“Oh, this?” A twist of his hand, and a gleam of silver: a small locket on a chain slid into his palm.
Helge’s breath caught. Freedom in a capsule. It was almost painful. If she took it she could desert all her responsibilities, her duty to Patricia, her impending marriage to the damaged cadet branch of the monarchy—“What do you want for it?” she asked quietly.
“From you?” Lee stared at her for a long second. “One kiss, my lady.”
The spell broke. She reached out and folded his fingers around the chain. “Not now,” she said gently. “You’ve no idea what it costs me to say that. But—”
He laid a finger on the back of her hand. “Take it now.”
“Really?”
“Just say you will let me petition for my fee later, that’s all I ask.”
She breathed out slowly. Her knees suddenly felt like jelly. Wow, you’re a sweet-talker. “You know you’re asking for something dangerous.”
“For you, no risk is too great.” He smiled, challenging her to deny it.
She took another deep breath. “Yes, then.”
He tilted his hand upside-down and she felt the locket and its chain pour into her gloved hand. She fumbled hastily with the buttons at her wrist, then slid the family treasure inside and re-fastened the sleeve. “Have you any idea what this means to me?” she asked.
“It’s the key to a prison cell.” He raised his wineglass. “I’ve been in that cell too. If I wanted to leave badly enough—”
“Oh. Oh. I see.” The hell of it was, he was telling the truth: he could violate his status as a hostage anytime he felt like it—anytime he felt like restarting a war that his own family could only lose. She felt a sudden stab of empathy for him. That’s dangerous, part of her realized. Another part of her remembered Roland, and felt betrayed. But Roland was dead, and she was still alive, and seemingly destined for a loveless marriage: why shouldn’t she enjoy a discreet fling on the side? But not now, she rationalized. Not right under the eyes of the royal dynasty, not with half the Clan waiting outside for a grand dinner at which a betrothal would be announced. Not until after the royal wedding, and the pregnancy—her mind shied away from thinking of it as her pregnancy—and the birth of the heir. The heir to the throne who’d be a W* heterozygote and on whose behalf Henryk wouldn’t, bless him, even dream of treason. After all, as the old epigram put it, Treason doth never prosper: what’s the reason? Why if it prosper, none dare call it treason.
A bell rang, breaking through the quiet conversation. “That means dinner,” said Lee, bowing slightly, then turning to slip away. “I’ll see you later.”
They filed out through the door, Helge on the king’s arm, before an audience of hundreds of faces. She felt her knees knock. For a moment she half-panicked: then she realized nobody could see her face. “Put back your veil, my dear,” the king murmured. “Your seat.”
Hypnotized, she sat down on something extremely hard and unforgiving, like a slab of solid wood. A throne. A brassy cacophony of trumpetlike horns blatted from the sidelines as other notables stepped forward and sat down to either side of—then opposite—her. She moved her veil out of the way, then recoiled. A wizened old woman—a crone in spirit as well as age—sat across the table from her. “You,” she accused.
“Is that any way to address your grandmother?” The old dowager looked down her nose at her. “I beg your pardon, your majesty, one needs must teach the young flower that those who stand tallest are the first to be cut down to size.”
“This is your doing,” Helge accused.
“Hardly. It’s traditional.” Hildegarde snorted. “Eat your sweetbreads. It’s long past time you and I had a talk and cleared the air between us.”
“We’d listen to her, if we were you,” the king told Helge. Then he turned to speak to the elderly courtier on his right, effectively locking her out of his sphere of conversation.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Helge said sullenly. She toyed with her food, some sort of meat in a glazed sugar sauce.
“Your traditional demeanor does you credit, my dear, but it doesn’t deceive me. You’re still looking for a way out. Let me tell you, there isn’t one.”
“Uh-huh.” Helge took a mouthful of appetizer. It was disgustingly rich, implausible as an appetizer. Oily, too.
“Every woman in our lineage goes through this sooner or later,” explained the dowager. She stabbed a piece of meat with her knife, held it to her mouth, and nibbled delicately at it with her yellowing teeth. “You’re nothing special, child.”
Helge stared at her, speechless with rage.
“Go on, hate me,” Hildegarde said indulgently. “It goes with the territory.” She’d switched to English, in deference to her granddaughter’s trouble with the vernacular, but now Miriam was having trouble staying in character as Helge. “It’ll go easier for you if you hate me. Go on.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in me.” Miriam bit into the sweetbread. Sheep’s pancreas, a part of her remembered. “Last time we met you called me a fraud.”
“Allow me to concede that your mother vouched for you satisfactorily. And I will admit she is who she claims to be. Even after a third of a century of blessed peace and quiet she’s hard to deny, the minx.”
“She’s no—”
“Yes she is. Don’t you see that? She even fooled you.”
“No she didn’t.”
“Yes she did.” The dowager put her fork down. “She’s always been the devious viper in my bosom. She brought you up to be loyal to her and her only. When she decided to come in from the cold, she sent you on ahead to test the waters. Now she’s making a play for the royal succession. And she’s got you thinking she’s a poor, harmless victim and you’re doing this to protect her, hasn’t she?”
Miriam stared at Hildegarde, aghast. “That’s not how it is,” she said hesitantly.
Her grandmother looked at her disdainfully. “As you grow older you’ll see things more clearly. You won’t feel yourself changing on the inside, but the outside—ah, that’s different. You’ve got to learn to look beneath the skin, child. The war of mother against daughters continues, and you can’t simply opt out of it by imagining there to be some special truce between your mother and yourself.” Servants were circulating with silver goblets of pale wine. “Ah, it’s time.”
“What?”
“Don’t drink that yet,” the dowager snapped. “It’s mead,” she added, “not that I’d expect you to know what that is, considering how Patricia neglected your upbringing.”
Miriam flushed.
There was another blast of trumpets. Everyone downed eating-knives and looked at the raised platform expectantly.
“A toast,” announced the king, raising his voice. “This evening, we have the honor to announce that our son Creon offers his hand to this lady, the Countess Helge voh Thorold d’Hjorth, in alliance of marriage. Her guardian, the Dowager Duchess Hildegarde voh Hjorth d’Hjalmar, is present this evening. My lady, what say you?”
He’s not talking to me, Miriam realized, as the dowager shuffled to her feet. “Your majesty, my lord. On behalf of my family I thank you from the bottom of my heart for this offer, and I assure you that she would be delighted to accept.”
Miriam stared, rosy-cheeked with embarrassment and anger, at her ancient grandmother.
“Thank you,” the king said formally. “May the alliance of our lines be peaceful and fruitful.” He raised his silver goblet. “To the happy couple!”
Several hundred silver goblets flashed in the light from the huge chandelier that dominated the ceiling of the room. A rumble of approval echoed like thunder across the room. Miriam looked around, her head twitching like a trapped bird.