I cannot—I will not be my parents, she thought.
She gathered the threads in her soul, pulling them tight. If the cavity within herself was due to her mother, then confronting her was the only way out of the mental vines and tangles that had clutched at Aurelia ever since the morning after the fire.
Slowly her body unfurled, and she stepped toward the door. Her chest contracted, and her breath ran shallow. Her friend’s hand threaded through her fingers, but she shook it off. This was not something Daria could do for her. Nor Robert. Nor anyone else in the length and breadth of the kingdom. It is my task.
Without looking back, Aurelia forced herself beyond the threshold and down the corridor. The rising circular staircase swallowed her whole. Antler horns sprouted out from the walls above her, their sharp points threatening like spears. The wood-grain wall ran from reds to blacks, and the steps, though perfectly constructed, seemed to narrow as she climbed.
Toward her greatest fear. She could not help but feel that ignorance would be easier. Then there could be no misunderstandings. Or brutal truths. Was the chasm in her heart not better than her mother’s open hatred? Were fragile memories not better than broken ones? And was it not all better—the hurt, the emptiness, the anger—than the agonizing flutter of hope?
At the top of the stair, she saw only the blue door, a bright unavoidable color that pulled her all the way to the end of the hall. Her hand reached for the latch, fingers refusing to curl into a polite knock. To do so would permit refusal or allow time for retreat. This is my choice. I must make it.
The barrier swung at her touch.
Sky blue walls opened around her. Ocean-colored fabric graced pillows and cushions. Robin’s egg curtains fluttered at an open window. And dozens and dozens of fresh bluebells filled the room. A woman, her back to the door, was arranging a handful in a vase on the windowsill.
There could be no doubt about her identity. Dark brown wisps drifted down her neck, and her brown skin mirrored her daughter’s. But the woman did not turn.
“Mother?” Aurelia whispered to the only person who had ever held that title in her heart.
The woman froze, shoulders stiffening like a statue’s, thin arms with bent elbows pressing tightly into her sides, fingers strangling the flowers in her hand. Her face, profile, gaze—withheld.
As they had been forever.
Doubt assailed, a deluge of emotion sweeping through Aurelia. She was again a three-year-old child without strategy or defense. Everything she had built up, every verbal and logical weapon, fell useless, sucked into the swirling whirlpool of the carpet. And she could do nothing but stammer the truth. “I ... I know you do not wish to speak to me, but ...”
The statue did not turn.
She forced herself to continue. “I need to know why.” There, the words were out. And now—bother! The tears were coming, stripping her of her dignity. There was no winning in this situation, no stopping the sick hollow feeling in her stomach.
The woman remained frozen.
“Why?” Aurelia demanded. She wiped the salty smear from her face. “Why won’t you look at me? Or talk to me? Why don’t you want to know me?”
The statue began to tremble. Its entire frame, though the same height as Aurelia, seemed as slight as a child’s. The shoulders came down. The flowers dripped from shaking fingers. Only now did her mother turn, tears flowing freely down her face. The beautiful dusky skin was thin and blotchy, and the matching dark eyes were red and ringed in shadows. “Because,” came the ragged whisper, “I didn’t know if I could survive ever having to say good-bye.”
Then her mother had never wished to leave? At least had never wished to leave her? Could that be possible? Could it be enough?
The anger that had propelled Aurelia through so many confrontations deserted her as she struggled to reconcile the emptiness in her head with the shaking, desperate figure before her now. Her mother was so thin—the bones in her arms and face protruding more than they had in the portrait in the hall. Intricate lace graced her throat. And embroidery with the same pattern trailed down the folds of her skirt to the hem.
What must this lady think of the bedraggled figure now claiming to be her daughter?
The thin woman gave no insight into such questions. Instead, she retreated to the fallen bluebells and the empty vase.
At this, Aurelia swept forward to retrieve the flowers, then offered them up. To her mother.
But the stranger moved to the other side of the vase.
Chapter Seven
SANCTUARY
“DON’T WORRY, I WON’T KILL HIM,” SAID A WRY, masculine voice.
Robert woke to those auspicious words and the bleak view of a gray-stone basement room. No windows. No hearth. No curtains, cushions, or tapestries. Only the bed, a side table, and a solitary wooden chair upon the bare stone floor. After a month of struggling to survive in the Asyan—of waking at every snap and crack in the forest in order to protect Aurelia—he had fallen asleep. In the traitor’s lair.
Robert could not even summon the energy for regret. At least here, no one but himself would pay for his lapse in vigilance.
A female voice, not Aurelia’s, responded to the earlier comment. “But Your Lordship—”
“I am the head of this estate, am I not, Mrs. Solier?”
Solier? Robert had heard that name before. He lifted his chest. “Daria?”
The black-haired girl he had rescued from swarming bees when he and she were both seven hurried toward him. Her hair was still dark, and her eyes still glittered; but despite the fact that he had seen her less than two months ago, she looked somehow older and more complete.
Her gaze dropped at once to his shoulder.
Too late he realized the scar was showing through his loosened shirt. Immediately he tied the laces at his neckline.
“Chris’s sword?” she whispered.
Robert winced. His cousin had been her friend as well.
“It’s not a safe occupation, is it?” she murmured. “To protect a princess.”
He had never managed to protect Aurelia.
And he could not discuss this with Daria.
Especially not with Lord Lester’s bulky chest blocking the doorframe, his large arms crossed over the hilt of the confiscated Vantauge sword.
“Where is she?” Robert could not help asking.
There was no hesitation in Daria’s response. “Upstairs with her mother.”
“In truth?” He knew Aurelia’s feelings toward her mother were far from warm.
“Indeed.” Lord Lester uncrossed his arms and drew closer, then slowly propped the naked weapon against the wall. “You may wait outside, Mrs. Solier,” he stated in a clear command, his gaze scanning Robert with deliberation. The lord’s musclebound arms furled again.
Robert did not have the mental stamina for political cat and mouse. “What is it you want to know?”
His Lordship’s green eyes narrowed. “It’s a matter of need, not want. I need to know what the two of you were doing in the forest. Alone.”
Was this man accusing Robert of running off with the crown princess? “You should ask her. It’s not my place to answer for Her Royal Highness.” The title flew off his tongue like a weapon.
Lester’s red beard twitched at an odd angle, then actually broke into a grin. “I’ve heard the gossip. It bears no credence.”
That was good, because Robert had not heard the gossip and did not care to defend himself against any rumors that were flying around, though he had an uncomfortable feeling he knew what they might be.
The grin faded, and Lord Lester continued, “But my wife is upstairs, speaking with her daughter for the first time in fourteen years.” He paused as though struggling with deep emotion. “And for my wife ... that is everything. I will not allow it to end in carnage.”
For his wife? She was the one who had abandoned her daughter. If someone had the right to fear emotional carnage, it was Aurelia.
“I know about t
he assassination plot,” Lord Lester went on, “and I am fully aware that His Majesty did not release adequate details. So I’m telling you I not only want details, I need them. If I am going to house both the former queen and the crown princess under my roof, I need to know the truth to avoid bloodshed.”
Bloodshed. Then the carnage this man spoke of was literal. And he might well be correct. If the king found this place—if he sent his men hunting for his daughter and discovered, in the process, an entire army, as well as the woman who had humiliated him—the meeting might well end in slaughter.
Robert closed his eyes. Was there nowhere he could take Aurelia? Nowhere she could be safe from the threats that kept piling, one upon the other, like bodies from a massacre?
But this man had kept someone safe for over a decade. And he was offering to protect Aurelia as well.
Robert told him the unvarnished truth. “The guards assigned to the expedition tried to kill her.”
There was no response from His Lordship.
“We escaped with our lives. But I did not dare take her back to the road, in case the guards might ambush us. They could have staked out any town between Sterling and—”
“Transcontina,” Lord Lester finished for him. The city at the northern edge of the Asyan. “That’s less than three days’ ride. I’ll send several men to investigate. If palace guards have been in the city, there are those who will know.”
“And if the guards are there now?” Robert had no desire to see conflict erupt.
“Then my men will watch them and send word when they head back toward the capital. You are to remain here until we receive that confirmation.”
I’m under Her Highness’s authority. Not yours.
But Robert did not dispute the order.
His Lordship nodded brusquely and turned, then at the doorway came to a sudden halt. “I’ve spoken with my courier.” He cleared his throat. “He and his wife have agreed to offer you more suitable lodging.”
He walked out.
Robert felt his jaw clench. The meaning behind the message stung. He was not of the correct class. He had no power, no title, no status. No right to even share a roof with Aurelia. No right to think of her as anything more than his future monarch.
But that could not alter the truth that had plunged into him when she had stormed down the center of the hall, her chin upraised, eyes flashing, voice confident. Recklessly risking her life to defend him. Slaying all threats that stood in her way.
He loved her.
And there was nothing he, or anyone else, could do to change that.
Her mother would not touch her.
Not on that first visit. Or the next. Or the next.
Each morning when Aurelia came to the Blue Room, Lady Margaret—as she was now called—sat alone at her window in her solitary wicker chair, where she could avoid meeting her daughter’s eyes by staring at the flower gardens below.
She was like a set of porcelain shards pieced together. Anything Aurelia said might cause her to crack. No topic was safe: the palace, the king, the politics of Tyralt. At every reference the former queen’s hands clutched her windowsill with such force that her knuckles went white. And after a brief mention of the Vantauge family caused a powerful silence, Aurelia dared not even talk about Robert. Or the expedition, a choice which—she tried to convince herself—had nothing to do with her own reluctance to think about the future.
The past could not be broached, not without any foundation or common ground. Even minor topics felt like chasms for her to plunge into. Her attempts to speak to her mother’s interests only revealed Aurelia’s ignorance. She knew next to nothing about gardens, embroidery, or painting. Every broken conversation served as evidence of her own inadequacy.
She longed to quit. To forego the awkward silences and the frightening reflection of her own weakness. But if she gave up, the cavity within her would claim dominion.
Desperate for something to break the silence, she forced herself past the final image of Bianca and dared the topic of horses. Surely here, at least, the former queen was not the expert.
But Lady Margaret’s skin turned as pale as Daria’s. The hands again clutched the windowsill. And the silence thrust Aurelia away.
The next day the blue door was locked.
Aurelia wanted to scream, to pound down the door and destroy forever any hope of reconciling with the stranger on the other side. But something would not allow her to do it—the stark hollow terror within her. And that illogical inner thread that still craved her mother’s love.
Stupidity. She should run down to the Soliers’ cottage right now and forget the woman in the Blue Room. But if Aurelia arrived at the cottage this early, her best friend would not allow her to forget. Daria would ask questions. As she had about the assassination plot. Questions that seemed to chase Robert away to his new job at the stables. And questions Aurelia did not want to answer.
Instead, she left the Fortress for the village interwoven among the shadowy canopy of dense trees. She sought distraction, but found herself swept up in genuine curiosity. Here, beyond the knowledge of the king, the people had just as many plans as those in Tyralt City. They were building a school. And over a dozen houses were in construction amid the foliage. She met butchers and builders, seamstresses and weavers, teachers and leaders, all of whom spoke well of Lady Margaret, though none had actually met her.
How could these people feel a connection to the woman her own daughter did not understand? Every morning that week, before returning to the village, Aurelia silently tested the blue door, and every morning it remained locked.
At last, after seven days of being exiled from her mother’s residence, she gathered enough humility to approach the one person who might be able to help. She braved the cacophony of the great hall at suppertime.
“Your Highness.” The red-bearded man who was technically her stepfather offered up a knowing grin and pulled out a vacant chair at his right.
She could not help but feel as though he were mocking her. But she bit her tongue and did her best to remain civil as he introduced her to the soldiers at his side, all hired in defiance of her father. The task was not as hard as she had expected. The conversation, to her surprise, centered more on the welfare of the village people than on hunting or training techniques. And she regretted the moment when at last Lord Lester dismissed the other participants from the table, though she had come to complete a mission.
“Your Lordship.” She used his title, not as a means to mock him, but as a boundary. She already had a father, and she could not quite forgive this man for his dreadful treatment of Robert upon their arrival. But no one else could provide her with the insight she needed. “I wish to ask your advice.”
“Patience,” he replied, tilting a bottle of red wine over his glass and raising his arm so that the crimson stream stretched higher and higher.
She silenced herself, thinking he was telling her to wait before she spoke.
He chuckled. “My advice, with regards to your mother, is always patience. I courted her for ten years under this very roof before she agreed to marry me. And believe me when I say I’ve been locked out of that room for far longer than you are ever likely to be.” The bottle thudded down.
Aurelia blinked. This man, whom she had assessed as rude and brash, had waited ten years for her mother to marry him? And according to the locals, he had felled half an acre of forest for the gardens so that she might have fresh blossoms in her room. And he had raised an entire army to protect her. Perhaps he did not, entirely, deserve Aurelia’s disdain. “I think I upset her when I mentioned horses.”
“Ah.” Lord Lester tilted the wine in her direction.
The scent twisted her insides and darkened her thoughts. She tried not to inhale, pushing the bottle away.
He corralled it in the crook of his arm, then stated, “Your mother has never recovered from your brother’s death. Horses remind her of the accident.”
Was her entire family always
to remain captive to that moment fourteen years ago, when Aurelia’s brother had been trampled by her father’s mount? Nothing could undo that slicing imprint. And she well knew, based on her experience with the king, that she could never measure up to her brother’s place in her parents’ eyes. “I see.” Aurelia rose to go.
“She isn’t punishing you.”
Of course she is.
“She’s only afraid.”
Of what? The former queen had not once tried to initiate conversation—had taken no risks at all. “She’s made no attempt to get to know me.”
“She has let no one else into that room without my presence in fourteen years.”
Could that be true? Had her mother taken a risk simply by allowing her daughter over the threshold? And what folly to learn that now!
Aurelia took a half dozen steps away, then paused. It was not this man’s fault her mother was scarred. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“You’re welcome.”
The next day the door was unlocked. Aurelia hovered on the threshold.
Her mother was sitting in her chair beside a large basket of delphiniums, gazing out the window.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” whispered Aurelia, as if she had not been barred from this azure refuge for the past seven days. “I was assisting a family that is moving into their new home in the village.” The words tumbled over one another. “They have ten children, and I was helping the little ones find their way.”
Her mother turned so that the midmorning sunlight shone on half of her face. “The Rienthur family.”
Aurelia was astonished to hear the name from the former queen’s lips. She had come to think her mother’s interests were restricted to the minutiae of her surroundings: the paintings on the wall, the fabric, the flowers.
Lady Margaret’s slender fingers reached down to the overflowing basket and removed one of the long stalks of cobalt blossoms. On a small table at her side lay a pair of shears and a ball of twine. For drying flowers.
Again her mother spoke. “A great many families have come to the estate this year. That is why the new school is so important.”