Not that she was ever really alone. She always had servants and sycophants around her, agreeing with everything she said. Laughing even when she hadn’t made a joke. She hadn’t felt seen, really seen, since her husband died.
The footmen opened the door to her chambers and she stepped inside. The servants followed. “Not today,” she croaked.
“Your Majesty?”
“I wish to be alone.”
The two footmen looked at one another and then bowed. The door sealed behind her, and she was alone. It was growing late already. Sunset light filtered through the high windows on the wall, casting shadows that crept over the room in tendrils.How time flew, these days. The world seemed so much faster than when she was a girl. The whole city rumbled with carriages and trains, gears and locks, engines and the clang of metal. She missed the countryside, the calm certainty of green and growing things.
She sighed, moving to the table and taking off her crown. Her hands shook, and it clattered on the wood. Perhaps she’d go to the country after all. Dr. Gall had said there was a power in wild places. A power that could confer longevity.
She winced to think of Gall. The good doctor was dead, and with him, his promises of immortality. His treatments had kept her strong, and now, without them, she was fading. She knew she was not long for the world, and soon Prince Oliver would replace her. The boy was not ready—he was too romantic, too soft. If he faltered again, the weight of the crown would snap his neck.
Perhaps Gall’s death was for the best. He’d been a mad dog at the end, and even confiscating his amulet hadn’t slowed the carnage. She thought the whole affair had wrapped up rather nicely. His secret abattoir burned and buried, all of it seemingly a tragic accident. She wondered at the convenience of it—wondered, too, if any still lived who knew his secrets.
Viscaria moved to her dresser. She set the crown in its holder and removed the jewels around her neck. She felt better instantly. Usually, her servants would undress her, but she’d ordered them away. She was so tired. She just wanted to be alone.
For days like this, she kept a decanter of brandy in her chambers. It was the same kind her father used to drink, deep and velvety, strong as an ox. It comforted her, the smell of it. Reminded her of home. Of days when she was young.
She poured herself a glass. Gall would have chided her, if he sawher drinking. He had never been a sycophant, not like the others. She almost missed the man, monster that he was. They had something in common: vision, and the will to make it a reality.
She lifted the glass to her lips and drank, savoring the coolness of it in her dry mouth, the familiar bite. She swilled it, swallowed, and then sighed.
Viscaria relaxed, leaning back on the chair, and removed her shoes. She drank again and again.
“Why her?” a voice said.
Viscaria’s spine tingled. She turned to see a woman in the corner of the room, shrouded in shadow. The sun had moved low enough that the room was dark, save for the sun’s afterglow coming through the balcony door.
“Guards—” Viscaria said, but her voice came out in a whisper. Her throat constricted by the moment, and her body felt cold, washed over in ice. She tried to call again, but only a strangled cry came out.
The woman stepped forward. Shadows still concealed her, but Viscaria could make out a black gown and hat. She wore a matching veil, concealing her face, but her hair was red, like autumn leaves.
The woman carried something in her right hand, some sort of basket. She sat in the chair across from Viscaria, face still concealed.
“I think you will find it quite impossible to scream,” the woman said. “I put yellow jasmine into your brandy. A useful herb. It causes total paralysis. Of course, you already knew that. It’s the same poison your assassin used on me.”
Viscaria’s heart raced. Her eyes flicked to her brandy, which slipped from her hand, spilling onto the carpet.
The woman reached across the table and grabbed the decanterof poisoned brandy. To Viscaria’s surprise, she poured herself a glass and then drank.
“Lovely. Expensive, I’m sure. Don’t be alarmed. I assure you, I’m quite immune.”
The woman smiled and sipped again.
Viscaria forced words from her frozen mouth. They came out in a slur. “What… do you… want…” she whispered.
“I want nothing except answers to old questions. Like this one: Why Persephone?”
The woman pulled back her veil, and for the first time, Viscaria saw her face: the hideous scar that twisted up her features, mottling flesh, like red roots weaving through her skin.The other Elderwood girl. The one who knew.
The woman continued. “Of all the young women in London, why did your grandson pursue Persephone? He was a man of great standing. He could have had any woman in the empire. Was it only her beauty? Was it something else?”
Viscaria said nothing. She tried to speak, but her lips would not move.
“I suppose he was bored. Maybe he hated you so much that he chose a paramour who would make you angry. A provincial girl from a nothing house with no fortune or influence to speak of. Or perhaps I am cynical. Perhaps he simply loved her, despite all these things.
“What I really want to know is why he allowed you to kill her. You sent him to India, I know, but he did return. What did you threaten him with, to make him abandon her? And could it have been real love if he left her so quickly when threatened?”
