Glint (The Plated Prisoner 2)

Letting out a breath, I reach up and smooth back his blood-red hair. “I need to make an appearance. Under the right patronage, peasants can be a powerful group to utilize. I intend to use them to my advantage. There’s dissent among the impoverished, and I want to ensure that dissent is pointed at Tyndall, not me.”

Jeo winces a bit. “Word of advice? Perhaps don’t call them peasants. Or talk about using them.”

I wave him off, my fingers gripping the edge of the velvet seat when we hit another bump.

Jeo pinches the corner of the gold curtain at the window on his side and peers out. “We’ve made it all the way down,” he tells me reassuringly. “We’ll be on the bridge soon.”

I’m finally able to sit back in my seat and let out a tight breath. Shoving my curtain aside, I watch as we roll along the ground, blessedly off the narrow road of the mountain.

Soon, the carriage wheels are clacking over cobblestones, the sound of a bustling Highbell making its way to my ears. When I normally visit the city, I only go to the affluent part to dine or to shop.

Today, I’ll be going right into the middle of its haggard heart.

My guards ride in formation around us, horse hooves clopping. When the carriage stops and my footman opens the door to let me out, I already have the queenly mask covering my expression, posture perfect, my white gown pristine.

As I step into the market square, my opal crown diffracts the brittle daylight, the bottom of my dress sweeping the snow-littered ground, polishing it clear.

The guards have blocked off a part of the square, a long table set up ahead of time. A crowd has gathered already, since news seems to travel faster than royal carriages.

Behind the curious spectators, the square teems with vendors, shoppers, and beggars. In the distance, the Pitching Pines loom over the city, the enormous trees casting shadows across the city’s roofs.

As I walk forward, the crowd’s surprised murmurs begin to ripple out at my presence. All three of my advisors—Wilcox, Barthal, and Uwen—are here already, waiting for me by the table. They’re wearing matching white overcoats to set them apart as mine—not Midas’s—just as my guards also wear new steel armor.

No gold anywhere. Exactly as I want it.

For the next hour, I sit at the middle of the long table, Jeo and my advisors on either side of me, as we pass out coin, food, bolts of fabric, even small handmade dolls to give to the peasant children.

One by one, I win their favor.

They call me their cold queen. They curtsy and cry and thank me. Chapped faces, work-worn backs, tattered clothing, heads covered with sprinkling snow, faces strained with the weight of their poverty. They may not look like much, but these are the ones Tyndall ignored—they’re the ones who hate him most.

So I intend to stir that hate, to let it simmer, to make it into something I can use. All while I separate myself—make them love me with equal ferocity that they loathe him.

The crowd doubles, triples, quadruples as word spreads that I’m giving away gifts, and my guards work hard to keep everyone in line.

Soon, we’re nearly out of things to give out, and I’m relieved, because I don’t want to sit here for much longer getting snowed on. Despite my furs, I’m cold, and want to be back in my castle next to a roaring fire before nightfall.

Another woman is led up, and I wear a serene smile on my face. She’s huddled in a coat with patches at its elbows, and I’m not sure she’s got anything to wear underneath. Her eyes are gaunt, her teeth rotted, and she has a babe on her hip and another one clinging to her leg.

I can’t help the twinge of jealousy that surges through me at the sight. I should have born a strong son. A dutiful daughter. My castle should be full of my heirs, but instead, it’s an empty gold tomb.

The woman approaches with jerky, stumbled movements, and I can tell that the guards picked her out of the crowd simply because she looks so bedraggled.

“Come forward,” I call.

As she walks up, her eyes skitter over the table laden with diminishing piles of gifts.

“Coin and fabric for the woman, toys for her babes,” I say, my voice clear enough to carry.

My advisors grab her offerings and pass them off to a guard, who approaches her with the pile. She looks at the armful, to the guard, and back to me, but she doesn’t take them.

I tilt my head. Perhaps she’s daft.

“Your queen has bestowed great gifts on you, miss,” Barthal says, his dark brows drawing together in impatience. “Thank Her Majesty and take her offerings.”

A slow-simmered flame seems to catch in her gaze as she looks back at me. “What does this do?” she demands, voice hoarse.

My white brows draw together. “Pardon me?”