“Like the greatest king in the history of Ulstead,” she finally said, her tone flat.
The king either didn’t notice the tone or chose to ignore it. “And see your place of honor,” he went on, apparently pleased with his wife’s response. “Right beside me.”
Unable to move his head, he couldn’t see the grimace that contorted the queen’s objectively beautiful face. Nor did he notice as her hands clenched at her sides and she took a sharp breath. When she spoke, however, her voice was even and calm. “And that’s where I’ll always be.”
Ingrith despised that as queen, she was always seen as second to her weak and ineffectual husband. Just the sight of the man made her feel ill. When he spoke, his words full of flowery nonsense and foolish romantic notions, she wanted to put her hands over her ears and scream. Theirs was not a love match. It had been a match of convenience. The chances Ingrith would adore him had been slim and the silly stuff of John’s favorite fairy tales. But at least she could have married someone she admired. Or even liked. Instead, she had married a man whose constant declarations of love and adoration made her skin crawl.
But the kingdom — and her husband — expected her to be the doting wife. So she was. She smiled for portraits. She forged alliances, instigated wars, and expanded their rule while John talked endlessly about impossible peace and waxed poetic with his son about the power of love.
She did it for one reason, and one reason alone: she needed John and the power his title and her marriage had brought. So let others believe he was the leader. Let the kingdom believe that she had no agenda, that John was the reason they lived under such prosperity. They would soon discover how wrong they were.
Hearing the doors open once again, Queen Ingrith turned, happy for an excuse to stop looking at her husband. Gerda, the royal engineer, walked in briskly, carrying a large crate. She was one of the few members of the royal court who was not intimidated by Queen Ingrith. Gerda had been part of the court for years and provided the king with wisdom, advice, and, when asked, weaponry. But she was, at heart, loyal to the queen.
Stopping in front of the royal pair, Gerda nodded. Leaning down, she placed the crate on the ground in front of them. It was filled to the brim, the wooden sides strained by its contents. “Your Majesty,” Gerda said, addressing the king, “spoils from the annexation of the Midlands have arrived.” She pointed to the top of the pile. “Weapons.”
King John shook his head, earning himself a sharp glare from the portrait artist. “We have no need for arms,” he said. “Our days of war are over.”
The queen bit the inside of her cheek. Her husband was a fool. There would always be war. It was part of running a kingdom. If there wasn’t war outside, there was war inside. If there were not enemies far away, there were enemies at the gate. Or in their case, across the river. But John had always seen the world through the eyes of a child, naive and hopeful. He believed war should be a last resort. Ingrith thought otherwise.
She reached into the pile and pulled out a crossbow. While the weapons Gerda had acquired were antique, they still worked. Lifting it, she cocked the bow, holding the weapon with practiced ease. “One can never be too careful,” she said, turning so that the bow was aimed right at the king.
Gerda watched the queen, her expression blank but her eyes curious. “Your Majesty, it’s cocked,” she warned.
There was a tense moment as Gerda looked at the queen, and the queen looked at the king. “Is it, now?” Ingrith asked, feigning ignorance. She tossed the bow to Gerda, who caught it. When she did, the weapon fired. The arrow flew wildly through the air and slammed into a statue next to the doorway.
“You need to be more careful,” Ingrith said, eyeing the quivering arrow.
Gerda nodded, taking the blame as expected. As she went to retrieve the arrow, Ingrith moved farther into the room. Bright beams of sunlight poured through the windows at the back, illuminating the gray tiled floor and making it shine. Ingrith sidestepped the light, avoiding it as if it were a puddle of mud.
The doors to the throne room opened again. Her expression turned happy — or rather, less cold — when she saw her son. Phillip’s handsome face was full of joy as he strode toward his parents.
“Father, Mother…” he began.
“Well?” King John said, standing up. He didn’t even care that the moment he stood, the artist began to mutter under his breath. “What did she say?” the king pressed him.
Phillip’s smile broadened. “She said yes!”
“That’s marvelous news!” King John said, throwing his arms around his son. “Two kingdoms will finally be one!”
Ingrith looked at the two men as they embraced — one old and foolish, the other young and reckless. She should have known Phillip would go to his father for advice about his relationship with Aurora. The boy had never sought her out for heart-to-heart conversations. Lessons on strategy and war were more her cup of tea. But she couldn’t blame him. After all, she had never hidden her feelings about Aurora. She just wished her oaf of a husband had warned her that a betrothal was imminent.
Pulling free from his father’s hug, Phillip turned to Ingrith. “Mother,” Phillip began, doubt creeping into his voice, “I know this goes against your wishes. But if you’ll spend some time with Aurora…”
Mother and son shared a look and an awkward silence.
If I had had a heads-up, I could have planned this better, Ingrith thought, wishing, yet again, that her husband wasn’t completely incompetent. But she knew she needed to say something to her son. Finally, she nodded. “Yes,” she said, trying to keep her tone soft. “Perhaps I’ve been selfish, looking at this the wrong way. I owe you and Aurora an apology.”
“Mother?” Phillip said, not hiding his surprise at her response.
“You’ve made your choice,” she went on, surprising him still further, “so now is a time to celebrate.” She walked to him, and she, too, hugged him. The gesture felt foreign to her. She couldn’t remember the last time she had embraced her son. But the moment seemed to call for it.
In her arms, Phillip stood awkwardly. “I’m glad you finally approve,” he said.
“Much more than that,” Ingrith said, pulling back. Her mind had begun to race. A delightfully wicked idea had just come to her. She had been seeing this all wrong. The union wasn’t a problem. It was a solution. She could use it to further a plan she had hatched years earlier. Because of circumstance and position, she had been unable to do more than plot. That had changed. Phillip’s engagement had handed her an opportunity on a silver platter. She couldn’t, however, let Phillip have any inkling that she had anything but the best of intentions. She needed him to believe that she was behind his marriage — disgusting as she found it. If he remained in the dark, she would be able to right the wrongs from the past and bring her life’s goal to fruition — an end to the faerie folk once and for all. Pulling her lips back in a smile, she went on. “I’m ready to welcome your fiancée with open arms. Why don’t we have her over for dinner?”
Phillip looked shocked. But he smiled. “That would be incredible,” he said.
“But under one condition,” Ingrith added, causing Phillip’s smile to momentarily falter. “She will bring her godmother.”
The room became silent. Ingrith had known her statement would bring such a reaction. She had never — not once in the five years Aurora had been in her son’s life — set foot in the Moors. Nor had she opened her doors to the girl or Maleficent. She had also never made her feelings toward the faeries secret. All who knew her knew of her disdain. And now she was inviting the queen of the Moors and the girl’s Dark Fey godmother to dinner?