“Of course I would!” Javel spat. “Do you think it was easy, watching her carted off in the cage? I would do anything to change it!”
“You can’t change it. And since you can’t, I ask you again: do you still want her back?”
“I do.”
“Then here is my proposal. You will go to Mortmesne with two of my Guard. I will arm and fund you. And if you can get your Allie out, then I’ll know it can be done.”
Javel blinked, his expression doubtful. “I’m not a particularly good fighter, Lady. I can’t even speak Mort.”
“And you’re a drunk,” Dyer remarked from the wall.
“Shut up, Dyer!” Kelsea snapped, thinking of Barty. Barty, she now suspected, had been an alcoholic. There was no way to know for sure, but a thousand tiny hints had been scattered throughout her childhood. “Your drunkenness, Javel, is not my primary concern. I want someone committed to the enterprise.”
“I only want my Allie back.”
“That’s all I’m asking you for.”
“I’ll go.” Javel’s eyes gleamed … not with life, not yet, but at least with some purpose. “I don’t know how it can work, but I’ll go.”
“Good. Take a few days for yourself, get your affairs in order. Lazarus will be in touch.”
Javel’s face fell; he had clearly meant to leave right then. Mace stepped forward and growled, “Do yourself a favor, Gate Guard, and stay out of the pubs. This will be a tough trick even with a clear head.”
“I can do that.”
“Good. Devin, escort him to the Gate.”
Javel followed the guard out the door with wandering footsteps, as though unsure of where he was going.
“You’re mad, Lady,” Mace muttered. “The ways that this can fail … I can’t even list them. And you want to send two of my best men along with that ass.”
“When it fails, they do call it madness, Lazarus. But when it succeeds, they call it genius, and the genius will be yours, for I’m putting this entire operation into your hands. I want to know nothing more about it.”
“Thank God for small favors.”
Kelsea smiled, but as the doors closed, she whipped around sharply. “Dyer!”
He came forward.
“Your mouth is a fine source of amusement to me, Dyer. But that means nothing if you can’t learn when to keep it shut.”
“I apologize, Majesty.”
“You speak passable Mort, yes?”
Dyer blinked. “I do, Lady. My accent isn’t wonderful, but I am fluent. Why?”
Kelsea glanced at Mace, who gave her an almost imperceptible nod. Dyer stared at them for a moment, then groaned. “Oh, Lady, don’t tell me.”
“You’re going, my friend,” Mace cut in. “You and Galen.”
Dyer looked up at Kelsea, and she was surprised to see real hurt in his eyes. “Am I being punished, Lady?”
“Of course not. This is important work.”
“To break a single slave out of Mortmesne?”
“Think bigger, you prick,” Mace growled. “I’m sending you over there. Do you really think you’ll have only one agenda?”
This time, it was Kelsea who blinked, but she recovered quickly. If she was already looking further down the road, it was no surprise that Mace was doing the same. The Mort rebellion, it had to be; Mace had made it something of a pet project in his limited free time. Under his direction, the Crown had already sent several shipments of goods to the rebels in Cite Marche.
“I apologize, Majesty,” Dyer said.
“Accepted.” Kelsea glanced at her watch. “Is it dinner yet?”
“Milla says thirty minutes, Majesty!” a new man called from the kitchen doorway.
“Call me when it’s ready,” Kelsea told Mace, climbing off the throne. “All of you have worn me out today.”
In her chamber, she found the portrait they had brought up from the gallery, now leaning against the wall beside her fireplace. Kelsea stared at it for a long moment, then turned to Pen.
“Go away.”
“Lady—”
“What?”
Pen splayed his hands. “Things can’t remain like this forever. We have to move past what happened.”
“I have moved past it!”
“You haven’t.” Pen spoke quietly, but Kelsea heard the low hum of anger in his voice.
“It was a weak moment, and it won’t repeat.”
“I’m a Queen’s Guard, Lady. You have to understand that.”
“I understand that you’re just like every other man in the world. Get out.”
Pen’s breath hissed through his teeth, and Kelsea was pleased to see real pain in his eyes for a moment before he retreated to his antechamber. But as soon as he pulled the curtain closed, she collapsed in her armchair, regretting her own words. Here had been a perfectly good opportunity to repair the situation, and she had thrown it away.
Why must I be such a child?
Looking up, Kelsea caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the mirror and stiffened. She wasn’t a child anymore; the ground had shifted beneath her again. A pretty—though stern—woman stared back at her from the glass. Even by the soft light of the fire, Kelsea could see that her cheekbones had become more prominent; they seemed to shape her face, pointing it downward toward a mouth that had somehow become lush.
Kelsea gave a croak of laughter. If she had a fairy godmother somewhere, then the old woman must be senile, for she was granting the wrong wishes, those that mattered least. The Tear was in a shambles and the Mort army had begun its assault on the border, but Kelsea grew prettier by the day.
Maybe this is what I wished for, she thought, staring at the mirror. Maybe this is what I wanted more than any other thing. A phrase from one of Carlin’s books recurred: blood will tell. Kelsea thought of the portrait two floors beneath her, the smiling blonde woman with no care in the world beyond her own pleasure, and felt like screaming. But the face in the mirror remained serene, mysterious, just on the point of deepening into beauty.
“True Queen,” Kelsea muttered bitterly, and heard her voice crack. Her reflection blurred for a moment, became indistinct. She blinked, confused, and then found herself fading, that curious sense of incipient otherness, of becoming someone else, which she had experienced before. She should call Pen, warn him that she was starting on one of her fugues, but humiliation overwhelmed her, and for a moment she could not find her voice. The power of this particular memory did not seem to fade with the passage of time; at any moment it could rise like the tide, swamping Kelsea and drowning her in an ocean of shame. Why should she tell Pen what was coming? It would serve him right if she blundered into a wall or a piece of furniture, if she injured herself on his watch.
You are being utterly childish. These aren’t real problems. Lily has real problems. The Tearling has real problems. Your little dramas aren’t even on the map.
Kelsea tried to shut the voice out, but it was too right to ignore, and for a moment she loathed the sensible side of herself, that pragmatic core that no longer allowed her even the luxury of throwing a tantrum. The room faded around her, rippling, and Kelsea felt a moment of wonder at how close the two worlds seemed to be. Lily’s life and her own … sometimes it seemed as though they lay right beside each other, perfectly aligned … as though Kelsea could step over some line and simply be in a different time, in the America that was gone.
“Pen!”
He appeared in moments, his face stiff.
“I’m going,” Kelsea murmured. The room was fading away now, and as Pen approached, she found that he was fading as well, until she could look right through him, into a sunlit room.
“It’s all right, Lady,” Pen murmured. “I won’t let you fall.” His grip on her arm was good, strong and comforting, but Kelsea sensed that, in time, even that would fade.