“An observation.” His hand brushes mine briefly, a fleeting touch of reassurance. “It seems like she’s on our side, but just remember that every conversation with her is a chess match. Choose your moves carefully.”
Before I can ask what he means, we arrive at a set of double doors inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The attendant knocks once, then opens them with a flourish.
The Blue Salon lives up to its name. Every surface seems to shimmer with varying shades of blue—from the palest ice to the deepest midnight. The effect should be overwhelming but is instead oddly soothing, like being underwater in a sunlit pool.
At the center of the room, seated on a delicate sofa that looks like it might collapse under the weight of a particularlyheavy thought, is a woman I immediately recognize as the Queen Mother.
Eleanora Corellian doesn’t look like a woman in her seventies. Her silver hair is arranged in an elegant coiffure that emphasizes her high cheekbones and remarkable bone structure. Her posture is perfect, spine straight as a sword blade despite her age. She wears a gown of midnight blue that makes her pale skin glow like moonlight.
But it’s her eyes that capture my attention—golden, like Logan’s, but sharper somehow. More calculating. Those eyes have witnessed decades of court intrigue, have watched kings rise and fall, have seen through countless lies and manipulations.
Those eyes are fixed on me now, assessing and measuring in a way that makes me feel like I’m being weighed for market.
“So,” she says, her voice rich and melodious despite her years, “my grandson has finally got himself into more trouble than he can manage.”
I stiffen, caught off guard by the direct approach. Beside me, Cillian shifts slightly, a subtle movement that places his body partially between me and the Queen Mother.
“Your Highness,” he says, offering a perfect court bow. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
Eleanora waves away his formality with an impatient gesture. “Save the courtesies, Cillian. We’ve known each other too long for such nonsense.” Her golden gaze shifts back to me, sharp as a blade. “Besides, I’m far more interested in speaking with Maya.”
I curtsy, the movement automatic after years of Enclave training. “Your Highness. It’s an honor to see you again.”
“Is it?” She arches one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “I rather thought you’d resent being sent here like a package to be stored safely until needed.”
The observation is so accurate it momentarily steals my breath. I straighten from my curtsy, meeting her gaze directly in a breach of protocol that makes one of the attendants inhale sharply.
“I do,” I admit, honesty seeming the better part of valor with this woman. “But I understand the necessity.”
A smile touches her lips, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. “Good. I detest false pleasantries.” She gestures to the sofa opposite hers. “Sit. Both of you. We have much to discuss, and I find standing on ceremony tedious at my age.”
We obey, settling onto the sofa that proves sturdier than it appears. The attendants withdraw silently, closing the doors behind them with a soft click that somehow sounds final.
“Tea?” the Queen Mother asks, indicating the elaborate service on the table between us.
“No, thank you,” I reply, too tense to contemplate eating or drinking anything.
“Wise,” she says, surprising me. “Never consume anything offered in a royal residence unless you’ve seen it poured from a common vessel. A lesson my son’s wife never fully appreciated, to her detriment.”
The implication hangs in the air—that the former queen might have been poisoned, perhaps by someone in the palace itself. I glance at Cillian, but his expression reveals nothing.
“Now,” the Queen Mother continues, settling back against the cushions, “let us speak plainly. You, Miss Tantamount, have become the focal point of a very dangerous game. An Inquisitor is dead, presumably by your hand. The king’s guards are very concerned with hunting you down as he has declared you a treasonous fugitive. And now you find yourself at the center of a rebellion that has very little objective chance of succeeding.” Shepauses, her golden eyes studying my face. “Have I summarized your situation accurately?”
“You’ve left out the part where the Inquisitor spent a year experimenting on me like a laboratory animal,” I say, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. “And the fact that the king is now implementing those experiments on a larger scale through his fertility clinics.”
Something flashes in the Queen Mother’s eyes—anger, perhaps, or determination. “Yes,” she agrees, her voice hardening. “That particular abomination has not escaped my notice.”
She turns her attention to Cillian, who has remained silent beside me. “And you, Cillian. Still loyal despite everything. How is your wound healing?”
The question catches me by surprise. How does she know about Cillian’s injury? We’ve told no one outside the pack about what happened at the doctor’s compound.
“Well enough, Your Highness,” Cillian replies, his voice neutral. “Thank you for your concern.”
“It wasn’t concern,” she corrects him, her tone sharp. “It was an observation. You look terrible.”
I blink at the bluntness of her assessment. Cillian does look better than he did a week ago, when fever nearly claimed him, but the shadows beneath his eyes speak of ongoing pain and exhaustion he refuses to acknowledge.
“The journey was long,” he says, deflecting with practiced ease. “I’ll recover with rest.”
