Page 18 of The Crimson Throne (Spy and Guardian #1)

Samson

I gotta get used to being in a maelstrom in Scotland, it seems. I intended on finding my room in the castle—and snooping a bit, under the guise of being lost—but another servant clambered up to me, saying he’d heard I was Latimer’s proxy, and the queen demanded I be sent to her as soon as I arrived, seeing as I was the last one she was waiting on.

And now I’m standing in a room with the queen of Scotland.

Alone in a room with the queen of Scotland.

Less than a week ago, I was bailing prisoners out of the Clink.

I keep my attention straight ahead rather than glance back at the door Alyth just left through.

The room still smells like her a bit. Or rather, it smells like the moors did: crisp, wild petrichor.

Mary tips her head where she’s sitting behind a desk near the window. She’s slight, but nothing about her bearing echoes that, all the room-filling self-importance I’m used to from Cecil. It makes me grateful for the barrier of the desk between us.

She waves at a chair in front of her. “Sit. Please.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to make an excuse and leave. But I’m where I need to be, in Mary’s private quarters. Talking to the woman herself, who supposedly has the item that cursed me.

Somewhere, somehow, she’s gotten her hands on the thing that’s keeping me from having any semblance of a normal life, of a life not having to worry about losing consciousness and hurting people I care about.

That resettles me. Refocuses.

Here, I’m not Samson, not anyone but a means to an end of getting my hands on that fae magic. She’s a queen, but it’s the same game at its core: I’ll bow and scrape and make a right fool of myself, no different from pulling a con on a mark in London.

I’m glad suddenly that the queen sent Alyth away. I thought it’d be easier keeping my facade with her around, but I find the idea of her seeing me perform uncomfortable. Not because I fear she’ll see through me but because I feel ashamed, I think.

Christ, what’s wrong with me? Losing it over a pair of pretty eyes.

Pretty, deadly, intense eyes.

Focus.

I sink into the chair Mary indicated and take in the room with a quick sweep. It’s got the desk, a few chairs, an area off to the side near the fireplace with a sewing project laid next to a bench. There are two doors: one I came through and one that must go farther into Mary’s rooms.

Doubtful she’d hide her magic items in a room where she receives guests.

My eyes linger on the other door. That’s the queen’s private chambers. I’m damn lucky I got this far.

I’ll have to break in, won’t I? To properly search.

“My, look at how the sun captures the orange in your hair.”

I jerk my gaze back to hers, and she gives a smile, one I’ve seen plenty in Southwark. Mostly on the faces of people leaning out the doors of whorehouses, enticing customers.

Oh. Can the queen of Scotland tell I just compared her to a working lady in my head?

Mary stands, and when I make a move to follow her, she waves me back to stay seated. The desk’s still between us, but I keep my posture easy, relaxed, unthreatened.

She’s gazing at my head. No—my hair.

“Your hair truly is remarkable,” she coos. “What an extraordinary color.”

I fight not to run my hand through it. “Thank you, Your Highness. It was my ma’s color.” And I’ve been told more than once that on the color alone, I could take my pick of work the same way she did. But she made me promise I wouldn’t follow in her steps. That I’d do better.

But the way Mary’s looking at me…

There’s one way I could get farther into her rooms.

I blanch. Can’t help it. It comes on me in a spasm, and Mary frowns, offense sharp.

“Do my compliments repulse you?” she asks, her words all tight, tinged with a French accent that intensifies in her displeasure.

“No, Your Highness,” I say quickly. “It was merely a sad association. My mother’s dead, you see. And being reminded of her—”

Mary softens. A little. Her expression tells me she’s fixed to slip back into offense if I don’t play along.

“I lost my own mother as well,” Mary says, but there’s no grief in her tone. “I understand the pain.”

My head dips in a bow. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

“I had hoped Latimer would be in attendance.” She comes around the desk.

I follow her movements until she’s next to my chair. A shudder tries to climb up my spine, but I knock it right back down.

“He sends his apologies, Your Highness,” I tell her.

Mary hums thoughtfully. “But you are to act in his stead, in all things?”

She’s so close to me, I can feel the heat coming off her body.

What’s she implying?

My throat’s bone-dry. “Yes, my queen. Of course.”

“Hm.” Mary reaches toward me and takes a lock of my hair in her fingers.

I fight the stiffening that cramps my spine. That’s not what she’s implying, is it?

“You won’t fail me, will you, Samson?”

I shake my head, and it dislodges my hair from her fingers. “No, Your Highness.”

A satisfied smile pulls across her mouth. She watches me for a long moment, like she’s trying to pry out what I do or don’t know, what Latimer might’ve told me.

No, this won’t be like pulling a con on a mark in London. Not at all.

There, I knew the board, even with Cecil’s manipulations. But here?

There are secrets I don’t know, secrets Cecil doesn’t know, and every move I make knocks into pieces I’m not even aware are in play.

“You are dismissed,” Mary tells me. She stays against the chair, but I rise slowly, keeping my body angled forward. Not brushing against her, not leaning into any of the flirting.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” I say, then step aside to drop into a low bow.

“I will see you at the meeting of my lords. And, Samson?”

I’m still in that bow. I hold it.

“You do not have to fear me,” she says softly.

I glance up at her, neck craning from the awkward angle. For a moment, she’s softer, younger. More innocent.

It’s a mask.

All I can do is nod my way out of the room. Once the door’s shut behind me, I blow out an exhale.

And then jump damn near out of my skin when that man—Mary’s secretary?—peels away from the wall.

Before I can get too defensive, he gives me a sympathetic smile. “I can show you to the meeting room. I’m Joseph Rizzio, by the way.”

My shoulders straighten. I’m still coated in travel grime, but if I didn’t get a beat to clean off before meeting the queen, I doubt it much matters now.

I nod at Joseph. “I’d appreciate it. Do you know if Alyth—”

I bite my cheek.

Doesn’t matter if Alyth’ll be at this meeting. She was sent to summon the lords, but that doesn’t mean she’ll be there too.

Why was my first thought about finding her?

She’s my best bet at searching Mary’s rooms. She’s probably got keys to them, knows when Mary will or won’t be in there. Probably even knows of any hidden compartments.

That’s the only reason.

Joseph grins at me. “Yes, she’ll be there. Why?”

How do I want to play this? The suave, confident man come busting into court, womanizing his way through ladies? But the best lies play on truth.

“We traveled together from the border. I wanted to thank her. Didn’t get a chance to, for helping me find the way to the castle.”

Joseph nods slowly and sets off down the hall. I follow.

“I’m sure that’s the reason,” he says. “Good luck with that.”

My gaze locks to the side of his head at his tone. “Do you know her?”

Joseph fiddles with something in the book he’s holding, seems to be notes with missives tucked in the pages. “I do.”

That’s all he gives me. For several beats as we twist through the castle.

Until he cuts a smile. “That’s why I said ‘good luck.’” He winks. “Our Alyth’s about as open to…being thanked as a feral cat. You may want to direct your thanks elsewhere.”

I can’t help but grin at his teasing. Maybe he’s a way into Mary’s chambers too, as open as he is. The queen really should do a better job of getting a more discriminating secretary; this man’s far too open, far too friendly.

“That feels accurate from what I know of her,” I say.

Joseph laughs. And I wonder briefly if he’s directing me off Alyth because he’s sweet on her himself, but I don’t get that intent from him, not as he starts telling me about the parties he’s helped arrange for the christening and how pretty girls will be aplenty at them.

In another life, that’s all I’d care about. Drinking and dancing and flirting. Finding Alyth and saying something to get that smile of hers to dawn again, seeing what I can do to make her cheeks stain that lovely shade of pink.

No—not in another life. In this life, once I break my curse.

I’ll get this purely one day. I really will come back here, relive this somehow, and enjoy it. Same as I’ll make amends with Hal and Oskar. I’m stacking up promises to myself, prizes sitting at the end of all this, a siren calling me to do whatever it takes to reach the other side.

If I want that, I’m going to have to play this game better. Not just to get the fae item I came here for but to get out of this alive at all.

One slip, and everything comes crashing down around me.