He took my home from me, turned it into a mockery of itself. Turned me into a mockery of myself.
As I walk past the main hall, Tyndall’s message thrums in my head. He thinks he can make me perform by dangling a bastard child in front of my face? I’d rather kiss his feet, and that will be a cold day in hell.
I will never claim his bastard, and without me doing so, that child can never be an heir, can never have Highbell.
Neither of them can, because it’s mine.
I look into doorways as I pass. “Where are my advisors?” I ask no one in particular.
“I’m not sure, my queen.” The answer comes from my head guard, his answer hesitant.
“Well, send someone to find them,” I snap impatiently.
He jerks his head at one of the other guards, the man slipping away to go locate them.
A frown pulls at my lips as I glance around the empty hall again, hearing no noise, seeing no one at work. “Where are the carpenters? Shouldn’t I be hearing hammers and seeing ladders braced on the walls?”
He shifts on his feet, silver chest plate showing my mottled reflection. I can see my pale face scrunched up in irritation, white hair swept up at the top of my head.
“The carpenters have not come since the riots began, Your Majesty.”
My nostrils flare. Those lazy, insufferable fools. They’re probably in the city, getting drunk and using the riots as an excuse not to work. “Fine. Then their contracts are hereby terminated, without pay. I want people willing to work here by tomorrow morning.”
The guards share a look, but I don’t care. I won’t tolerate such a lack of respect. During my father’s reign, no one would dare skip out on a day’s work in the palace. It was considered an honor to do the bidding of the Coliers.
“Am I clear?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Turning my back on him, I decide to go up to my rooms. My temples are beginning to ache, and I could do with some food.
Yet before I can get to the stairs, a servant rushes forward. “Your Majesty, you have a guest in the drawing room.”
My lips nearly lift into a sneer. “Who?”
“Sir Loth Pruinn.”
An impatient sigh scratches up my throat. The charlatan. The silver-eyed merchant who fancies himself a fortune teller. Ever since his cart blocked my carriage that day in the city, he’s been dropping in unannounced.
I nearly threw him out the first time he did it, except he came with the one thing I couldn’t resist, and it had nothing to do with a trick map claiming to show the way to achieve my greatest desire.
He came with baubles to sell, sure, but what he was really peddling was information. Sir Pruinn quickly realized how to make himself worth my time, and he’s been feeding me information about the city and the people ever since.
It’s why I knew the unrest was spreading. Why I wasn’t surprised when the riots broke out days ago. Unfortunately, once a rebellion lights, it can catch as easily as a spark on dry grass.
“Fine,” I say, spinning on my heel.
I enter the drawing room, finding Pruinn lounging on the cushioned chair, an overflowing shoulder bag resting on his lap like a lumpy pet.
Entering the room, I greet him coolly. “Pruinn.”
The blond man stands regally, his bag clinking when he rolls into a bow. As always, his clothes are impeccable, an ice-blue tunic heavy with furred trappings, his jaw clean-shaven, the hair on his head only an inch above his scalp.
“Queen Malina, you look indefectible, as always.”
I give him an unimpressed look before flicking my hand behind me. “Leave us.”
The guards file out, door closing behind them as I take a seat across from Pruinn. The room is cold, the windows along the outer wall cracked open in hopes of airing out the paint fumes. It’s been days since the walls were covered, but it takes ages to dry with such cold leaching through.