’s aides, as she’d requested.

“Loading the carriage so early?”

Lilac stepped into the hall, taking her time before answering her mother. Uttering her thanks to the men, she gestured to the half bushels of grain she’d deposited next to her fireplace.

“Departing, actually.”

Marguerite crossed her arms and watched them hoist the large bags out of the room and down the stairs. “You can always requisition your donations to the business in question instead of hoarding them in here like some paranoid peasant. I thought you told us you’d leave after dark?”

“I’ve got this one, thank you,” Lilac told the last gentleman, who put a hand out for her satchel.

She gave him a gracious smile to spite Marguerite’s disapproving frown as he bowed and departed.

“Well, I considered your strongly worded advice from yesterday, and I agree with you. It isn’t safe to travel at night.

” Marguerite had begged her to cancel her trip.

“There’s plenty of sun out for another hour or so. ”

Marguerite’s glare lessened. It faded altogether when she stepped back and regarded the queen’s proper clothing and neatly brushed hair. Squinting suspiciously, she craned to peek into the cracked doorway of Lilac’s quarters.

“Are you looking for something?” Lilac asked, edging toward the staircase. “For someone?”

“Where are Yanna and Isabel?”

“I dismissed them for the rest of the day.”

The strain in the former queen’s voice matched the vein growing more evident at the middle of her forehead. “They’re here to—to?—”

“To monitor me.”

“ Protect you.”

“What is it they need to protect me from? Who? The two of them together don’t do half the job Piper did.”

Lilac waited, silently daring her to mention the Daemons or the vampires Sinclair had told everyone she’d run away with.

But Marguerite merely turned to face Lilac after glancing once more into her open doorway, her own fine gown twirling around her ankles, eyes slitted.

“That Piper girl did anything but keep you from danger. I don’t know what came over you to make these plans before I could help prepare you for a public appearance. ”

Her mother’s forehead creased, her lip pouted. Years ago, a younger Lilac would have fallen for it—believed that Marguerite was truly concerned for her safety and not her own reputation.

“I am the queen,” Lilac calmly reminded her. “I can make whatever plans I choose.”

Her still demeanor irked Marguerite even more. She scoffed. “A queen who knows nothing of the world.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Certainly not mine.” Marguerite shuddered, as if the thought of shouldering the blame horrified her far more than any temporary comfort she could give her daughter. “It was not I who filled your head with whatever delusion caused you to learn to do that .”

Marguerite’s words stung like a slap.

“Learn?” Lilac gripped the bannister. “You believe I taught myself the arcana lingua?”

Her mother’s eyes narrowed at the term. “How else would you have learned?”