“I know.” His gaze returns to mine. “We were reluctant to involve him.”
“Which means you had no choice.”
“Exactly.”
A chill settles in my stomach. “When?”
“Soon,” he says. “He’ll be arriving soon.”
I don’t like that answer.
“There’s something else,” he adds. “You must be prepared.”
“For what?”
“For questions,” he says. “Many of them, about Charles, certainly about your involvement in his…antics.”
I look out the window, toward the lake, the glint of sun on water. I think of blood. Of magic and lust. Of a man who is dangerous, and a ring installed to protect.
“You want the whole truth?” I ask quietly.
“Yes,” he says at once. “Are you willing to give it?”
I turn back to him. “Yes. But you should know—once I start, there will be no going back.”
His mouth presses into a thin line. “There hasn’t been for a long time, Fastrada.”
Chapter 23
The guests arrive slowly.
Not in a procession, not with trumpets or announcements, but in ones and twos—carriages rolling up the gravel drive, riders dismounting and handing off reins, figures stepping through the doors with the quiet confidence of people who know exactly where they are going and why.
I stand near the windows of the great room and watch them come.
Some I recognize from my father’s estate—faces I have seen bent over maps or wine cups, voices lowered when I entered the room. Others are strangers to me, men and women alike. Nobles in fine, but simple dress, tradesmen, commanders, and even clergy.
Then I see him.
The bishop who married Charles and me steps across the threshold, his robes plain, his expression serene. When his eyes find mine, he smiles.
Something passes between us in that glance—recognition, understanding, perhaps even apology. He inclines his head, the smallest gesture, and moves on into the room as if this were the most natural place for him to be.
My stomach tightens.
Rowan appears at my side, as if summoned by the fear rising inside me.
“We should speak,” he says quietly.
Aileen joins us without a word. Together, we slip away from the gathering and into my chambers, closing the door behind us.
Rowan does not waste time.
“There are rules,” he says. “You need to know them before you go back in.”
I nod, folding my hands to keep them still.
“In those meetings,” he continues, “there are no titles. No ranks. No honors. Kings and cobblers are the same.” He meets my gaze. “Only first names.”
