Aldric searched the Shepherd’s face, tracking the way the other man’s expression shifted in the wake of his question.Guilt.
He knew the feeling well.
Father Perero cleared his throat. “That is correct, Your Majesty, though I fear ‘disposed of’ is…being very generous.” His eyes tightened. “The knowledge of how to properly dispose of such things was lost to us long ago. I tried everything I could think of—smashing it, melting it in a forge. When nothing worked, I simply had Sir Dacre drop it in the waters of the Straight.”
Some manner of relief washed over Aldric, somewhat soothing that unsettled feeling which lingered low in his gut. But only somewhat. The witchblade was gone. It had been tossed in the sea. No one could use it against Sera now.
Not even him.
But still, the knowledge of the accursed blade pressed against his conscience, festering alongside the promise he had made to Sera that night in his sister’s cottage.
No more secrets.
Like a moth drawn to a flame, Aldric couldn’t help but chance another glance at his wife, where she now stood speaking with her godparents and Sir Easome. In silence, he drank her in, trying to snuff from his thoughts any lingering memories of her lying dead before him.
It had just been a dream. A wretched dream.
He had never used the witchblade against her. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
And he wanted to remember her like this always—wreathed in light, filled with hope, truly believing they could do this. That they could accomplish the impossible.
Together.
Please, Aldric tacked on to his feeble prayer, feeling even more like a fool. Like an impostor. Like a dangerous wolf, pretending he was one of the flock.
Please help her.
Chapter thirty-three
Edmund
Silence was all that greeted him as he crept through the halls of his own palace—like a thief.
His breath rattled in his ears, far too loud. Night pressed heavy against each window he passed; not a single sliver of moonlight spilled within to light his way. The lanterns lining the walls lay similarly dark.
There was no longer anyone left alive to light them.
Not since the death of poor, idiotic Hews.
Hews, who had nearly foiled everything. Hews, who had put Mariana on guard for any further schemes, making all of thisinfinitelyharder for him. How was he supposed to get his mother outof that wretched dungeon now with his wife watching his every move?
A fresh wave of anxiety crawled across his skin. The muscles in his back tightened. He cast a glance over his shoulder. Blessedly, only shadows still yawned behind him.
For now.
He estimated he had exactly five minutes alone before his dear and lovingwitchnoticed his absence. Five minutes before she came looking for him.
Five minutes before he lost this opportunity forever.
His stride lengthened. His pulse quickened. He hurried into the Scarlet Wing—the entirety of which had once belonged to his mother and her ladies-in-waiting. Now it belonged to no one. No one beyond the dust gathering in every corner.
And the bodies haunting the courtyard.
Four minutes.
Edmund passed his mother’s sitting room. Her study. Nothing of any true value would ever be in there. The dowager queen had always kept all of her most prized possessions in her bedchamber.
Her box of poisons was sure to be there as well.
