Page 45 of The Crimson Throne
I see another flare of rapidly shifting emotions from Samson. He does not want to be alone with the queen.
Which is a sentiment I share. Why is she shoving me out the door now? Right this fecking instant, when this English snake is still in the queen’s private chambers? I gape at her, but she ignores me. A queen doesn’t repeat her commands.
“Yes,” I say through my teeth. “Your Highness.”
10
Samson
I gotta get used to being in a maelstrom in Scotland, it seems. I intended on finding my room in the castle—and snooping a bit, under the guise of being lost—but another servant clambered up to me, saying he’d heard I was Latimer’s proxy, and the queen demanded I be sent to her as soon as I arrived, seeing as I was the last one she was waiting on.
And now I’m standing in a room with the queen of Scotland.
Alonein a room with the queen of Scotland.
Less than a week ago, I was bailing prisoners out of the Clink.
I keep my attention straight ahead rather than glance back at the door Alyth just left through.
The room still smells like her a bit. Or rather, it smells like the moors did: crisp, wild petrichor.
Mary tips her head where she’s sitting behind a desk near the window. She’s slight, but nothing about her bearing echoes that, all the room-filling self-importance I’m used to from Cecil. It makes me grateful for the barrier of the desk between us.
She waves at a chair in front of her. “Sit. Please.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to make an excuse and leave. But I’m where I need to be, in Mary’s private quarters. Talking to the woman herself, who supposedly has the item that cursed me.
Somewhere, somehow, she’s gotten her hands on the thing that’s keeping me from having any semblance of a normal life, of a life not having to worry about losing consciousness and hurting people I care about.
That resettles me. Refocuses.
Here, I’m not Samson, not anyone but a means to an end of getting my hands on that fae magic. She’s a queen, but it’s the same game at its core: I’ll bow and scrape and make a right fool of myself, no different from pulling a con on a mark in London.
I’m glad suddenly that the queen sent Alyth away. I thought it’d be easier keeping my facade with her around, but I find the idea of her seeing me perform uncomfortable. Not because I fear she’ll see through me but because I feel ashamed, I think.
Christ, what’s wrong with me? Losing it over a pair of pretty eyes.
Pretty, deadly,intenseeyes.
Focus.
I sink into the chair Mary indicated and take in the room with a quick sweep. It’s got the desk, a few chairs, an area off to the side near the fireplace with a sewing project laid next to a bench. There are two doors: one I came through and one that must go farther into Mary’s rooms.
Doubtful she’d hide her magic items in a room where she receives guests.
My eyes linger on the other door. That’s the queen’s private chambers. I’m damn lucky I got this far.
I’ll have to break in, won’t I? To properly search.
“My, look at how the sun captures the orange in your hair.”
I jerk my gaze back to hers, and she gives a smile, one I’ve seen plenty in Southwark. Mostly on the faces of people leaning out the doors of whorehouses, enticing customers.
Oh. Can the queen of Scotland tell I just compared her to a working lady in my head?
Mary stands, and when I make a move to follow her, she waves me back to stay seated. The desk’s still between us, but I keep my posture easy, relaxed, unthreatened.
She’s gazing at my head. No—my hair.
