Charlotte shoved the broth-soaked bread into her mouth, no longer caring what she looked like. Hews could not see her anyway.
After chewing and swallowing, she asked, “And what about the other horse? I asked for two, Hews.”
“But I—I can’t go with you, YourMajesty—”
“Not foryou,” she hissed, unwrapping the bundle of men’s clothing he had brought her. The cloth was rougher against her fingertips than she had expected, more like a burlap sack than linen.Perfect. She had always wanted to dress like a peasant. “For Edmund.”
She could nearly feel Hews balk. “But…but His Majesty…”
“Is my son,” she finished for him. “No matter what that wretched boy has done to me, he is still myson, Hews.” Her joints ached when she pushed herself to her feet, reminding her of just how long she had been sitting there, waiting for this moment.
The moment she could finally escape from this dreadful place.
Either with Edmund or not at all.
The corridors were quiet. Still. Empty. More like a tomb than a royal palace.
Charlotte frowned and tugged the cap she wore lower, shading her eyes. She had assumed she would blend into the evening crowds—just one more servant weaving between the courtiers stumbling from one gathering to the next.
But there were no crowds. No one moved through the halls except for herself and Hews.
Despite herself, she shivered. “Where is everyone?” she whispered, casting her unwilling companion a sidelong glance.
Within the light cast by the lanterns, Hews’s pudgy features looked even more sallow than usual. His jowls quivered when hepaused before one of the windows lining the corridor and twitched the heavy velvet drapes aside. “Out there.”
Out there? In the courtyard? Why would anyone be in the courtyard at this time of night?
Charlotte squinted out into the darkness, trying to understand what Hews was talking about. She saw them at once—the shapes swinging from ropes, draped upon the inner walls of the palace courtyard like macabre Wintertide decorations.
Inhaling sharply, she glanced away.
Dead. They were dead. Her ladies-in-waiting. Her guards. Her friends.
The ambassador from Elmoria.
The images branded themselves on her mind. Her stomach churned.
She was going to be sick. But beyond that, she was going to kill Hews.
She grabbed the little man by the collar of his shirt, eliciting a quiet squeak from his throat like the rat he was. “Why did you not tell me?” she hissed, giving him a shake.
Before he could answer, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled, stealing the breath straight from her lungs. Someone was watching her. But when she glanced over her shoulder, she found no one there. The corridor was just as deserted as it had been a moment ago.
Heart hammering out a staccato rhythm against her ribs, she dragged Hews toward the closest servant’s stairwell and ducked inside.
“I’m sorry,” he whimpered the moment they were inside. “I’m so sorry.”
She tightened her grip on him, ensuring he couldn’t escape her grasp. He was going nowhere until she had some answers.
Questions flew from her lips in rapid succession. “Why were you spared? Are you her creature? Is this all a trap?” Narrowing her eyes, she asked further, “Are the great lords mounting a rebellion? Has the Queen of Elmoria yet declared war?”
She never thought she would be happy that her assassins had failed to kill the Elmorian queen, but at that moment, a spark of hope ignited within her. For all of her faults, Queen Seraphinawasa de la Croix.
And a de la Croix would never let an insult like the death of their ambassador stand.
Hews violently shook his head, dashing her budding hope to the wind. Both of his hands wrapped around hers, clinging. His skin was cold and clammy, like the scales of a dead fish.
She fought the urge to pull away, revolted by his touch.
