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Twenty-Six

The assassination attempt on the Queen had made it into the morning’s newspapers, becoming the new talk of the country. I

got one off a huckster in the market near my Chatham house. Even people here were gossiping about the murder suspect, Dalton

Sass, and his maladaptive disposition that drove him to kill a beloved member of Scotland Yard.

“I heard Wilkes took the bullet for the Queen,” said the shopkeep who sold the soaps Mama loved. It seemed in the mind of

some who didn’t care to read the details in the papers and learned news through street talk, Wilkes had died a hero. He would

have liked that. Even if they knew the truth, nobody would think he’d gotten what he deserved. I wasn’t sure I did either.

The evil will reap their punishments,

You go with our blessing,

And a little bit of luck...

Luck. They’d given me luck. My gods. My ancestors. My people watching me from the realm of the dead. They gave me their blessing.

They supported my retribution. My revolution!

So why did I keep hearing the cries of that woman throughout the night? Mrs. Wilkes. Even when I buried my head in my pillow, I couldn’t seem to silence her. She haunted me still.

What about Bellamy’s wife? said a nasty voice in my head. Don’t you think she wailed just as loudly? Don’t act as if you have a conscience now.

What I was doing wasn’t wrong. If it was, Ade wouldn’t have given me his blessing. He wouldn’t have smiled and laughed along

with Oshun, and my mother and father, and all the others whose names I didn’t know.

Or was it them? Could it have been them? Could that English boy, Robert Lees, channel a cadre of spirits whose existence he

likely didn’t believe in or acknowledge?

Captain Davies didn’t think so. I’d asked him outside the palace as I waited for a cab to pick me up and take me home.

“It was a trick,” he said, shaking his head firmly.

“Are you kidding me?” I tugged his jacket sleeve, but even as he shrugged noncommittally, he avoided eye contact. Not at all

convincing. “You heard what they said. You heard the adage. The song. Their voices—”

His fingers were trembling. “I believe what I can see,” he snapped, though without any anger or energy. He looked winded,

like the night’s events had stolen his peace and he might collapse without it. “Channeling the gods... What nonsense. You’re

educated, Sally, like me. Don’t let yourself be so easily fooled by parlor tricks. You’re better than that.”

“Oh yes,” I’d retorted in a huff. “I’m so much better. Good enough at least to become your child bride.”

The casual manner of my insult clearly had him rankled. “Sally!”

“What? That’s what this is, isn’t it? Complete with you scolding me like a father. You know, Edgar Allan Poe married his cousin

when she was thirteen and he was twenty-seven. It makes you wonder. What is it with you men and your demand for younger and

younger wives?”

“I’m not having this conversation again.” Captain Davies waved over a nearby carriage. The horses trotted over. “We’ll just end up going around in circles. You already know what I want. A wife. It’s what every successful man my age wants and needs.”

“And what about what I want?”

“What do you want, Sally?” Folding his arms, he looked over to Bertie, the Prince of Wales, tending to some guests still in

shock as they rode off in their carriages.

It wasn’t too hard to read what he was thinking. I grimaced, sickened at the thought. “You can’t possibly believe—”

Captain Davies lowered his eyes. “I don’t know what to believe.”

“Well, you never asked my permission to marry me in the first place, so I find your display of jealousy and disappointment

quite hypocritical.”

“Figure out what you want, Sally, and then we’ll go from there,” he told me before leaving me by my carriage.

What did I want? As I lay on my bed now with my face in my pillow, his question had taken on a new meaning. I thought of Wilkes

dead, his wife crying, bodies and more bodies to come. Screams of agony. Of grief. I thought of my ancestors and the weight

of the crimes committed against me. And then I thought of my own soul. It had already been shattered to pieces since the moment

they brought me to England. I thought with each victory I could stitch them back together somehow. Instead, a troubling, deep

confusion had seeped inside the crevices and cracks. Blood and grief and rage. I no longer knew how to react to any of it.

What did I want?

“Sally! Sally!”

Mama called me from downstairs, but for the second day in a row, I couldn’t lift myself out of bed. I’d been hearing too many voices in my head since the séance, friendly and unfamiliar, vicious and sweet, grieving and vengeful. I’d told Mama Schoen I’d fallen ill and not to bother me unless it was something of grave importance.

The arrival of the Prince of Wales was indeed of grave importance to Mrs. Schoen.

I couldn’t even fathom what he was doing here, but the commotion downstairs intrigued me nonetheless. Mama sounded beside

herself as she ushered him in. I could hear her making excuses for the state of the house as if we hadn’t just cleaned it

yesterday: “Oh my goodness, Your Highness, if I had known you would be visiting us, I would have brought out the finest dishes

I have!”

“No, that’s quite all right.” Bertie sounded like the perfect gentleman. A farce. He’d probably laid up with an actress the

night before to decompress after the séance. “Is Sally up there?”

“Yes...” Mrs. Schoen hesitated. “Yes, she’s in her room, but—”

“Well, I’ll just pop up to see her, then.”

I could feel Mama’s disapproval from here. A boy in my room? And while I had a fiancé no less? It was unheard of, but the

Prince of Wales did as he pleased. Mama couldn’t stop him.

Bertie wouldn’t have come to my house unless it was an urgent matter. These days, there were plenty to choose from. But what

did he need from me? I readied myself, sitting up in my bed just in time for Bertie’s knocks against the door to get me to

fight. “Come in.”

Bertie blushed when he saw me in a thin white nightgown, but clearing his throat, he shut the door as if he hadn’t just been

staring like an oaf.

“Bertie, what on earth are you doing here?” I asked.

He seemed fascinated by my room. The simple drapes covering the windows, the iron candelabra, and unlit candles on the dresser

drawer next to my bed. Oh yes, the bed. His eyes lingered on that too. It took every part of me not to roll my eyes.

He took a seat at my desk. “There’s a matter of importance that I’d like to speak to you about,” he said, trying to sound very official.

“Is it about Dalton Sass?” His howls of innocence haunted me in my dreams.

“No.” Bertie sat in the chair backward, so he leaned against the slat, using the top rail to support his arms. “You won’t

have to worry about him. He’s being investigated as we speak. Some of what we found in his house is quite gruesome. Let’s

just say he never got over his fetish for animal cruelty.”

I shivered. It was a good thing he was out of my way for good. “Then everything is fine?”

“Well, yes...” Bertie rubbed his arms with a dour expression. “Except that my mother blames me for the whole affair. I

was the one who let Sass mingle in our circle for so long.”

I knew this was coming. Bertie wasn’t difficult to figure out. With his relationship with his mother worse than ever because

of his father’s death, he needed some kind of maternal replacement. His unrelenting search for it at the bottom of a bottle

of whiskey or between a woman’s legs had obviously yielded very little so far. It was clear what he needed. One only had to

give it to him to obtain his loyalty.

“It’s not your fault.” I sat on the edge of my bed. “Though it’s true you do need to learn to keep better company.”

“You should have heard her, Sally. My mother shrieking at me for the better part of an hour before refusing to even look at

me...” He lowered his eyes to the ground. “And you tried to warn me. I didn’t listen.”

We remained silent for a time, letting his pain dictate the rhythm of the conversation.

“But that’s why I’m here,” Bertie said, lifting his head. “I’m ready to listen to you now.”

I blinked, intrigued. “What do you mean?” What was this spoiled boy going on about?

“I’ve been thinking of something since the debacle at the museum. I just haven’t told anyone yet.” Bertie ran his fingers through his blond hair nervously. “As you know, there’s an event happening this Friday at Exeter Hall. The Society for the Abolition of Slavery are to host a small congregation of important local policymakers to discuss the issue of slave trade still occurring in parts of the world from the Americas to Africa.”

“Ah,” I said. “Yes, I think Captain Davies mentioned it at the séance.”

At the sound of my bethrothed’s name, Bertie grimaced, but he continued on. “I know I initially refused when you requested

I make a speech, but...” Bertie swallowed the lump in his throat. “All of the recent scandals have tarnished the Crown’s

image. My mother doesn’t show it, but it’s all getting to her. And she’s getting to me .”

Good. I hid the upward curve of my lips behind the back of my hand before donning my poker face once again. “So? What is it

you want from me?”

Bertie straightened his back. “Perhaps I should try to be more like my father. It may finally stop my mother from endlessly chasing his ghost.”

Not only that. A public event for an important cause would help lessen the impact of the prince’s many public disgraces. So

the gears in Bertie’s brain did turn on occasion.

“I want you to tell me.” He fiddled with his fingers. “If I were to tell them that I changed my mind... if I were to make

a speech like my father did all those years ago... how would I go about it? Do I even have enough time to write one?”

This Friday. August 1. That was in four days. I rubbed my chin, deep in thought. But it wasn’t for his sake.

There was one person on my list who hadn’t yet gotten his share of my wrath. Even after the chaos Dalton Sass had wrought, William McCoskry was still prancing about like a peacock. He needed his feathers clipped and now, as Bertie waited for my response, the beginnings of a scheme began percolating. A simple plot—I had the resources. So did Rui. Exeter Hall could indeed be a grand stage for a downfall. But four days didn’t give me enough time to work.

Not enough time...

How much time did I need to truly finish this macabre business of revenge once and for all? Across the room, Bertie looked

lost. Panicked. I didn’t care. I needed this to be finished.

What the hell. “You’re the Prince of Wales,” I said, walking up to him. “If anyone can make it happen, you can. And just imagine!

If you make a speech, you can redeem your reputation. Think of what your mother will say.”

“Think of what my mother will say if I fail.”

“You won’t fail. Maybe you can find someone to help you. A partner that can guide you through. A joint speech, if you will.”

I touched his arm gently. “And I know just the person: William McCoskry.”

The Crown Prince scrunched his face in confusion. “McCoskry?”

“With his pedigree and experience, he’d be perfect.”

Bertie rubbed his sweaty palms against his legs. “A joint speech... Yes, I think we could manage it. Of course, I’d make

him do most of the talking.”

“Of course.”

“An incredible idea, Sally. Thank you!” Bertie clapped my shoulder a little too hard. I winced from the impact. “You’ll be

there too, I expect?”

“Of course I will. Believe in yourself, Your Majesty,” I told him, my tone honeysuckle sweet. “If anyone can do this, you

can.”

I noticed that his hand stayed on my flesh a moment too long. He noticed too. Withdrawing it, he rubbed the back of his neck

with a laugh.

“That’s why you’re famous for your smarts, Sally. You’ve always got the best ideas. And just in time too—McCoskry’s on his way back to Africa in a couple of weeks.”

Just in time. I gave him a docile smile. “Then this historic event will come not a minute too soon.”