One guard steps forward to unlatch the gate, but the other asks, “Name?”
“Fleuriste.” I am relieved that at least one of them asks. I make note to mention it to the queen. They are toalwayscheck. If not, anyone could claim to be the Hunter and gain access to Her Majesty’s palace.
The first guard says, “Recognized you by your walk, Lady Huntress, else I’d have asked, too.”
“Always ask.” I cannot point out that the magic that protects me adds worries to whether I am remembered.
“Of course, m’lady.”
In the next moments, I am through the gate. I listen for the soft clatter of it closing behind me. Once it does, I walk quickly toward the palace itself, and there repeat the process.
Inside, I make my way through the hallway, my slipperlike shoes soft and nearly silent on the marble floor. I should not be surprised to see Isabeau in an alcove with a beautiful noble in the restricted part of the palace, but she is both the queen’s niece and a new duke. Isabeau has rarely met a rule she’s unwilling to trample.
I stumble to a halt and step partly into a doorway to hide. I could claim my interest is in determining whether she’s cursed, or whethershe’s ill from contaminants, but that’s a lie. I simply don’t want her to see me when she’s with one of her lovers.
The back of Isabeau’s black jacket drapes just above the knee, hiding her backside from view. Her chin-high, stiff white shirt is topped with a sleeveless gray waistcoat, buttoned to just under her bosom, and at her throat, she has a deep-gray cravat with subtle green stitching. Her black trousers and shiny black boots are equally demure, as fitting for her statement of mourning. She’s removed her hat already, exposing hair almost as dark as her clothing. She looks funereal in this attire, as is appropriate.
“I hoped to see you.” The woman, Emma Iversson, looks Isabeau up and down. “Should I start calling you by your title now that your father has passed? Or should I still call you Isabeau?”
As I watch, Isabeau stares down at the expanse of bosom Emma’s dress makes visible. The golden-haired woman in Isabeau’s arms has an elegant curve to her hips, and her bosom is hefted up like she’s stowed a platter in her bodice. I will never look like her. I stay hidden and eavesdrop, even though I hate myself a little for the jealousy searing my veins.
“I have enjoyed our dances,” Emma says. “I thought it was only fair to let you know I have had several offers of late.” She places a hand on Isabeau’s chest. “If you’ll be seeking a duchess, you should act soon ...”
Now that Isabeau is the seventh Duke of Maudite, she will be quickly pursued by every eligible woman in Alveus. Of course, she’s always had more than her fair share of interested parties. Isabeau has enviable titles, beauty, and influence. If her estate werealsowealthy, I suspect she’d be swimming in offers.
“I could lie with someone periodically to give you an heir.” Emma smiles vacantly. “We could avoid relations, of course, since that would not get me with child.”
I snort. Avoid relations? Why on earth would anyone want tonothave sex with Isabeau? The idea is ludicrous.
“I plan to have regularrelationswith my eventual wife,” Isabeau points out.
I walk away as Emma whines, “Couldn’t you take a mistress for that? I could continue to allow you to kiss me and even fondle my bosom. You seem to like that. I would make an excellent wife. I dress well, and ...”
My laughter is tinged with something bitter, worse even than the oxymel I had to drink earlier tonight. I speed up, hoping the new duke is not seeking an audience with the queen just yet. Castigating myself for lingering to hear Emma talk about Isabeau fondling her—and for thinking that I would happily accept the position of mistress if Emma wants the burden of marriage.
Suggest it to Isabeau,my libido sings out.
Instead I march toward the heavy wooden door that leads into Queen Morag’s meeting room. If I were here as Gabrielle Fleuriste, eldest daughter of the Earl of Fleuriste, I would not be this brash. I am the Hunter-in-Training, though, and that absolves me of many aspects of decorum.
I push open the door after a brief pause.
The moment the door opens, guards step in front of the queen and her consort, blocking any possible attack with their own bodies. Like the guards at the gate, they quickly recognize me—whether by my hair, gait, or shape, I know not.
“Fleuriste,” one says.
“Sergeant,” I acknowledge as I pass them, stepping deeper into the room.
The space is vast, with pillars upholding the arcs of the ceiling and a peacock-patterned paper on the walls. The floor, as with most of the palace, was cut from some sort of polished stone that gleams like gems. The room is the size of a half ballroom.
Silently, the queen’s current spouse is escorted out of the room.
The queen says something to the guards, stepping around them to greet me. Queen Morag is resplendent in her finery. A three-tier crown sits atop her head. Her increasing gray hairs aren’t falsely darkened, sothe light makes her hair shimmer with the jewels woven into her tresses as if sunlight reflects off ice.
“Gabrielle!” A genuine look of surprise graces her well-lined face, crinkling the powder that has been liberally applied. Rouged lips curve, and she sweeps forward several steps. Her dress, overdress, and cloak are bejeweled, heavy things. White fur edges the hems of the skirts and cloak, so that she almost appears to be standing in a snowdrift.
“Your Majesty.” I curtsy to her before I remove my mask.
“Is your father still well?” The queen asks the question subtly, but it’s pointed all the same. Her Hunter is not the person standing here, and she wants to know why.
