Page 58 of The Heir (A Young Queen Victoria Mystery #1)

Her daughter lay still in her little travel bed, her face nearly as white as the sheets.

“We should get the doctor,” Victoire said.

“And what will the doctor do?” asked Sir John. “Bleed her? What she needs is a little rest. Some broth and tea, and she’ll be right as rain in a few days.”

Yes, that’s it. That’s all it will take. I am worrying too much. It is the mothering instinct. It is that I love her, that I need her—

Sir John was behind her now. He laid both hands on her shoulders and squeezed. Just a little too hard, but she could not seem to tell him to stop.

“You agreed with me that she was not ill, that she was just feigning. When the board asks, that is what will be said.”

“By you.”

What is the matter with me? Why can’t I move? Why can’t I think? Edward? Edward, my dearest, what have I done?

But the answer came from Sir John.

“It’s the truth, Victoire. You know it is. She was feigning. Just as she did when we first left Kensington. How was it to be known that these symptoms were anything different?”

“I do not neglect my daughter,” she breathed. “I have never neglected her!”

I am not making any sense. But neither is he. Worrying about what the board will say because she’s caught cold!

Edward caught cold. Edward died of his cold.

“No, of course not. There is no more dedicated mother than you. I see that every day. But she is a stubborn girl, and she has a distressing tendency to falsehood when the mood overtakes her. She said herself that she would feign illness if she did not get her way.”

“Yes.” Victoire grabbed hold of his words like a lifeline. “Yes, she did do that.”

It is not my fault. It cannot be. I have only done my best. Edward, you know that, my heart. You do know.

“She was trying to get sent home early to avoid her duties,” said Sir John. “It was the king’s letter that brought on this most recent burst of stubbornness. If he hadn’t disturbed her with this talk of her own household, she never would have been tempted to make such childish threats.”

The duchess rubbed her brow. “Yes, of course. Forgive me, Sir John. I’m simply tired and not thinking straight. She has worn herself out with her own stubborn behavior. That is what this is.”

“Just so,” said Sir John gently. “Get some rest, ma’am. I’ll watch Her Highness.”

She squeezed his hand. “Whatever would I do without you?”

* * *

Victoria drifted.

There was a great roaring in her head, and the light burned her eyes. But that faded. Now she was home, in her old rooms, with their green walls and the smell of damp.

There was someone with her. A young woman with red hair and a stiff green dress. She was standing in front of the dollhouse, arranging the figures inside.

“That’s mine!” Victoria cried.

“That’s mine,” the woman sneered. “And do you know who this is?” She held up a doll in a blue dress.

Victoria moved forward. She looked at the doll and did not recognize her but felt very much that she should. The roaring redoubled. It hurt. She was so dreadfully hot, she could not understand what she saw.

“Poor little Victoria.” The red-haired woman shook the doll hard. Its tiny legs rattled. “Poor little girl. She could not bear it. They will put her in a box now and take her out only on special occasions.”

The woman laid the dolly in a black box all lined with velvet. She took a little white blanket and tucked her in.

Victoria looked at the doll and at the woman. The doll’s face was a woman’s face but was painted solid white, with the brows drawn on.

No, she had no face. Her face was a skull.

“I’m tired,” Victoria told her. “I want to rest.”

“Dolls who want to rest go into their boxes. They may be brought out later. If they are very good. If they do as they are told.”

“No.”

“Oh, yes. Are you a good dolly? Will you let them play with you?”

“Stop.” Her head hurt; her eyes hurt. Someone was shouting. She did not understand.

“But they will let you rest then, dolly. You will have only to do what you’re told,” said the skull, the woman, the queen.

She was a queen. She had a crown on her red hair, on her naked skull.

“So much easier that way. Just do as you’re told.

” She picked up the doll again, then dangled it in front of her. “Come on.”

“No.”

“You must! You have no choice!” screamed the skull, screamed the queen, screamed the doll dangling in her hands.

Said Mama. Said Sir John.

“Take it, and do as you are told!”

The doll had a dull and stupid face and crooked legs, and the woman—skull, queen, death, life—shook it hard by the back of its neck. Like she meant to shake it apart.

“No!” screamed Victoria. “No! You will stop! Stop it!”

She lashed out with both fists. Something overturned. Something crashed to the floor. The pain exploded in a burst of noise and heat and dreadful burning light.

And she was in her bed and surrounded by wooden walls. Mama and Sir John were staring at the open door.

There on the threshold stood Jane Conroy, with Lehzen beside her.

“We’ve brought Dr. Clarke,” Jane announced.

And there was nothing else after that.