There was a moment of silence before his mother finally replied, her voice dry as desert sand. “Saving one’s wife and child requires something a little stronger than a thank-you, Zayn. But, since you appear inclined toward hyperbolic oversimplification at the moment, I won’t be the one to argue with you.”
Just as she had always been able to, his mother lanced the boil of his self-righteous anger, revealing his asinine behavior in the process.
He brought his thumb and forefinger up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry.”
His mother closed the distance between them and hugged him. “I accept your apology. I am sorry, too. I had no idea you felt that way.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
She shook her head. “No. It’s important. Your father would be the first to acknowledge that he put his loved ones before everything, but that’s what made him such a great king. Heloved, Zayn. He loved so fiercely he was willing to sacrifice everything, over and over. But never you.”
Zayn reeled. So many pieces of his family puzzle were rearranging themselves in a single instant that the very foundation of his identity shook.
“We never told you before because—well, because it’s so complicated. There was so much we didn’t tell you. But the betrothal, at least, we thought would never become an issue. We were so sure you would find love long before the terms were up. As the date got closer we decided to tell you when you turned thirty-four. But then the assassination...”
So much had happened in the six months immediately following his father’s death—his coronation, the discovery of his uncle’s plot, his uncle’s death, his mother’s departure. His memories of the time were hazy and dark, but one thing was becoming clear.
“Father was right.”
Frowning, his mother asked, “About what, dear?”
Instead of explaining how this new information had shed light on the shadows of his narrative, chasing away the monsters he’d feared lived in their depths, he said, “I have to go back to Cyrano,” and kissed his mother’s cheek.
His mother started. “Right now? But you’ve only just got here. And it’s so late.”
But he was already making his way to the door.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THEREHADBEENno word from the King.
The morning after he’d left Mina had waited in her office, sure he would come to make amends for the way they had parted.
He had not.
So she had walked purposefully to the staff office and found the King’s major domo and his assistant deep in discussion with the chef when she arrived. Each of them had looked up and straightened when they’d seen who stood before them.
“Get me the King on the phone.”
For the first time since toddlerhood, Mina hadn’t saidplease. He owed her an explanation and she wasn’t going to beg or wait for it.
All three staff members had immediately bowed, working in unison to coordinate locating a phone, dialing, and placing it into her palm.
And as the cold device had touched her skin, it had brought with it the realization that she was the Queen of Cyrano, with all her rights and privileges.
It hadn’t been the Archbishop marrying her in the chapel, or wearing a solid gold mask to her debut ball, or visiting the private summer palace, or playing international stratagems that had made it sink in. It had been the fact that she could walk into a room and demand to speak with the King and have it be done.
The line had rung. And rung. And rung. After the fourth ring, his voicemail had picked up, and his voice had been a slick lick of fire in her core, despite all her frustration.
Mina had not left a voicemail. Neither had she let her mouth fall open in outrage, and nor had she made any noise to indicate how infuriated she was. Instead, she had sucked in a breath through flared nostrils, held out the phone to one of the three staff members, who had taken it with a slight tremors in his hand, and then she had turned and left the room.
For dinner that night she had ordered every single one of her favorite foods, called up a priceless bottle of wine, and dined alone while watching period costume dramas, crying only at the appropriate plot points.
And now, this morning, still with no sign of the King, she had returned to carrying out her duties, projecting an image of a warm and doting wife when in reality she was hurt and angry enough that she might have taken her own unannounced vacation.
But, no, that wasn’t her. Regardless of how anyone else around her behaved, she would always live up to her own standards.
She had kept her word, enacting every duty required of her as outlined in her schedule, which had included two video calls with heads of state and responding to a number of letters and requests.