That had been one of the few times she'd successfully escaped watching eyes in the past several days. Much as she'd chafed at her guards in the previous month, they seemed ever-more ubiquitous now, perhaps the vestiges of Javier's uncertainty about her faithfulness. She saw no one and went nowhere without armed accompaniment unless she was with Javier in his chambers.
The morning previous, she'd been awakened by a dour-faced dressmaker, who stripped her to the skin-Belinda palmed her tiny knife frantically and threw it into the bedclothes as she was hauled toward the centre of the room-then stood her up and kept her there, corsets bound tight, while he built a dress on her, regardless of the pleas she made on her bladder's behalf.
He had none of Eliza's wild imagination when it came to fashion, but if his purpose was to turn Belinda from a provincial Lanyarchan into a Gallic noble to be reckoned with within thirty-six hours, he succeeded admirably. Belinda had been permitted two breaks from standing as a dressmaker's dummy to eat and relieve herself, and her peevish costumer had eventually deigned to let her sleep, warning he would be still earlier the next morning. Belinda shook off nobility's habits for the servant she was accustomed to playing, and at least managed to eat and use the necessary before he arrived again to sew her into a gown that rivaled not just Sandalia's wear, but even her own mother's.
His one concession to time was that he allowed her a long while to stand in front of a mirror, barely able to believe it was herself she saw there. Some of the sourness left his face as she stood, hardly breathing while she gazed at the woman reflected back at her.
Belinda Primrose did not look like her royal mother. She had none of Lorraine's dramatic colouring or, most especially, the widow's peak that all eyes were drawn to, whether they met Lorraine in person or saw her portraits. Belinda thought her own face rounder than Lorraine's, her eyes larger, her mouth more full; these were things she'd taken from Robert.
But bedecked royally, skin pale with powder and perhaps shaped more by maturity than she recalled it, looking at herself, she saw Lorraine in her for the first time. The gown was a shade the Titian Queen would wear: the green of young leaves, too bright for a winter day and yet utterly fitting for Belinda's youth and skin tones. Moreover, it brought forth the green in her eyes, making them far brighter and more challenging than she thought them to be. Lorraine's eyes were grey and narrow; cosmetics did something that hinted at her mother's eyes in Belinda's reflection. Even her hair, upswept and bejeweled with emeralds and rubies made, she trusted, of paste, looked lusher than usual, as if the firelight had taken up residence in it. She was by no means the redhead that Lorraine was, or even Javier, but there was golden warmth in what had always seemed to her an ordinary brown.
The gown itself was high-collared, stiff lace and gold threads itching furiously even through a wrap of soft old muslin. It thrust her chin high, making her neck long and elegantly slender. The shoulders were demure in their cut, sleeves coming to points over her hands. There was little of the puffed nonsense that could send a woman to walking through doors sideways in order to fit; that narrowness served to make her look delicate, a thought which Belinda might have laughed at, had she been able to catch breath to do so. She was a worker, strong and trained; to find herself looking fragile was all but beyond comprehension.
The bodice fit with appalling tightness, gold and white worked into the fabric to make a subtle pattern of roses. When the skirts finally flared at her hips, they, too, were far less extravagant than fashion dictated, but considerable enough to create a distinctively feminine shape to her form. Tall shoes lent her height, and only when Belinda finally turned from the mirror in astonishment did her chamber door open to allow Akilina Pankejeff entrance.
To Belinda's surprise, and even more to her gratitude, the Khazarian countess stopped a few feet from the door to look her over with admiration that bordered on amazement. "The queen told me Pierre was her best dressmaker, even above Javier's young friend and her radical designs. I believe it now. My lady Beatrice, you are exquisite."
"Thank you." Belinda's voice sounded faint to her own ears and she took a careful breath, straining against the corsets to Akilina's visible amusement.
"Let's hope you don't need to run anywhere today, my lady. I've brought you a gift." She stepped forward, offering Belinda a necklace that caught gold light in its pendant, a thumbnail-size piece of amber, carved as a rose. Belinda gaped at the jewel, heart seized as though she were still a child, offered not one, but two new gowns for the queen's visit. Akilina remained silent a few moments, long enough to let Belinda admire it, then asked, teasingly, "Do you like it?"
Belinda lifted her eyes, wide with unfeigned astonishment. "How could I not? My lady, I mean no disrespect, but why why-?"
"It seems a suitable gift for a queen-to-be," Akilina replied, and dropped a wink that would better suit a lecherous old man. "And perhaps you'll recall someday who gave it to you. May I?" She took the jewel back and stepped behind Belinda, sending a thrill of nervous caution down Belinda's spine. Her touch was light as she fastened the necklace, the stone settling against the hollow of Belinda's throat, and both women turned to look at her in the mirror.
Amber flashed magnificent rich gold against the green of her gown, its chain so fine that it seemed to hover at her throat unsupported. The dressmaker-Pierre; he had never bothered to give Belinda his name-huffed a sound she took as approval, evidently satisfied that the jewel enhanced his creation.
"Thank you," Belinda said a second time, peculiarly aware that those were not words that often crossed her lips. "It's astonishing, and I shall indeed remember from whence it came."
Akilina smiled with more pleasure than necessary, as if hearing more in the words than was obviously there. "You're expected in the courtroom at the midday Angelus bells. I'd best go there myself; Her Majesty wants no one to distract from your arrival."
Colour built in Belinda's cheeks, less artifice than she might wish, and Akilina laughed as she excused herself, leaving Belinda alone with the dressmaker. "Thank you," she said to him as well, and his customary dour expression reasserted itself. Belinda fought back another laugh and turned to look at herself a final time before drawing a careful deep breath. "I suppose I should go. I'm to wait in the audience chambers."
"Wait here until the bells are closer to ringing," Pierre said abruptly. "Had the woman not been a countess and bearing a gift, I wouldn't have let her in. No one should see you, my lady. The effect is all the greater that way."
Belinda blinked at him, startled and then not, at his sudden opinion. He'd had them by the bucketload when it came to her gown, that he should have them in how to best show it off should be no surprise. "All right." She took another careful breath, dizziness spilling through her, and asked, "Could I perhaps have some wine, then? I'm light-headed."
He fetched some, and, unexpectedly, a croissant with jam, then stood by with a napkin dangling from his fingertips and a glower set onto his face. "I won't wipe my fingers on the dress," Belinda promised, and he looked increasingly dour that she'd even spoken the idea aloud.
Food, more than the drink, helped to steady her head, though with having done no more than stand and turn, Belinda knew she would be desperately glad to rid herself of the corsets when the time came. The idea of curtseying before Sandalia made her dizzy all over again, and she walked carefully to a chair, leaning awkwardly against its cushions; the corsets had far too little give to allow her to bend at hip or waist so she might sit properly. Still, the change of weight seemed to help for a few moments, even if Pierre scowled at the possibility of his creation being wrinkled by her carelessness.
He could not have made a better dress if his plan had been to forbid her any chance of stealing Sandalia's keys in the bare moments they would be that close to each other. Moving quickly enough, subtly enough, to pick the queen's pocket was unlikely even if she'd been graced with the chance to wear one of Eliza's gowns; doing it in the rigid contraption she now wore would be an impossibility.
She would have to risk the poisoned darts and damaging Sandalia's desk. It lacked any degree of delicacy, but perhaps there was someone she could hang for it, some servant who could be made out as a spy. An Aulunian spy, no less, though the idea brought on a laugh so breathless it could be called a giggle, escaped her. Pierre, disapproving of levity, turned a ferocious glare on her, and Belinda subsided, nibbling her croissant and sipping at the wine. Her heartbeat was too quick, and stillness kept slipping away from her, even when she ought to have held it close and let it help her forget the discomfort of too-tight corsets. It had seen her through a day and a half of Pierre's ministrations; to find it deserting her now was an irritation.
"The bells will ring the hour in some ten minutes." Pierre's voice cut through her reverie and Belinda shook herself, looking up. Her wine was finished, the croissant gone, and the napkin Pierre had offered was caught in her fingertips. She cast her thoughts back, recalling finishing the food and asking for the napkin, but it was a hazy memory, as if breathing shallowly had fogged her mind. She would be glad indeed to shed the dress, even if it made her regal.
"Thank you," she said yet again, and took the dressmaker's hand to let him help her rise; without it she feared she may well have been doomed to an afternoon of uncomfortable lounging, unable to rise or sit without some drastic change of state.
Breathing seemed to come more easily again once she stood; movement appeared to be the trigger, the changes of pressure tricking her into thinking she could draw more breath. She curtsied to Pierre, a small thing-the most she dared, and probably more than his station could ever aspire to-and left her chambers in a slow, stately glide that had far more to do with being unable to move more quickly than any particular need for the dramatically slow pace.
The corridors were empty, servants working to prepare a dinner feast and courtiers already in attendance in the audience hall. After five weeks of being watched, Belinda was finally alone in the palace, and completely unable to make use of that private time. Even if she dared slip through shadows to search Sandalia's chambers again, there was no way to do it in the dress she wore. Better to follow what plan she had, and make her careful way to the audience hall to accept the gift Sandalia had in mind for her.
It was as well she was a woman, and not a man come to be knighted. Bad enough to have the chamber hall doors swung open slowly in front of her, ponderously, with the rush of wind they made heralding her arrival even before a crier could shout out her name. Not since childhood, not since she'd bowed for the first time before the queen of Aulun, had Belinda felt the weight of so many gazes upon her.
Then, they had been tolerant, disinterested, amused. Now they judged, and not kindly: she was their prince's intended, she was backwater and without connections, and she was loathed by many for those things alone.
That she was also, this one day, beautiful, softened some hearts toward her and hardened others. Even uncalled for, the witchpower stretched out, tasting emotion and bringing it back to her in powerful waves. She was prepared for that, braced for it; the stillness held a cool calm centre against which admiration and dislike and envy broke and fell around her. Out of the cacophony she could pick out individuals whom she knew well: Marius, a bastion of regret, his pain a lonely note in the mass of broader sentiment. Sacha, full of smoldering rage tempered by a sense of intent that Belinda couldn't define.
Sandalia, nearly as cool as Belinda herself, as if she, too, had drawn stillness around her and did only what she must. Viktor, unexpectedly, his hunger and lust pounding through Belinda's control to bring the faintest heat to her cheeks. Akilina, whose easy laughter felt spiked, as if she had a delicious secret no one else shared. And Javier, whose pride in Belinda's appearance was softened by a heart-filling joy that Belinda could not, or dared not, name.
Below it all she felt a rumbling anger so thick and murky it seemed familiar; a human predilection toward violence, perhaps, the thin line that kept a group from being a mob near to being crossed over. She was not loved here, though with the thought her gaze skittered back to Javier. She was not loved here, save, perhaps, by one. Her slow footsteps measured the length of the hall with ear-shattering sound, no voices raised in murmurs to discuss her, even after she'd passed.
She curtsied before Sandalia, dropping straight down and inclining her head; there would be no forward bow from the waist to deepen her obsequiescence, not in that dress. For the second time she thought it was as well she wasn't a man coming to be knighted; the prospect of kneeling in the gown she'd been sewn into was absurd to the point of bringing a smile to her heart, though she didn't dare let one curve her mouth. She held the pose an achingly long time, the breath gone from her body before Sandalia finally murmured, "You may rise."
She may, may, Belinda thought, but whether she Belinda thought, but whether she could could was entirely another question. Concentrated effort pushed into her legs helped her to straighten, so slowly she knew others would call it grace, so long as they didn't see the tremble that suffused her body. She flickered her glance up once in thanks, then lowered it again, waiting for Sandalia's words. was entirely another question. Concentrated effort pushed into her legs helped her to straighten, so slowly she knew others would call it grace, so long as they didn't see the tremble that suffused her body. She flickered her glance up once in thanks, then lowered it again, waiting for Sandalia's words.
They came, soaring over her head to reach the back of the audience hall; Belinda was merely a tool in a showcase; none of this was for her. "Today we have the pleasure of granting a noble title to one who has done this court great service. We have lands in Brittany to our north that are ripe and wooded, well-made for hunting and, we are told, for planting. We regret that there are no living quarters yet on these lands, but we have arranged for a generous allowance so suitable quarters might be built."
Delight sparked off Javier, boyish excitement at the prospect of overseeing the creation of a new retreat suitable for royalty. Sandalia, in marked contrast, remained wonderfully neutral; Belinda thought she herself could not do better. "We shall recommend artisans," the queen went on, "and perhaps it will be our honour to visit when building is complete.
"We shall provide a stipend for five years," she continued, "long enough that the fertile earth should begin to give its return, so our new friend might earn a living from her lands and provide to the crown some small measure of appreciation for the gifts we offer. All of these things and more we are delighted to give to one who has done us such service.
"But first," she said, and her attention finally came to focus directly on Belinda. "First, we must attend to the matter of Belinda Primrose."
17
The core of stillness within her turned to ice, utterly frozen, even as blood thundered in her ears, washing away all other sound. It brought back memory, memory so old that others said it couldn't be at all: a battlefield, red-tinged and rushing, but what had once been comforting now only emphasized the words that she had carried with her since her birth.
It cannot be found out.
It carried fear into her, intense and sharp, a part of her that could never be cut away. It cannot be found out. It cannot be found out. Somewhere, extraordinarily distant to where she now stood, Javier's voice tickled through the centre of her being, bewilderment lifting it high: "Mother?" Somewhere, extraordinarily distant to where she now stood, Javier's voice tickled through the centre of her being, bewilderment lifting it high: "Mother?"
Outside herself, she could feel her expression turning to polite puzzlement, eyebrows crinkling as she glanced around herself, looking for the woman Sandalia had named. "Your Majesty?" The external performance would be flawless; that was the purpose of Belinda's very existence, of the lifetime's training in hard-won stillness that wouldn't allow her body or face to betray herself, even when turmoil shattered her insides. It was helped, unexpectedly, by the prison of a gown she wore: Beatrice Irvine, who laughed too easily and let emotion come too quickly, was hindered by the constricting corsets and high throat, but Belinda Primrose felt at home within such constraints: she had been born to a carefully stifled life, and knew well how to work within it.
"Forgive me, my lord prince." Akilina's voice, silky smooth, laden with such insolent smugness that a cat would envy it. Witchpower rage lit up Belinda's mind, golden ferocity that she thought must bleed from her eyes and nose and ears, so overwhelming was its heat. She did not, would not, let it fly free; her only hope lay in absolute innocence, and even a hint of anger now would be her undoing.
"There are things you must know about your intended."
"Beatrice?" Javier's voice cracked a second time and Belinda lifted her gaze to his, wide-eyed with incomprehension and a touch of fear.
"I do not know, my lord," she whispered. "I do not understand." Her pulse fluttered in her throat, such a gentle admission of girlish alarm and confusion that she almost regretted the gown's choking collar.
"Do you deny, then, that you are called Belinda Primrose?" Sandalia's question cracked out over the assembly, echoing against the chamber walls. No one within the hall spoke, their tension clawing at Belinda and telling her that to a man, they feared a word spoken would have them banished from the audience hall and they might miss the drama unfolding. A part of her wanted to laugh at the sheer eager hunger for theatrics; the larger part put away acknowledgment of the emotions that rose up behind her in favour of focusing on those immediately around her. Sacha had stepped forward, his fists clenched as he leaned toward Belinda, as though his very presence might crush her to the earth. Marius, too, had broken away from the crowd, making himself one of the little party surrounding Sandalia's dais and standing subtly closer to Belinda than to her accusers. Only Eliza's presence was marked in its absence. A sting of regret touched Belinda for that, though she had no idea what side the beautiful street woman might have come down on.
"I am Beatrice Irvine, Your Majesty," Belinda protested. "Born in Lanyarch in 1565, daughter of-"
Sandalia cut her off with a sharp movement of her hand, and Belinda caught her breath, staying her words even as she cast another frightened glance toward Javier.
"Mother, what is this jape?" The prince's voice was so low as to barely carry to Belinda, much less the breathless mass behind her. "Beatrice is-"
"A whore who'd do anything to get the Red Bitch off the Aulunian throne, Jav." Sacha grated the words out, vicious delight in them. "Know how I know that? I-"
"-fucked her?" Javier interrupted sharply. A whisper ran through the gathering and subsided again, even as Sacha gave his prince, then Belinda, a startled look. Javier's anger and his will rolled toward Sacha with undeniable power, demanding an answer; more, demanding the answer that Javier himself wanted. "Is that your tale, Sacha? You had the prince's woman and she was willing to take you for hopes of getting her voice heard in the name of war? It's an ugly ploy, brother," he said, voice dropping to a whisper. "Could you do no better than that?"
Quick triumph bloomed and faded in Belinda's breast as Javier stole the sting from Sacha's truth; even Asselin could see that he'd lost, that any protest he made claiming exactly that had happened would only make him look the part of a bitter fool. He turned a look of hate on Belinda, who lifted her chin to regard him coolly, as a woman insulted.
"Cleverly done, my lord prince," Akilina said without a hint of mocking. "If only Lord Asselin were the only one who knew of Lady Irvine's past. Viktor." Her voice thickened on the man's name, rich sounds of the Khazarian language filling that single word even when her Gallic was typically barely accented.
The stiff-bearded guard stepped out of the ranks, gaze torn between Akilina and Belinda. Frustrated laughter ripped a thread free of Belinda's internal control, witchpower striking through that weakness with only her half-formed intent behind it: he could not be allowed to speak. Javier's will had moments earlier dominated Sacha; now Belinda strove to do the same to Viktor, seeking the familiar lines of passion and desire to conquer him with. She was his queen; he ought not have been able to betray her. The newness of her powers, the training at Javier's hands instead of Robert's-fury at her father, for forbidding her the knowledge she needed to save her own life, shot through the ties she had to Viktor, strengthening them. She was not Rosa. She was his heart's desire, his loins' desire. He could not, would not, betray her. She sent hints of promises toward him, the rewards to be reaped from remaining silent, even as she cursed the frailty in her that had allowed him an avenue to tell Akilina what he knew. He clearly had; there could be no other reason for him to be called forward.
Belinda should have killed him when she'd had the chance. Frailty indeed, a woman's weakness, shared with her queen mother after all. She could let none of her anger show, only watch Viktor with wide eyes as she hammered loyalty into the sexual bond they shared.
"Beatrice?" Javier again, the strength of will that had sustained him now faltering. Belinda jerked her eyes to his, tearing her gaze from Viktor to the prince, and shook her head helplessly.
"I do not know this man, my lord." Whispered words, desperate with confusion; she could not afford to slip. Akilina laughed, a soft warm sound that ripped through the chamber's silent air.
"I watched them together, my lord. Watched Viktor go into an alcove and heard their sounds of passion. He called her Rosa, and she spoke Khazarian to him. Your pretense at mispronunciation was very good," she added lightly, and repeated "Nyet" the way Belinda had, shortening the vowels to an i. i. "Viktor," she said again, more heavily and in Khazarian, "tell them what you told me." "Viktor," she said again, more heavily and in Khazarian, "tell them what you told me."
Do not, Belinda willed, and turned her frightened gaze back to the guardsman. He hesitated, hands balling into fists, then finally shook his head. "She is not my Rosa," he said thickly. "How could she be, so far from Khazar?" Belinda willed, and turned her frightened gaze back to the guardsman. He hesitated, hands balling into fists, then finally shook his head. "She is not my Rosa," he said thickly. "How could she be, so far from Khazar?"
Relief jabbed Belinda in the stomach and witchpower flared along the connection she had built to influence Viktor. Raw desire, pure delight, absolute pleasure: the guardsman made a deep sound at the back of his throat, shuddering as Belinda's unspoken thanks caught him on a primal level. Marius, closer to her, made a similar sound, his cheeks darkening as he realised the connection between himself and Viktor. Belinda felt the merchant man's heart spasm, the unwelcome pleasure found in submission suddenly making his pulse race. Belinda swallowed against a certain wicked mirth, seeing that the thing tying both men together was both having bent to her will. Javier, thank God, remained unaffected, the temptation she'd had to top the prince unacted upon and now a barrier to linking him into the domineering witchpower that ate at her veins.
White anger pooled around Akilina, though none of it reflected in her countenance. Admiration slipped through Belinda's control; the countess was as skilled at hiding emotion as Belinda herself. They might have been friends, if the world had been utterly other than what it was.
"He lies," a woman's voice said in Khazarian, and the white of Akilina's anger cooled. Belinda turned toward the new speaker as did the gathered throng, and among them she was the only one to know despair. Rationality gave way for an instant beneath a child's furious protest: this woman, this piece of nothing from a remote Khazarian estate, could not be there. Ilyana could not be in Lutetia, her thick blond hair dressed as a wealthy woman's might be, her clothes far finer than any servant might dream of wearing. She simply could not be there. could not be there.
And yet she was, and all the anger and betrayed feelings in the world wouldn't undo that. Hate thickened the girl's voice, audible even if the words were foreign to most of the Lutetian court's ears: "She's probably got his cock locked in a box somewhere and will only give it back when he's cleared her name. Too bad for her she don't got the same hold on me. The bitch is a witch, Your Majesty. She did my lord to death and she's got Viktor under her spell. Probably your prince, too, the poor bastard. Her name's Rosa and I'll swear it on my grave."
Akilina translated, soft-spoken words loud enough for the first rows of courtiers to hear; ripples spread back through the congregation as the speech was handed from one listener to another. Belinda allowed growing horror and confusion to part her lips and wrinkle her eyebrows, tears stinging at her eyes as she turned away from Ilyana's accusations to listen to Akilina's translation of them. She took one tiny step forward, reaching toward Sandalia and Javier with shaking hands as she shook her head in denial. "I don't know this woman, your highnesses. My name is Beatrice Irvine, and I don't understand why this is being done. Surely I'm not a threat to a woman like her ladyship the countess." She let herself laugh, rough sound of distress. "Even I know I'm not the best match for his highness, and that if treaties required it I would easily be set aside in favour of someone like Countess Akilina. I can think of no other reason why-"
"Must we play this all the way to the end, Belinda?" Akilina interrupted so gently Belinda overrode her for several words. It was the use of her name that stopped her, chills creeping over her skin and making her grateful once more for the all-encompassing gown: barely more than her fingertips and face were visible to give away any changes in complexion that she might be unable to control. However Akilina had found her out, the thoroughness with which she had done so devastated everything that Belinda had ever been. Her name on the other woman's lips struck away her last chances at anonymity; even if she survived the next few minutes, Belinda Primrose would be forever associated with Beatrice Irvine, and neither would ever be able to hide again.
But she drew herself up, dragging all the self-respect and command that poor Beatrice had left to her and met Akilina's eyes. "We must." The quaver in her voice belonged to Beatrice, whose fright and anger went nowhere near the depths of Belinda's fury. "I don't know who Belinda is, or why you seek to destroy my reputation, but if you insist on playing this farce I'll see it to the end, my lady. I see no other choice."
Marius cried out, a warning that came an instant too late. Belinda whirled, less grace or power in the movement than she might have wished, her clothing hampering her. Ilyana, forgotten as Belinda made her pleas to throne and countess, leapt forward with her hands clawed, scratching and scraping at Belinda's eyes. Belinda flung her hands up, green silk gown tearing with a shriek as dreadful as the sound that ripped from Ilyana's throat. They collapsed to the floor, Ilyana's weight bearing Belinda down, Belinda's arms crossed in front of her face. She could fight back, even constrained by the gown, but Beatrice didn't have Belinda's taught skills, and to cower was far better than to out herself by competence beyond that which she should have.
Another sound, terrible and pained, erupted from Ilyana's throat, and her body went rigid above Belinda's. Whimpering, half crying in the shock and fear that her persona felt, Belinda dared lower her arms a few inches, then screamed outright as Ilyana coughed blood and bile, blue gaze accusing even as it turned glassy. Her body jerked, then slumped heavily against Belinda's chest, blood drooling down her chin. Belinda screamed again, scrambling backward to get out from under Ilyana's weight, and knocked into Javier's shins. She looked up, gasping for breath, to see his unsheathed sword dripping blood on Sandalia's pristine carpets, and his gaze locked on Marius who stood on Ilyana's other side, his own blade still buried in the dead girl's back.
Marius let go his blade as if it burned him, lifting his hands against a sudden shuffle of guardsmen. "Forgive me, my prince. I forgot whose presence I was in."
"Away." Javier's abrupt word was to the guards, not his childhood friend. "I can hardly fault you, Marius, when your impulse was the same as my own." Each quiet word was infused with apology, the most a prince could offer, and the silence that rang between the two of them made Belinda's heart ache and pound and ache again, until spots of blackness came into her vision. Marius bowed finally, so deep it might have been mockery could she not, through waves of dizziness, feel profound sorrow and respect from the young man, and a lonesome forgiveness that would break the heart of the man he bowed to, could he but feel it.
"Beatrice." Javier's voice was gentle, as gentle as it had been to Marius. He offered her a hand, helping her to her feet; to her relief and embarrassment, the darkness faded from her vision as she was better able to catch a breath. "Are you all right?" He touched her cheek, making her aware of stinging where Ilyana's nails had caught flesh, but she nodded, carefully folding her arms across her torso as she tried to hold the bodice of her gown back together.
"I'm all right, my lord. I fear the same cannot be said for my dress." She offered a weak smile and cast her glance downward, not daring to look toward either Akilina or the queen. At her feet, though, lay Ilyana's body, and the part of her that was Beatrice shuddered and turned away, hiding her face against Javier's chest. His heart echoed loudly in her ears, and his voice came deep from her close quarters.
"Are you satisfied, Lady Akilina? What more would you have Beatrice go through? Your guardsman admits he's lying and this wretched creature is dead for your plotting." He rested one hand around Belinda's shoulders, lifting the other to snap and gesture for Ilyana's body to be taken away. His mother, still on her feet at his side, had not spoken or moved during the entirety of the display; now she turned her attention to Akilina as well, cool curiosity in her voice.
"This was not the entertainment we were promised, my lady. Our gown is spattered with blood and our dais stained with it, all for the purpose of making us look a fool, it seems. Is this what your schemings have produced, and nothing more?" Her every word was beautifully precise, as though rehearsed, and for a faltering moment Belinda wondered if it were. Surely Ilyana's death had not been for show; Marius, for all his youth, would not agree to murder a woman for theatrical court.
That, Belinda thought with a ghost of inappropriate humour, was much more her sort of duty to carry out. But she had no sense of anything from Sandalia, for all that the queen stood very nearly touching distance away. Close enough to steal the desk keys from, but with no way to do it, not now, not at the heart of such a spectacle. The same horrid ghost of amusement came over her, squelching through her insides in search of a place to break free.
"I wish it were, Your Majesty." Another woman's voice, more painful in its faint familiarity than Ilyana's for all that Belinda had never heard it speak the Gallic language before. She lifted her head, the small motion denying all the stiffness that wanted to come into her body. The depth of shock that Ilyana's appearance had brought seemed to have faded: she felt no outrageous disbelief this time, only a sadness as deep as that which marked Marius.
The crowd of courtiers parted, allowing the woman to come forward. She wore, to Belinda's surprise and agonizing pleasure, one of Eliza's fashions, the loose flowing gown making the most of her height and her breasts, the vibrant lime fabric only wearable by a scant handful of women with her generous colouring. She dipped a curtsey, more perfunctory than polite, and kept her eyes on Belinda as she spoke. "I wish it were," she said again, more quietly this time, as if the words were an apology to Belinda, "and I wish that I had not been called to stand here before you."
"You are?" Sandalia asked crisply. She was cool and calm, unsurprised, unpredictable, unreadable. Satisfaction swept off Akilina, making Belinda's stomach tighten.
"I am called Ana di Meo, and I am a courtesan from Aria Magli. I knew this woman in Aria Magli, when she called herself Rosa, but moreover, I know her father. Through him I also know that she is called Belinda Primrose, and that her purpose here is to sow dissent and revolution in Gallin's heart, and if possible, to take the life of a queen."
Thunder crashed through the hall, voices rising in shouts of horror and excitement and dismay. Javier tightened his arm around Belinda's shoulders as if he could protect her from the surge of passion that swept the hall; indeed, the men and women gathered behind Ana stepped forward en masse, suddenly hungry for blood and information.
Belinda felt only silent astonishment, her soul emptied of anything else, even the witchpower rage. It would be her undoing to ask why why, though she thought the question might be in her eyes, and that only the lush courtesan would read it as anything other than bewilderment. Indeed, Ana lifted a shoulder and let it fall in such a minute motion Belinda might have imagined it; it did not at all carry the answer she sought. Her gaze carried quiet regret but not guilt: whatever drove her, she would not lose sleep that night over betraying Belinda.
Belinda's mind danced back to the moment they'd shared at the Maglian pub, the injury she'd seen flicker through Ana's expression when the tavern's overwhelming emotional attack had made her draw back from the other woman rather than give in to the sweet, unbartered passion they'd both felt. To condemn Beatrice Irvine as a falsehood seemed an extraordinary retaliation for a fleeting moment's pain, but Belinda knew too well how desire dismissed could go astray, and had no other answer to consider.
Javier's voice, above her head, cut through the clamor, witchpower giving it strength: "Who is her father, that you make this outrageous claim and lend it his name as backing?"
Belinda thought, did not say, did not so much as breathe, no, no, and could not let herself close her eyes or flinch in dismay as Ana said, "Robert, Lord Drake, favoured of Lorraine in Aulun." and could not let herself close her eyes or flinch in dismay as Ana said, "Robert, Lord Drake, favoured of Lorraine in Aulun."
"Beatrice?" Javier whispered her name through the commotion rising in Sandalia's audience hall. Belinda allowed herself a laugh, a tiny shaking sound, and turned her eyes toward the prince, helplessness in them.
"What should I say, my prince? I can't end this farce by agreeing with them. I've never been beyond Lutetia, much less as far as Aria Magli. My father's name was Robert, it's true, but he was Robert Stewart, and held a plot of land in the highlands of Lanyarch. I don't know why they're doing this." She felt distressingly exposed, as if wearing Beatrice's too-raw emotions so openly stripped her to the skin. As if Ana had the power to undress her with words and show the Lutetian court the truth of the woman beneath Javier's consort. She could do nothing other than hold her ground and maintain her innocence, but doing so was draining the strength from her, and she didn't dare reach for the witchpower's uncontrollable fire to shore herself with.
"That is all you need say." Javier pressed his lips to her forehead, then lifted his voice. "We find this woman, these women," he said, including Akilina in his accusations, "to be troublesome and cruel-hearted. Beatrice has done none of you any harm, and a woman's life has already been paid for your foolish, bitter games. I know know this woman whom I hold in my arms." Passion deepened his voice and he tucked Beatrice against his chest more solidly. "She has given me more joy in the brief months I've courted her than a lifetime has known before. I had believed myself to be alone." His voice gentled again and he set Belinda back, his hands on her shoulders as he gazed down at her. The grey of his eyes was bright with passion, his fingers warm against her skin where her gown had torn. His thoughts whispered to her things he wouldn't say aloud to the gathered assembly: this woman whom I hold in my arms." Passion deepened his voice and he tucked Beatrice against his chest more solidly. "She has given me more joy in the brief months I've courted her than a lifetime has known before. I had believed myself to be alone." His voice gentled again and he set Belinda back, his hands on her shoulders as he gazed down at her. The grey of his eyes was bright with passion, his fingers warm against her skin where her gown had torn. His thoughts whispered to her things he wouldn't say aloud to the gathered assembly: She's like me, more than any of you can understand. She shares the power that I have. I will make this all right if I have to bend each and every one of you to my will, even you, Mother. I will not be left alone again. She's like me, more than any of you can understand. She shares the power that I have. I will make this all right if I have to bend each and every one of you to my will, even you, Mother. I will not be left alone again.
"She's shown me that I'm not alone," he said, almost for her ears only. "For that gift alone I would defend her to God Himself." He looked up again, anger darkening his face. "And I will hear no more of these accusations. We know where Beatrice Irvine is from. Ask yourselves instead what ends the Khazarian countess gains from this drama."
The crowd turned with his speech, grumblings twisting away from Belinda to focus on Akilina. Only the scant handful at the front of the throne room held steady in their stances: Marius, for whom Belinda could do no wrong; Asselin, for whom she could do no right. Akilina's confidence flagged not at all, and Sandalia held suspicion above any other conceit. Javier's steadfast trust was strongest, but the walls of dissonant, strident belief from each of them battered at her, threatening the still core she dared not release.
"I don't gain a throne from it." Akilina's reply was light. "You know that as well as I, Prince Javier. My aspirations reach beyond my grasp, I fear; I must learn to content myself with lesser objectives. This has nothing to do with me, my lord, and everything to do with the safety of your mother's realm. Of your realm, your Highness. How might I convince you of this?"
"Produce Drake," Javier spat. "Let me hear it from his own lips. Condemn Beatrice that way."
A serpent's smile slipped across Akilina's mouth and she curtsied so deeply as to border on ridicule. "Viktor."