Page 20 of The Crimson Throne (Spy and Guardian #1)

Samson

This meeting’s about offing Mary’s husband.

Not attacking Elizabeth—with or without fae magic, like Cecil suspected. How many of the people in this meeting even know about the existence of fae magic?

Mary doesn’t seem concerned about Elizabeth at all. None of the lords here do. They don’t like her, sure, but they aren’t actively plotting to invade England.

It’d have been too easy for this meeting to actually be about that, for Cecil to have given me direct information regarding any part of this mission. Shoulda known even Cecil’s bit about Mary having the fae items to target Elizabeth wasn’t the whole truth of things.

Even when I know better, I slip and think I can rely on at least one small piece of his information. All it does is put me on the back foot.

“And what does Latimer think of this?”

I go cold.

Mary’s ignored me this whole meeting. But the way she’s staring directly at me says she’s hoping I say…something.

Something Latimer’s real proxy would’ve known to say.

Ah, shit.

I take a step forward, shoulders back and chin high. Not all the way to the throne but so I’m not hiding behind any of the men.

Mary’s paused in her sewing, her fabric gone slack in her lap.

That earlier way she looked at me, flirty and giggly, is gone. She’s regal now, looking down her nose at me. Alyth, just beside the throne, is shooting me a glare.

“Your Highness.” I bow low. As I rise, I run through everything I recall being said about getting rid of Darnley.

And not just about Darnley but the way Mary reacted to what was said.

What support is she looking for?

But more than that—how best do I go about getting what I need out of this meeting, which is to figure out whether Mary’s actually got those fae items Cecil sent me after?

By the time I’m upright, my face is grim. “Lord Latimer is of a similar mind as Lord Bothwell.”

It’s a risk. A big one.

The man himself cocks his head at me, overly pleased. “Ah, Latimer always was smart,” Bothwell says.

Time for an even bigger risk.

My focus stays on Mary. “And my master believes we have evolved beyond the old ways of eliminating such obstacles and that surely Your Highness has resources for disposing of your husband in ways that would be far more…elegant.”

Talk about fae weapons you have, I want to shout. If you’ve got magic, now’s the time to use it.

Those lords still standing around me shift uneasily. I’m pushing her, and even if no one else really knows why, they all know my words are implying the queen’s holding something back.

Mary looks down at her sewing, plucks the needle through the fabric, and drags the thread out.

“You mention your master,” she continues. “Latimer, you mean, not the king, my husband?”

A muscle jumps in my brow, but the rest of me stays still. “Your Highness?”

“I have been told, secretary,” Mary says, still watching her sewing, “that you and my husband are on friendly terms.”

“I barely know the man, Your Highness.”

“That is not what was reported when he arrived earlier today.”

My hands ball against my back, and I force them loose. “He’s taken an interest in me, it seems,” I tell her, unaffected.

That makes Mary flare angry eyes at me. I have to brace not to react, the mood of the room tight with anticipation.

Instinct has my mind flooding with escape routes: the door at the rear of the room. Maybe I can pry open a window.

No chance I’d make it past this horde of loyal men, though, if Mary’s turned against me.

But I breathe through the quick spike of unease. Just play it through. Don’t make moves based on assumptions.

“And where do your loyalties lie?” she asks. Her sewing rests in her lap again, her head tipping. “With him or with your queen?”

The whole room’s hanging on my answer. Hanging in concern, some, but hanging in amusement mostly. Lord Latimer falling out of favor with the queen via his secretary is a scandal that her court would see fit to gobble down.

But I pay no attention to any of those vultures. It’s Mary I watch.

Mary and Alyth.

Alyth’s eyes fly over me, head to toe and back again, looking, searching. She’s reading something in me, something in the way I stand or the way I shift, and I stare at her for a too-long beat, trying to figure out how I’m giving myself away. What tells has she figured out in this short of a time?

I face Mary again, doing my best to ignore Alyth and the heat of her focus. It rubs everywhere she looks, a visceral touch, and I damn near shiver at it. Wrong place for such thoughts.

“Your Highness,” I say, then bow again. “I am loyal to you, my queen. Your husband merely took interest in my English lineage. I am your servant before I am Latimer’s, before any heritage I have been burdened with, before anyone else.

If I have given you reason to distrust me, I offer my sincerest apologies and beg your leave to prove my devotion. ”

For the smallest moment, Mary looks over her shoulder at Alyth. They make eye contact, but nothing passes between them, no change in expression, no whispered word.

Mary’s grip on her sewing tightens, and I frown at it, frown at the way Alyth’s fingers twitch at her side.

Mary faces me again. “Permission granted, secretary,” she says. “I know of a way in which you might prove your devotion now.”

I nod. “Of course, Your Highness. Anything.”

“Given the king, my husband, finds you so…amicable, I would ask you to take advantage of that and gain his trust. Ascertain if he is aware of these plots or if, perhaps, there is a weakness in his armor we have not exploited.” Her face breaks with that girlish smile from our first meeting.

It’s an uncomfortable, forced contrast to her stoic bearing.

“Latimer is right. I do have resources I have not tapped, it seems.”

Jesus bloody Christ.

Spying on Mary for Cecil.

Spying on Darnley for Mary.

Who’ll Darnley have me looking into? England? Make the circle complete.

“There is only one outcome,” Bothwell pipes up; he’s the sort who seems unhappy to go unnoticed for too long. “He must die, Your Highness. Having a man on the inside of his circle would be of use for that.”

I cringe. Kill Darnley?

Of course. Of course that’s what I’d be used for. Even if they don’t know what I really am, what tool I really possess for them—it’s found me all the same.

My mistake folds back on me immediately: I made a face of disgust.

Mary notes it and tips her head. “You would not kill him, secretary. But you are loyal to me, are you not?” she asks, a threat behind her crooning words. “Getting close to him won’t be a problem?”

I bow low, my hair hanging over my face. “Of course not, Your Highness. Consider it done.”

And if I do her this favor, prove myself to her, maybe she’ll trust me more. Bring me into her circle. Tell me about hidden fae magic she’s got.

That’ll take years, won’t it? Years of ingratiating myself with her.

My heart sinks, a leaden weight I can feel tugging on my throat.

“There.” Through my hair, I see Mary stand from her throne.

“That’s settled. Latimer’s secretary will investigate any other options for being rid of the king, my husband.

It is indeed a path we have not taken, having someone inside his personal circle looking into what weak points he may have.

We will reconvene before the christening. ”

I straighten as Mary leaves and the room breaks apart, but my body is sore, every muscle wound to the point of cramping.

They’re gonna twist me up to have to kill the bastard myself. Then what? They’ll just let me trot merrily off after committing regicide like that?

Worst-case scenarios bubble up inside me and spill over, leaving me wrestling down my racing heart and rising fury. I can feel my skin getting hot, can feel anger pushing at all my soft spots.

It’s my fate now, getting blood on my hands. Cecil made me a murderer, and I—

No. I don’t know if I actually killed that rival of his. But I made myself an attacker.

Murder’s always been what I was barreling toward, and I’ve been fighting it for years, but I’m so bloody tired of fighting it. I’m so close to getting free of it—but I won’t, not until I do this, will I? It’s destiny, one last blow of the curse.

Alyth’s in front of me.

I don’t know for how long, didn’t even realize we’re now alone in this big, empty room until I lock on her scowling face.

Those eyes dip over me, studying me through my skin, seeing my bones and soul. “You’re upset,” she says.

“Wouldn’t you be?” I snap. I don’t even try to soften it. “Getting accused of being linked to a boar like him. Being asked to get close to him. I’ll have to spend time with that absolute prick now rather than—” Don’t say too much.

I cut myself off and scrub a hand down my face, around to the back of my neck. My fingers get caught in the necklace from Cecil, and I damn near rip it off just for somewhere to direct my anger.

My eyes close. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be yelling at you. It’s just been a long few days, and I can’t be arsed to hold my tongue.”

Alyth hums. It’s thoughtful, not furious, and makes me look at her.

“You really hate him.” It’s not a question. She’s seeing something in me, whatever it is she can read.

“Obviously,” I say. My arm drops. “What about me makes you think I wouldn’t?”

Alyth’s eyes follow that tracing path still, down my face, down—and stop. On my neck.

I realize a beat too late that I dislodged that necklace, and she can see it.