Page 3 of The Blood Queen

We duck inside a hall, the dark stones swallowing the last of the feeble light outside, the air so cold our breath mists. A wall sconce flickers a ways down, highlighting Cecil as he marches ahead. A few soldiers follow us, but they’re paces back.

Alyth and I are as alone as we’re likely to be.

The stone echoes though. Footsteps ring off the walls, and our harsh breaths rebound like a roar.

I run my thumb in circles on Alyth’s arm, soaking up that contact, trying to reassure her through touch.

“Alyth,” I risk the whisper. I just want—just need something.

She walks alongside me, chin level, silent, not even glancing at me. My chest sinks; she knows this is the game I have to play, doesn’t she? She has to know I’m hers now, even now, especially now—

After a few more steps, she lists toward me like she stumbled, pressing her body against mine in the narrow hall. Her eyes fly to mine, her expression opening like a door flooding a room with sunlight, yearning and comfort flaring deep inside her.

“Partridge,” she whispers.

My brain flounders. What’s she—

I damn near forgot. The bird signals, the ones I used back in Southwark that I taught her.

Partridge means all clear. Everything’s fine.

She’s fine.

That’s a lie, but it’s the most she can do right now.

I pulse my fingers on her arm, telling her I understand. Hoping she understands too—I’ll get her out of this. I’ll keep her safe. I’ll—

Cecil pushes open a heavy wooden door, and the castle’s great hall unfolds around us.

More soldiers fill the space, leaning over tables strewn with maps and papers. Fires rage in two hearths on either side of the room so the air instantly licks our cheeks with heat. Banners hang from the ceiling, denoting crests and tartans I can’t recognize, but the soldiers here, they’re all English.

All those details go hazy. The soldiers, their weapons, being deep in an enemy castle. None of it matters at all.

Because at the end of the room, perched in a chair on an elevated platform, is the one person on this island I never dared imagine I’d see in the flesh.

The one person always so far above me they were near mythical.

Queen Elizabeth.

I falter, tripping on a stone, my face screwed up in confused horror. Alyth stumbles in her own way, exhaling a brittle huff so quiet only I catch it.

“What are you on about?” I hiss at Cecil. “You said you were taking us to the High Blade, not—”

I catch my own mistake as Cecil glances at me, smug.

She’s the High Blade.

The Queen of England, Elizabeth Tudor, is the leader of the Red Caps.

I permit my shock, only because I can’t cover it. “How?”

Cecil arches one eyebrow. “The High Blade has taken positions of power throughout history wherever most served our interests. This one was easiest: We got rid of the real Elizabeth Tudor, and with a few spells to change her appearance, our High Blade became the mortals’ own Virgin Queen years ago.”

For years. The leader of the Red Caps has been the leader of England for years.

The High Blade—Elizabeth—is dressed in battle regalia, armored and gleaming but made luxurious through additions of jewelry. Some of them gleam with magic, the telltale sign of Red Cap weapons, only I don’t have the slightest clue what they do. A ring glows scarlet; a bead on a pin in her red hair shines blue.

Cecil strides up the room, and when his movement catches her attention, she looks up from the map she’d been reviewing with one of her soldiers.