At that, Maxence turned and examined the ashen tones under Sault’s complexion. His voice was low, and his words came out clipped with anger. “What happened?”
Sault shook his head like he was shaking off a shock. “Prince Maxence, Your Most Serene Highness, my prince, I regret to inform you that your brother, Prince Pierre Grimaldi, shot himself a week ago.”
Maxence frowned at Quentin, utterly dismayed at why he had come all that way to tell Max this. “Is he all right?”
Quentin blinked, an exaggerated flapping of his eyelids. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. His Serene Highness, Prince Pierre Grimaldi, has died.”
Impossible.
Rage flew up. “You were supposed toguardhim. You were supposedto take careof him.”
“I am aware of that,” Sault said.
“What the hell happened?”
Quentin Sault drew himself up ramrod-straight, and the troubled creases around his eyes could have been sorrow or shame. “Pierre’s wife, Princess Flicka von Hannover, fled with her bodyguard and announced to the world that she had divorced Pierre. They confronted each other at Castle Marienburg in Germany in, what I must admit, was a masterclass of strategy on her side. Someone has been reading Clausewitz. When it became clear there was no path by which she could be returned to the Prince’s Palace, by either persuasion or force, Pierre placed my gun under his chin and committed suicide.”
The bleak vacuum of the room sucked the breath from Max’s lungs.
He swiveled back and leaned on the counter, resting on his elbows, and tried to breathe.
His chest moved.
His lungs expanded.
But he did not seem to be able to gasp air.
Finally, Max choked out,“Suicide?”
“I’m afraid so, Your Serene Highness. I am prepared to tender my resignation after you arrive back at the palace, but I felt it should be my final duty to see you back home to your rightful place in the line of succession.”
Maxence had always ruminated on new information at length, which was one of the reasons Father Moses had recruited him to be a Jesuit instead of a Franciscan as he’d initially planned.
Max tried to draw in the thought that his brother no longer lived. His grief was formidable, and it weighed on the crown of his head and his shoulders and constricted around his chest.
Pierre was one of the few people in the world who knew Max had spent months held hostage on that tanker ship, and they shared blood and genes and parents, who were also gone.
Another great sucking hole had been ripped in the atmosphere.
Max had always thought Pierre might eventually order his execution, but now he couldn’t.
And Pierre would not betray any more of their friends nor threaten or abuse Flicka ever again.
Horror washed over Maxence that the world might be a better place without his brother in it, buthe grievedat the loss.
The path of his future, once constrained like a dark tunnel, was now a boundless, terrifying void, but it seemed to snap shut when he tried to peer into it.
His soul could not settle on an emotion and thus they all assaulted him, but a flash of blond curls by the stairs caught his eye.
He looked over.
Dree was standing in the door to the stairway, her backpack lying on the floor at her feet.
The two commandos by the door whipped guns out of their clothes and pointed them at her.
Maxence covered the few feet of floor before his thoughts caught up. He spread himself across Dree, shielding her and looking back at the two commandos. “Put the guns away.Sault,tell them to put them away.”
Quentin Sault raised one fist in the air like he was signaling someone to halt.
