I tell myself they could be from anyone, but I let myself hope they are from him.
After dressing, I leave my chambers to look for Aileen. Ineed to know what happened after I lost consciousness. The corridors are quiet at this hour, lit by lanterns that throw long shadows along the stone.
I turn a corner and nearly walk straight into Pepin.
He startles more than I do; he actually recoils.
“Your Majesty,” he says quickly, glancing over my shoulder as though checking whether someone is following me. “I did not mean to—I wasn’t aware you were awake.”
It takes me only a second to understand. He is afraid. Not of me, of course, but of Ashford.
“It’s quite all right,” I say, and I soften my tone deliberately. “I was hoping to speak with you.”
That clearly unsettles him more than my presence does.
“With me?”
“Yes. Would you walk with me?”
He hesitates long enough that I consider withdrawing the offer. But then he nods, stiffly, and falls into step beside me.
We make our way along the castle walls, where the air is cooler and the city hums below us in the fading light.
“I know you are upset with me,” I say at last. “I have little desire to spend any time with you, especially not after what happened at the estate. I understand that we are unlikely to become friends.”
A faint, humorless breath escapes him.
“But we do share something,” I continue. “A desire for stability. For this kingdom not to fracture.”
He stops walking and rests his hands on the stone parapet. For a moment, I think he will dismiss me.
Instead, he asks, “What do you know about my mother?”
The question catches me off guard.
“Very little,” I admit. “Only what people repeat. That sheand Charles were young. That perhaps you were conceived before their marriage. That he set her aside to remarry and that she died not long after.”
Pepin studies my face in a way that makes my skin prickle.
“So you truly do not know.”
A quiet unease settles in my chest. “Know what?”
He does not look at me when he answers, “Generations ago, Charles’s ancestors made a bargain. They feared losing the throne, feared rebellion, feared obscurity, much as they do today. They wanted their bloodline secured for centuries.”
“With whom did they bargain?” I ask, though I already feel the shape of the answer forming.
“With the Devil himself.” He says it plainly, without drama.
I want to dismiss it. Laugh, perhaps. But something in his tone prevents me.
“In exchange for dominion,” he continues, “a soul was promised. The soul of a queen.”
I stare at him.
“Since then, every king has believed the same thing—that one of his wives will be the one finally accepted.”
“That is superstition,” I say, though my voice lacks conviction.
