I never asked Quinn the color of his eyes before he lost his soul, and they turned black. Now, however, I wonder if they were as rich a blue as his sister’s. Wonder if his cheeks held the same slight flush. Thinking of him brings thoughts of Wren and Dax, and an ache takes hold of me so strong I blink back tears lest they spill and give away my pain.
I drop into a curtsey. “The pleasure is mine, Your Majesty.”
She doesn’t allow me to stay on bended knee. Eleanor helps me straighten, and when she does, there’s a tremble in her touch. “I’ve been eager for your return.”
“That she has,” John says, interrupting our conversation. “Word reached us at court that her brother was among the men who held you captive. Tell us, Rapunzel, what they say about Quinn Redgrave. Is it true? Is the man damned or not?” The king speaks loudly, theatrically. For the benefit of the crowd. Heedless of his wife’s grimace caused by his callous question.
John knows.
Of course he knows. The king sent his soldier out with a blade tainted with Sybil’s poison because he knew it was a sure way to defeat Quinn. Also, wouldn’t Sir Walter have told him after what happened at The Cup and Crown? Unless he hasn’t—because he’s loyal to Rygard, not John.
Keep your secrets close to your heart…
Eleanor’s distress is killing me. I wish I could give her a word—a look—to let her know Quinn lies in wait beyond the walls. Ready to strike.
Ready to free Rygard.
To save her from John.
“It’s as you said. I was Wren’s captive. For my protection, he limited contact with anyone besides him. But yes, I recall something odd about Redgrave.” I can’t say his given name. It’s too…personal. I’m afraid he’ll hear something in how I say it that will give away the game.
John has trod carefully when we’ve discussed my life in the tower and what came after. We do this dance where he tosses out the occasional question and I answer with lies laced with a light peppering of truth. Beneath our fragile civil discourse, we both know the other is deceitful. It’s a deranged tug and pull wherein we wait to see who will break first.
This madman forgets that twenty-four years spent in a tower ingrained in me tolerance and fortitude he can’t comprehend.
I’ll never yield.
A man with his temper and character can’t suppress his true nature.
He’ll break first.
“Odd, you say? Interesting.” If he thinks I’ll wither under the weight of his glare, he’s mistaken. After many long, tense moments, he claps his hands again and turns to Eleanor. “You’ll stop this foolishness about your brother. It grows tiresome.”
Eleanor vigorously blinks back tears. She swallows hard and slaps a false grin on her face. “I apologize, my king. No more.”
I can only imagine what her ‘foolishness’ must be. Hoping for news that he’s alive? Perhaps she’s begged her husband to show her brother mercy.
John waves a hand through the air, doing a terrible job of hiding his irritation. “My wife has a tender heart, especially for her treasonous brother. One day soon, you and I will have a conversation about Wren Kincaid and his band of bastards, Rapunzel, and I expect you to tell me what you know.” There’s a blatant threat in his tone. He doesn’t look at me when he says this. Rather, he proceeds to his dais, back on his throne without tearing his gaze from his courtiers. “Play us a carole!”
The musicians huddled in the corner begin their song, and it’s like John issued an unspoken order to the nobles who fall in step to dance. How sad, how utterly pathetic they are. They glance at the king, vying for his attention. Seeking praise like dogs begging their abusive master for love.
Eleanor takes her seat on a smaller throne on John’s right. I sit on the one to his left. He brought it in for me the day after I arrived when he formally presented me to his court as Rygard’s lost princess.
As this kingdom’s heir.
“Rapunzel, do you dance?”
At Eleanor’s question, I peer around John at the gorgeous woman who resembles my Quinn. “Unfortunately, no,” I say over the spirited music. “There was a sad lack of dancing partners in my tower.”
My reply makes her laugh, but John ruins it by giving my shoulder a little shove. “Well, there will be plenty of dancing here. Isn’t that so, Eleanor?”
Eleanor will slip through the cracks between the stones if she makes herself any smaller. “Yes, John. Your court is always lively.”
“Bah,” he huffs, slapping his hands on his thighs in frustration. “As if you would know.” He pins me with his sharp brown eyes. “Young though she is, my wife has a weak constitution. She’s always hiding in her chamber complaining of mysterious ailments” He doesn’t even spare Eleanor a glance, instead watches the dancers when he sneers, “Can’t even give me a child. What good is she?”
My first inclination is to sympathize with Eleanor for being unable to bear children, but I spy her subtle relief. It brings Emma’s words curious remark back to me.
Some women are barren by choice.
