Page 21 of The Crimson Throne (Spy and Guardian #1)

Alyth

I know that necklace.

I know that thrice-damned necklace.

“Where did you get that?” I demand, crossing the short space between us and grabbing the amulet. The braided leather yanks on Samson’s neck, making him take a stumbling step closer to me, his breath catching, somehow both soft and sharp at the same time.

“My father gave it to me,” he says.

My eyes skim over his aura, and I don’t even try to hide the fact that I am looking around him, not at him.

He’s not lying.

He’s not lying that his father gave him the amulet, but I know this amulet is the same one on Darnley’s portrait of his mother, the one that hangs in Holyrood Palace.

Lady Lennox’s painted face would look smugly down on me anytime I had to be in the king consort’s chambers, and I could never forget the Celtic knotwork design.

It was such an odd choice for a woman who claimed to be devoutly religious to the Catholic church.

But…

Samson’s aura is blue and yellow; he’s telling the truth, and he’s confused.

Telling the truth as he knows it, I think. The amulet may have been given to him by his father, but where did his father get it? Samson said he lived in London, and Darnley’s been in Scotland since his marriage, but the necklace was his mother’s…

“And your mother was from London…” I muse aloud.

Samson nods, his jaw tight.

Was your mother a member of Elizabeth’s royal court?

I think to ask, then shake my head, dismissing the question.

Of course she was. For Samson to be a secretary, to know how to read and write—his mother must have been noble.

Perhaps his parents separated, with his father serving Laird Latimer in Scotland…

I shall have to explore that further. Later though.

The more pressing issue is: “Was your mother friends with Lady Lennox?”

Lady Lennox—Darnley’s mother—is Scottish, but she’s long been in England. First as a member of court, now as a royal prisoner.

Samson’s eyes are wide as plates. “Not to my knowledge.”

Truth again.

And not that out of the ordinary, given Lady Lennox’s current status. She tried to get herself named Queen of England rather than Elizabeth, but the line of succession went Protestant.

Queen Elizabeth saw Darnley’s marriage to Queen Mary as enough of a threat to imprison his mother.

Noble imprisonment is nothing like the horrific conditions of workhouses or jail for dangerous criminals; Lady Lennox has her own apartment within the Tower of London, even servants.

She’s still free to live the life of luxury her wealth and status provides. She’s just not free to leave.

Sticking Lady Lennox in the Tower sent a clear message from Queen Elizabeth to Darnley, King Consort of Scotland: Challenge my throne, and your ma’s head goes to the chopping block.

I narrow my eyes at Samson and release the amulet, throwing it down hard enough to hit him in the chest and make him expel a breath in a near-silent oof . This secretary may not have an ounce of magic in him, but I trust nothing that comes from Darnley or his mother.

The only thing keeping me from ripping that damned charm from his neck is the fact that it doesn’t have any magical qualities to it. But its origin cannot be a coincidence…and nothing Darnley’s family does can be any good.

Samson is just a tool in some larger plan. His parents may have wits enough to have accepted some bribe from Lady Lennox, but Samson can’t know he’s being used for…something.

My eyes lift and meet Samson’s, and for a moment, I forget about my fears. I know he hates all this—the court intrigue, the lies dressed in lace.

It was so much simpler before we came here. On the road to Stirling, he hadn’t yet been caught in the web of lies Darnley has somehow tangled him into. When we were on that moor, watching a stag in the mist, there was only that moment and all the possibilities held within it.

Do I truly believe he’s innocent, or is that just wishful thinking?

I don’t want to ask myself that question.

So I turn on my heel, in search of different ones, and leave Samson without another word.

***

I go straight to my room, slamming the door behind me and pausing only long enough to ensure the door is locked by both my key and my magic.

My chambers are small, tucked away in a corner.

Some of the ladies are shocked I even have a spot here; unlike English castles, most Scottish ones aren’t sprawling behemoths, and not every member of court has residency within the palace.

Lairds and ladies of higher rank than me stay in the town at the bottom of the hill.

I keep things modest; my room is a place to sleep, not a place to entertain, but I have a sampler my mother stitched for me hanging from the wall and sprigs of rowan near the window.

A fire burns in the hearth, exactly the right temperature.

I make a mental note to leave some extra cream out for Kitty.

I sit down at the dressing table near the window.

A mirror and a comb rest atop the table, the mirror face down.

It’s a hand mirror made of pure silver, with a perfectly circular frame and a short handle that ends in a much smaller circle, carved with a decorative design of interlocking rings that makes a pattern similar to a four-petaled flower.

This is old magic, older even than my father.

Flipping it up so I can see myself in the reflective face, I grasp the comb—the other part of the magic—and swipe the carved teeth over the mirror’s face.

Magical items like this are rare; the Red Caps leaned into invention, and they did it with the intent to create weapons.

Few fae make items like this nowadays for fear of being seen as Red Cap sympathizers.

“Margaret Douglas, Lady Lennox,” I tell the mirror’s surface.

I can only call a fae creature to the mirror if I know its true name, but a Leth, especially one as weak as Lady Lennox? Her known name will do. Magic will summon her to the nearest reflective surface so we can communicate.

Moments pass, and soon enough, the silver mirror ripples. The reflection no longer shows my face when I look at it. Instead, I see a stone ceiling. “Lady Lennox,” I say, louder. When the woman finally peers down, I think my reflection must be shown to her from a goblet.

Lady Lennox leans over the surface. Always slender, the woman looks paler now than I recall, the only sign that she’s not free to leave her apartments whenever she likes. Her chin is pointed, her eyes narrowed. “What do you want?” she snaps.

“How is your prison cell?” I cannot keep the smirk from my face.

“Fine.” Her voice is cold. “And what of your prison?”

“Unlike you, I am not in one.”

She sniffs, but I don’t bother arguing further.

I know what she means. While she and her son have so little magic that they can freely move through the barrier, my blood is too fae for me to ever leave Scotland.

It’s not a prison though. I have the entire country at my fingertips.

She has only stone walls and locked doors.

Lady Lennox leans closer. “Tell me of my son,” she demands.

“He remains an absolute arse, just as you raised him to be.” I speak in acid tones, but she smiles as if I’ve given him a sweet compliment.

“It shall be so pleasant when my son rules all of Great Britain. When that happens, I shall make you my personal maid.”

“Excellent,” I snarl. “Then I will have an easier time of dumping your chamber pot on your head.”

Her expression sours. Playtime is over. “What do you want, little girl? I have no desire to speak to you unless you’re here to tell me that the upstart human my son married is dead and he’s taking her spot on the throne.”

“Be grateful Queen Mary still lives,” I say in a low, cold voice. “It is only on her command that I have not taken care of Darnley personally.”

“You wouldn’t dare—”

I don’t answer. I don’t need to taunt her to plant the seeds of fear inside her heart. And she knows there’s not a damned thing she can do about it if I act on my threat. I rule the Leth, and I am not as merciful nor as willfully blind as Mary.

I think of the needle, of the way the man I killed turned to dust in front of me. I force myself to relive that moment, to steel my nerves so I can do it to Darnley if— when —the need arises.

“What do you want?” Lady Lennox asks again, this time resigned.

“The silver amulet you wear in your portrait—” I start.

“Which one?” Lady Lennox swipes at her thin, pale hair as if she were a great beauty. She was, once. But she denies her age in the worst possible way, and not even her enormous ruff can hide the way her skin sags. “I have had so many portraits made, you see.”

“Don’t act as if you’re some great muse. Anyone with money can commission an artist.” I have no patience for her false vanity. Instead, I describe the amulet, watching her through the reflection closely. It’s hard—but not impossible—for me to detect Lady Lennox’s aura.

And I can tell she’s hiding something.

“Did you give that necklace to someone?” I ask. “An English lady, perhaps?” Samson’s mother, as a bribe? I have known the Red Caps are plotting something, as is Darnley, but if this extends all the way into the other queen’s court—

Lady Lennox laughs.

“What?” I demand.

“It’s taken you this long to notice?” Her fingertips brush her lips, a mockery of being scandalized. “I know exactly what amulet you are inquiring about. And it’s in Scotland already, eh?” She lowers her hand, her smile now predatory.

“Tell me what power it has,” I demand, my voice low and cold.

“If you’re so free, come here and make me talk, child.” From the mirror, I can see as Lady Lennox’s hand moves toward the goblet she was using as a reflective surface for our communication. She picks it up and dumps out the liquid, severing our connection.