My breath catches. “Who?”
“Ah.” He sighs lightly. “Now you’re being greedy.”
What is it with this man and his secrets?
We lie watching painted saints drift across the curve of the ceiling, each of us lost in thought.
“What are you doing in Acheron?” I ask at last.
“Now that the king has gone south,” he says, “your father believes the time is right to convene certain voices. He’ll need your help to host them.”
“Here?” I say. “In the capital? The walls listen.”
“They do,” he agrees. “Which is why I suggested another place.” He glances at me. “There’s a smaller estate a few hours from here in the countryside. There’s a lake, it’s quiet. It might suit the Queen to retreat for the summer.”
“I rather like the heat,” I say.
“So do I,” he replies. “It reminds me of home.”
I turn to ask where that is, but the chapel door opens.
Footsteps.
I sit up as Rowan enters, sunlight framing him from behind. Ashford remains on the floor, utterly unconcerned.
“My lady,” Rowan says. “The bishop has been asking for you.”
“I’ll be with him soon.”
I turn back to Ashford to say goodbye.
The space beside me is empty.
No one is there, only the echo of laughter ringing in the air, and the dome spinning quietly above my head.
* * *
I suggested moving to the countryside during the last councilmeeting, and to my surprise, no one argued.
Not one raised brow, not one cautious question. Only nods and murmured agreement. It occurs to me, belatedly, that they are likely glad to be rid of me for the summer. A queen away means fewer eyes, fewer interruptions, fewer obligations. They, too, are eager to retreat to their own country seats, to gardens and lakes and the illusion of peace.
It takes another week to arrange the move. Crates and trunks are cataloged, sealed, and sent ahead. I learn in passing that the estate—Lindenmere—is a former favorite of Queen Hilde’s. It has sat empty for years now, tended only by servants, preserved rather than lived in. Hilde loved horses above all things, and Lindenmere reflects that devotion: a villa set back from the lake, and beside it an expansive stable, once home to the finest bloodlines bred for the King’s pleasure.
We leave Acheron early, before the heat can rise fully from the stones.
After only a few hours on the road, Lindenmere comes into view.
The villa is pale stone, softened by age and ivy, nothing like the hard, defensive buildings of the capital. The lake glints through the trees, calm and inviting.
When we arrive, the place is already alive. Servants hurry back and forth with crates and baskets. Windows are thrown open, cloths flashing in the sun as they are polished clean.
Aileen and I ride together in the carriage with the girls. The moment the door opens, they tumble out, their excitement is infectious.
“The horses,” one of them says, already tugging at the nursemaid’s hand. “Can we go and see them, pleeease?”
I smile. “Yes. Go on.”
They run off, laughter trailing behind them toward the stables.
