Three knocks on the door. Urgent.
An annoyed huff escapes me before I shout, “Enter!”
Hinges grind.
A young footman stumbles in, flushed and panting, mud on his shoes. He skids to a stop at the sight of me. “Your Majesty,” he blurts, bowing too low, too fast. “There are people at the gates.”
Miss Hampshire’s eyes narrow. “How many?”
“Dozens. More and more each hour,” he says, voice trembling. “Said they’re not leaving until Her Majesty hears them out. Guards are getting nervous. One of them sent me.”
Nerves tingle beneath my fingernails. “I’ll receive them in the throne room, I guess, and listen to them. Every single one.”
Miss Hampshire’s gaze flicks to me. “You cannot hear all of them.”
Desperation makes people unpredictable, and that’s the last thing I need right now. “Things will get worse if I don’t.”
She mumbles something under her breath, but eventually, she gives a nod. “If I may suggest…” she says slowly. “Standing in a throne room is well and good, Your Majesty, but the people may find new hope if they see you out there. Especially with your…your husband.”
“My husband?”
“At one of the orphanages perhaps.” She pauses, her eyes flashing with a distinct, calculating intelligence. “If the Queen is seen walking the halls of the parentless, offering aid alongside her husband, it shows stability.”
She’s got a good point there. “I’ll bring it up with the minister.” And then I’ll somehow have to convince Vale to do me this husbandly courtesy, which will undoubtedly be a whole new ordeal. “I’ll still see these people, though. Is until the morning enough time to arrange this?”
“A prayer dressed up as a plan.” Miss Hampshire crosses herself, then looks at the footman. “I will seek out the acting palace commander to make arrangements. Now go. Tell the guards to keep them still until the morn. Tell the kitchens to prepare a large kettle of runny porridge.”
“Yes, Miss Hampshire,” the footman says before he spins around to hurry out of the room.
The door shuts. My shoulders sag before I can stop them. The corset may be loosened, but the pressure in my skull remains—crown humming, bloodstain staring.
I drag a breath deep enough to hurt and let it out slowly. “I don’t know how to do any of this,” I admit, the words tasting like weakness and honesty all at once. “Floods. People at the gates, begging me for answers. And the worst part?” I scoff. “Even if I break this curse and stop the rot, I’ll still be stuck being queen.”
Miss Hampshire watches me, the tired lines around her mouth deepening, her half-hand tapping once against her apron, like she’s counting the beats it takes for a woman to crack. “Timenever made for a poor teacher.” A pause, then her gaze hardens back into competence. “The chapel.”
My mind stutters, trying to catch up. “What?”
“The documents of the deal struck between the crown’s first king and Death,” she says. “Might be in the olden language, but the chapel is where you should find it, Your Majesty.”
My fingers mindlessly stroke over my belly. “Right. I’ll talk to a priest after I listen to the people.”
Miss Hampshire’s eyes narrow on me. She steps closer, her tone dropping into something that sounds almost maternal. “The monthly bleed coming?”
I frown. That’s something I haven’t even considered, making me hesitate for a moment before I say, “I don’t know. It’s been forever since the last time.”
Miss Hampshire nods. “A pillow of warmed chestnuts then, just in case,” she says briskly. “I will have a maid fetch it for you.”
“Thank you.”
She leaves, and the room exhales. I don’t ready myself for bed. I don’t even sit. I can’t.
I return my attention to the window, the energy inside me a mix of nervous caution and excited anticipation. One step closer to breaking this curse, but it seems like merely a hand in a furlong. How am I supposed to love a creature as vicious and heartless as Death?
“It is impossible,” I whisper to the glass, the condensation from my breath fogging the view of the outside world.
The air in the room shifts.
It isn’t a sound. It’s a pressure change, like the sudden drop in the atmosphere before lightning strikes. The hair on my arms stand up, faster when the shadows in a corner don’t just lengthen, but detach.
