Page 41 of The Crimson Throne (Spy and Guardian #1)

Alyth

When we finally get back to Stirling, he turns to me. His eyes are big and round and full of promise and hope. But then a lock of his crimson hair falls in his eyes, a vivid streak bisecting the brilliant green, and it’s all I can see.

The red.

Reminding me of Red Caps, blood, and war.

That’s not him , I tell myself. Then I also force myself to add, But it could be.

I choose him. I choose this chance. But Scotland comes first. And much as I pushed Moyra away, I cannot let myself forget:

If he succumbs to his blood and turns into the mindless killing machine that the Red Caps are known to be, I will be the one to take him out.

I cannot ever forget that.

This feeling growing inside me, the way we danced, the way we kissed, the way we both want more, more, more—

It changes everything.

It changes nothing. Nothing.

I hold on to that lie and to the promise I gave him. I take my vows seriously. Perhaps it’s the fae in me, but I know, even if it kills me, I will kill him if he becomes a threat.

It’s late afternoon by the time we reach the stables and dismount. Callum takes our horses, then lingers nearby, far enough away that we can’t be overheard but close enough that he can help if we call for him.

Samson opens his mouth, and my heart lurches, pulls to him like a flower bursting through the last frost toward the sun, and this—the truth of him, of us, all of it—it feels like too much .

I cannot wrap my heart around my head; I cannot think through these feelings and carefully tuck them away in little boxes that I can force into the back of my mind.

So I say, “I need to warn the queen, and you need to find out what weapon Darnley’s snuck across the border.”

But I watch as his face flickers with doubt and fear and confusion at my cold tone. And it does something to me, that he’s feeling those emotions because of us.

I lean over and give him a peck on the cheek, watch as it all disappears.

“After…after everything…” I start.

“After we save all of Scotland?”

“Yes, that.”

He gives me a lopsided grin. “Should be easy enough, take no more than an hour or so.”

“Exactly.” I return his smile, and then I grow grave. “I’ve been meaning to go north.”

“North?”

I nod. “There are some selkies near Orkney that I should check on.”

Samson is watching me, his green eyes locked on my lips as if visually inspecting every word that falls from them.

“It’ll be a long trip,” I say softly.

“Oh?”

I take a step closer to him, our bodies almost touching. “Very long. Weeks.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Oh, extremely,” I say casually. “I would likely need a guard with me.”

Samson’s face falls. “And here I am, nothing more than a secretary.”

Ach, he’s playing. He knows he has me. So I lean forward and kiss that smirk right off his lips.

His arms wrap around my waist, lifting me a little as he spins me so I’m pressed against the rough wood wall of the stable. His lips devour mine, his hands sliding up, tangling in my hair, the loose braid I started with this morning long since undone.

He kisses me like he’s only alive when we touch.

And when he pulls away, I think, I’ve seen magic all my life, but I’ve never felt it until now.

Breathless, we let the world spin away for one more minute. When I peek up at him through my lashes, I can tell he’s as reluctant to step back into our lives as I am.

“Now,” I say, tapping him on the nose, “let’s go save the queen from an assassination that’ll throw Scotland into a war that would terrorize both this world and the fae one and end in countless bloody deaths.”

“I can’t believe how boring this country is. Nothing exciting ever happens,” Samson grumbles, his eyes alight with mirth.

We separate at the castle, me to Mary, him to Darnley.

It’s still early, at least according to the feasting schedule—nothing will happen until the sun sets.

The celebrations of the night before mean most of the castle is moving slowly, resting before another night of revelry.

I am not surprised in the least to find Mary still in bed, slathering a scone with marmalade.

It’s late in the day for breakfast, but from the looks of things, she’s just risen.

“It helps,” she says when I sit down in the cushioned chair near the bed.

I raise my eyebrows in question.

She licks the knife, orange jam coating her tongue. “With the headaches.”

Mary, Queen of Scots, is hungover.

That’s going to make this conversation delightful.

“I need to speak to you,” I say bluntly.

“Where have you been?” Mary wrinkles her nose. “You smell like a horse.”

“I’ve been uncovering a plot where your husband has been working with Red Caps in an attempt to murder you and throw Scotland into war,” I say.

Mary takes a bite of scone, her eyes widening.

“Your Highness, we need to lock the castle down,” I say.

“Banish Darnley to one of the other royal residencies, if not the dungeons, while I investigate how far this goes. They’re targeting you specifically, and Darnley has allies—both fae and not.

Strategically, we can close off the castle grounds, ensure the loyalty of everyone here, and defend both Scotland and your life from this secure location. ”

“Oh.” Mary takes another bite of her scone, orange marmalade dripping onto her bed cover. Then she shakes her head. “No.”

“No?”

Mary winces; my voice was a bit too loud. “You’re forgetting something very important,” she says, and I’m not sure if her words come out a little slurred because she’s already cramming more scone in her mouth or because she’s actually still drinking wine.

I mentally go over every plan I made during the ride from Moyra’s bog back to Stirling.

I’ll pull aside Cockburn and Strathglass to help me close ranks with the nobles—they’re Leths and powerful enough in court to get things done.

The brownies can help me listen in on any secret meetings.

I trust the staff implicitly and have already worked with Joseph to ensure wages are fair and any complaints are taken care of, which will help, I hope, with any thoughts of bribery or treachery.

I can’t do much with the political guests—ambassadors and nobles from other courts.

I cannot eliminate every risk, of course, but my plan is pretty solid, and…

“What have I forgotten?” I ask, flummoxed.

Mary rolls her eyes. “The party tonight.”

“We’ll cancel that, obviously,” I say. Mary planned for more than a week of official celebrations for the young prince’s christening, and I know there are several more unofficial ones in the works, but the religious deed is done, and these ongoing festivities are expensive, unnecessary, and too great a risk.

“Cancel?” Mary looks more affronted by this than the death threat I just delivered. “Absolutely not.”

“Mary, you have to be reasonable—”

“I am!” She raises her goblet to her lips, holding up a finger to silence me while she drinks.

“This damned country is wet and cold and miserable ninety percent of the year, and the worst of it is right now. The only thing that keeps me from ripping out my hair and fleeing back to Paris is the fact that we can turn this castle into a little oasis of joy. You’ll not take that away from me. ”

“I’m not!” I protest, my hands crushing my wool skirt. “The traitors conspiring for a coup and your murder are ruining your party!”

Mary waves her hand dismissively. “No one is going to attack Scotland in the winter.”

“I don’t think the traitors are going to consider the weather when they’re planning to kill you.”

Mary drains her goblet and flops down on her pillows, ignoring the plate of crumbs that spills over the bedcovers.

“I’ve already told Darnley to go back to Kirk o’ Field and leave me be here, so that’s taken care of.

But we’re not canceling the party. It’s not like my idiotic husband has an army in his pocket. ”

“It’s exactly like that,” I growl. “Need I remind you of that weapon he brought into Holyrood, the way—”

Mary turns her head to me. “The way David was slaughtered in front of me? No. You need not remind me of that.” Her voice is ice.

“Darnley has found a way to sneak not just Red Cap weapons into Scotland but Red Caps themselves.”

“Who?” Mary says. She’s still lounging, but her eyes are sharper now. “Where are these Red Caps?”

Samson, I think. But if I tell her that, she’ll imprison him at the very least. No one in court will care; he’s English, and if it comes out that he’s not even truly a Scottish laird’s secretary, there’s every chance he’ll be executed for impersonating one, and that’s without his Red Cap blood.

My hands smooth out my skirt. Samson is my proof that Darnley’s rebellion is escalating, that Scotland is on the brink of disaster.

The humans will kill him for espionage if the truth comes out. He was sent by the queen of England’s closest spymaster. His head will be on a block. And if that doesn’t doom him, the Leths will kill him.

Even Moyra wanted me to kill Samson in front of her, and she’s a witch. The Scottish court will be less forgiving than her. Beira seemed accepting, but she would never step in and interfere with such mundane affairs as preventing his death.

“Well?” Mary asks.

I keep my lips pressed shut and swallow down my secrets.

My grandfather told me once that the key to the Graham legacy is that our ancestors never hesitated in their loyalty.

But…maybe it’s time for me to question who I most want to be loyal to.

“There is no Red Cap at court,” I lie. Then I raise my eyes to meet hers. “Yet,” I add more firmly. “Because they are coming. And a little snow and ice won’t stop an invasion.”

Mary’s head lolls on her pillow. “Well, they’re not coming tonight, so we may as well have a feast.”

“Mary!” I’m unable to keep the frustration out of my voice.

The queen closes her eyes. “Dismissed,” she says.

I close ranks the best I can. Cockburn and Strathglass scurry to obey my orders, but it will be that much harder to keep the castle safe if the doors are flung open for the party.

Anyone can sneak in, hiding behind a lace mask and goblets of wine.

I give Kitty pure butter, which she eats by the fistful, promising to continue to help, and I’ve sent for the glaistigs to return.

But soon enough, I’m left with one cold realization:

I need to tell my father about this.

All of it.

Or…I should. I should tell him about Samson. What if Samson’s Red Cap tendencies are triggered in battle and I cannot take him out? The Seelie Court needs to know.

If I can muster the courage to bare that part of myself that I wish I could keep locked safely away in my heart.

I go to the stables again. I already smell like a barn; what’s one more ride?

The sun is starting to set now, but the party won’t be in full swing for hours yet.

I could walk, but a fast horse is what I need now, not just for the speed but for the way I can let my worrying thoughts fly behind me like my billowing cloak. I go north by the old paths.

At the Bridge of Allan, I feel a pull, a whisper of magic strong enough to make me slow my horse and then stop, letting the creature breathe heavy clouds that hang in the cold air. I stand in the stirrups, looking around until I see—

The bean-nighe.

The washerwoman kneels at the creek. She scrubs at a piece of white linen.

I did not come here to meet the bean-nighe, but the fae clearly wants me to see her.

Her hunched body stills as if she senses me watching her. When she looks up, her eyes are like glittering hunks of hardened coal, not a trace of white around them. She smiles at me, a mouth full of sharpened white tips, a pointed reminder that she is not human.

Silently, she holds up the laundry she was working with in the cold, gray water.

It’s the same shirt as before, the one that had been in her basket, due to be washed after the one of the man I murdered. The linen is marred with soot and dark grime—although most of the stains are gone now. It must belong to a rich man, one who’s tall and slender.

I am certain that I will be seeing this shirt again soon, on the body of someone pulled from some sort of fire. And when I see the smoke and flames, I will know the washerwoman is done with her chore, her prophecy fulfilled.

“Soon,” she says, the word quiet but sure.

Soon. There’s no use arguing with fate, no way to delay it.

I kick my horse, going farther north. There’s no way to outrun fate either, but I’ll damn well try.

There are various areas where the space between Scotland and the Seelie Court is thin, like where I met with the glaistig or even Moyra’s bog.

Some of these spots are marked with ancient stone rings erected by the Picts or the Celts.

I’ve heard there are even circles of standing stones in England, but if they once led to the fae world, those portals have long since been closed.

I reach the Beltane Stone soon enough, the last remnant of what was once a great portal, a ring of megaliths that, one by one, have broken and fallen. But the stone circle isn’t the portal itself, just the marker of one.

I don’t have time to fight my way into the Seelie Court, but I can at least raise the alarm. I toss my reins over a low-hanging tree branch and walk up to the stone.

This would be so much easier if I knew my father’s true name, I think. I could have used the mirror and comb like I called Lady Lennox with. But despite being his daughter, I am not trusted with that information.

I trace a four-pointed knot pattern over the hard gray rock. While it still glows, I lean close and whisper my father’s open name, the one he gives to anyone. The stone is powerful enough that I know my message can reach him with just that.

My words will go directly into his mind. I choose them carefully.

“Be warned. The Red Caps have found a weakness in the wall. Traitors at the human court.” I take a breath, release it. “War is coming to both our lands.”

My magical mark fades from the stone.

For a moment, I wait, my breath caged behind my tightly pressed lips. My father is high-ranking in the court, a prince with power that most fae cannot even comprehend. I know my message got to him.

I know he could come— right now —if he wanted.

I release my breath.

It doesn’t matter that he’s my father.

Like all fae, he will come only in his own time and not a single damned moment before.