Page 16 of The Crimson Throne (Spy and Guardian #1)

Alyth

I’m so disgusted by the sight of Darnley’s temper tantrum that I practically flee the yard.

But I feel Samson’s eyes watching me, burning right through me, and I’m reminded so intensely of that damn dream I had last night that I know if I stay around him a second longer, he’ll spot the splotches of telltale red spreading on my skin.

Even though he needles me every time he opens that mouth of his, I can’t seem to drive him from my thoughts.

I go immediately into the kitchen, stealing a jar of marmalade, another of cream, and a cloth-wrapped bundle of scones, and then I head back to my own quarters, where I kneel in front of my hearth, logs laid in the center but no fire lit.

It’s time to tempt a brownie.

Brownies are shy things, preferring to stay hidden. But they’ll come out for me sometimes, if I ask nicely.

I radiate my magic, warm and welcoming with a promise of more treats than the usual bowl of cream I set out every night.

Sure enough, a shadow takes form after a few minutes, and the silent, small steps of a little brownie girl creep closer to me.

I hold out the tiny wax-stoppered jar of Mary’s own orange marmalade, a gift from her sister-in-law, the queen of Spain.

The little brownie waits for me to set the jar on the hearthstone and lean back before she darts forward.

The jar is only wide enough for a spoon, but the brownie is about the size of a small cat standing on its back legs.

I open it for her, and she dips her whole hand into the jar, scooping out a palmful of sticky orange jam sprinkled with thin strips of candied rinds, then licking her hand and sucking on each fingertip.

I let the brownie eat in silence. That’s the way of things with the fae: give first, request second.

Or at least these minor fae, like brownies.

The high fae, the ones who rule the Seelie Court, are different.

A prince of the Seelie Court would never gobble up marmalade and then pay off the debt with a favor.

No, someone like my father would know exactly what the favor would be before he agreed to accept the offering, and he would make sure there were loopholes in any agreement that would bind me to him and give him the better deal.

But the brownies are dear little things, and they care only about making the house they live in a home, even if that house is actually Stirling Castle.

I’ve chatted with this particular brownie before, and while she never gives me a name, I think of her as Kitty in my mind, for the way she licks her knuckles clean, just as she’s doing now, her tiny pink tongue darting out and finishing up the remainders of marmalade that cling to her fuzzy skin.

“I’ll make your fire so warm tonight,” she says, practically purring.

“Actually, I wanted to ask a different favor of you.”

Kitty pauses, mid-lick, her tongue stuck to the back of her left hand as her eyes narrow to me.

“Can you please ensure the queen’s chamber stays locked and no one enters it throughout the night?” I unwrap the scones slowly, noting the way her eyes track the treat. I pour the cream into the bowl I keep at the hearth.

Kitty turns her attention back to her grooming, but I see a little nod. “Will jam up the doors and locks,” she tells the back of her hand, then giggles. “Jam.”

She reaches for a scone, tossing aside the bit of cloth I wrapped it in and dunking it into the bowl of cream before grabbing up soggy handfuls of crumbs and stuffing them in her cheeks.

“Not even the queen’s husband should enter,” I add.

Kitty pauses, her head cocking. “He’s her mate,” she says.

Many things are black-and-white to the fae. I am good, because I give Kitty gifts. The queen is good, because the castle, Kitty’s home, is hers, and the queen works to keep it nice. The queen’s husband is good, because he is married to the good queen.

Except…

“The husband is her mate,” I agree. “Lord Darnley. But…he is not a good mate.”

Kitty scowls, thinking over what I said while she eats more soggy crumbs.

“I…worry,” I tell her. Kitty is older than me; she’s lived in the castle for generations. She has seen some of the political turmoil of past kings, the mistresses kept in bedrooms down the hall from their wife’s chambers.

“Mary is—” I start.

“Kind Mary,” the brownie says, then sticks her tongue out. “Unwise to say the name.”

The fae keep names private.

“Humans share their names,” I remind her gently.

“Mm.” Kitty grunts, eyeing me. “Alyth Graham.”

I give her a tiny smile. Humans cannot be controlled with their names, not like the fae. But I have another name, one my father bestowed on me. And I have never told Kitty—or anyone—that name.

“Darnley, Mary’s mate,” I say, bringing the brownie back to the task at hand. “He is not to be trusted. He is not a good man. And I fear he would take advantage of the queen.”

“Advantage?” Kitty asks, making a lewd gesture.

“Yes. Like that.”

“She would tell him no if she did not want that.”

“He would not listen.”

“Then she should kill him!” Kitty roars, standing up so abruptly that some of the cream sloshes from the bowl. She ignores it, hands on her hips, glaring. “No man should take that from a woman, mated or not!”

“I agree. That is why I am asking you to help keep her doors locked.”

“She is a queen!” Kitty shouts, still affronted. “She does not need protection from husband! He is beneath her!”

Emotion chokes my voice.

Because Kitty is right.

But so am I. And to men like Darnley, no woman is a queen.

No woman deserves power. Especially not the kind that would mean he was refused anything he wanted.

And revenge takes many forms behind closed doors.

“She should kill him,” Kitty says firmly. “Stab him with a sword if he tries to stab her with his—”

“It’s a little more complicated than that,” I say gently. “It is not an easy thing to kill a king.”

“You’re wrong,” Kitty snarls. “They die like any other man.”

“Wee bloodthirsty monster,” I mumble, and Kitty preens. “I’ll tell you a secret,” I add, louder. “There may come a time when we get to kill Darnley.”

“You don’t need to give me a scone!” Kitty declares. “I shall do it for fun.” She pauses. “But I would like—”

“If it comes to it, I’ll give you a dozen scones,” I assure her. She purrs in response. “But first, I want to get some information out of him.” I just have to figure out how he got a Red Cap weapon…and which other ones he has.

She knows this. I’ve had the Leths and the fae who reside in or near the castle on high alert since David was murdered.

“What about the other humans who have arrived?” Kitty asks. “Can I stab any of them?”

I laugh. “They’re guests at Mary’s invitation. They come to see the baby.”

Kitty licks up some crumbs, mumbling something about the baby. Brownies adore children; the little prince’s nursery has been kept warm and safe since the minute Mary arrived at Stirling with him.

I stand. Kitty watches me from her position at the hearth. “Any news,” I remind her, “and I’ll be sure to make it worth your while.”

Even if it takes every scone in Scotland to pay her.

***

The queen of Scotland looks up at me when I enter her private quarters.

She sits at her desk, but when I draw closer, she shuffles some papers she was reading into a lockbox.

I raise an eyebrow, but she doesn’t even try to hide the fact that she’s unwilling to share whatever private notes she had with me.

Fine. I can do the talking. Because there’s something…off about everything that’s been happening, and after seeing the way Samson spoke with Darnley, I’m starting to wonder if Latimer’s secretary is tied up in all this, no matter how much I get lost in those green eyes of his.

“Oh, you’re back.” She watches me coolly.

“Aye.” Two can play this game.

Mary sniffs. “You should never leave without my express permission.”

“Why?”

I state the word flatly, and I don’t break eye contact with her when she looks up at me in surprise. She’s not used to having her authority questioned.

She’s not used to me asserting my own.

Finally she sighs, leaning back in her seat. She has yet to offer me a chair. “It was highly inconvenient of you to just disappear like that.”

It was highly inconvenient to race to the border and murder a man, I think.

She’s waiting. For an apology, I realize.

Well, she can keep waiting.

“I needed you here,” she continues, a hint of whine in her voice. And part of me sympathizes, even though I know in my absence, the other Leths amped up their protection of the queen.

She is so desperately alone. When Mary lived in France, she was treated as if she had to do nothing more than look pretty all her life while everyone fawned over her.

And she excelled at the role of cherished princess, truthfully.

Tall and regal, the queen is the picture of beauty, her skin like porcelain, her hair soft, her eyes clear.

And that would have been her life if her first husband hadn’t died when they were both about my age now.

She would have been the queen of France and Scotland, making her the most powerful woman in Europe, poised to take England too, and her husband, the Dauphin of France, would be king and do all the work for her.

But she lost him, and she lost France, and now all she’s left with is Darnley and Scotland, a husband who hates her and a land that demands labor, not beauty.

Mary shifts in her seat, and the morning light makes the gold around her neck glimmer, the pearls in her hair shine. When she moves, her silk skirts rustle, heavy with handmade lace imported from Italy and embroidered with details made by at least a dozen women working for weeks, months even.

It is a difficult thing, pitying a queen.

I let out a breath. Some things aren’t worth saying aloud.

Mary rolls her eyes. “I needed you,” she continues, accusation still laced in her voice, “because I wanted you to inspect my lords.”