“They won’t do anything of the sort, and you’ve done nothing that anyone could gossip about.”
I hiccup with a stifled half-laugh, half-sob.
“Come on, let’s go get you a glass of water.”
Aubrey takes me back into the ballroom to where an attendant in palace livery and white gloves is pouring champagne.
On the other side of the ballroom, the Archduke is standing at rigid attention, with his hands clasped behind his back. I can’t keep up with everything that’s been happening lately, and I’ve lived through a revolution.
“Here,” Aubrey says with a smile, her hazel eyes shining with friendliness as she passes me a glass of ice water.
I take a sip of the water, wishing that every time I looked at Aubrey, I didn’t think of him.Chapter ElevenDevrimI watch from the other side of the ballroom as Aubrey leads Wraye to the refreshment table. There’s a blotchiness to her cheeks that wasn’t there a few moments ago, and her eyes are red-rimmed.
I would have been kind to her. I would never have made her feel cheap or exposed, or asked her to meet me, unless I was certain it was what she wanted, too.
Wraye takes a sip of water and smiles at my daughter. I clench my jaw and turn away, making my way around the edge of the room. Before prison, my wants were simple. To serve my King and Queen and wear this uniform. Take a wife. I had my whole life before me.
Now, everything I want feels impossible.
“Devrim. It’s good to see you dancing.”
I turn at the sound of my name. The King. I’ve walked right past him, without bowing. “Your Majesty.”
King Anson is standing with another man, whom I’ve encountered once or twice. Remus, the King’s childhood friend. I remember him as a serious boy of eight, and wonder what he was doing all these years.
The King smiles, relaxed in his surroundings, wearing a suit like the other courtiers instead of the heavy brocade jacket his father would dress in for these occasions. “Who was the young lady you were dancing with?”
“Lady Wraye Rugova, sir. A friend of my daughter’s.”
King Anson glances at Remus with twinkling eyes. “Please introduce Remus to her at the next opportunity. He’s been watching her for the last ten minutes.”
Remus lips press together. “Anson, I was watching all the dancers.”
My gaze flicks over the man. Heavy-lidded gray eyes. The physique of one of my best soldiers and the smooth complexion of a man in his early thirties. Remus can make his own damn introductions.
Then I remember who I’m talking to. “If it is your wish, sir.”
King Anson clears his throat, his gaze cutting away from me. “It was just a suggestion, Devrim.”
Remus is gazing at me like he doesn’t need or want my introductions. Or like he doesn’t trust me. I was the one who used to stand by the King’s side, watching the faces of everyone who addressed him. I know exactly what’s passing through his mind as he looks at me, because it’s what I’d be thinking, too.
This is the man who allowed the King and Queen to be slaughtered.
I give the King a final bow and walk away.
Over the following days, I throw myself into my duties with the King’s Guard. The new recruits need a great deal of basic military training. It used to be that we’d recruit from the Armed Services, but that won’t be possible for years. These young men are used to hard work under the People’s Republic, at least. Most are former factory workers, bewildered to find themselves suddenly rich and important. The King’s Guard is just the place to keep them from going off the rails and turn them into useful members of the Court.
But first, they have to be taught marching, saluting, palace protocol and, in a few cases, basic cleanliness. I yell myself hoarse one morning at two ensigns who have their hair falling into their eyes, dirt under their nails and rifles unpolished.
The summer heat is fierce, but we march around the parade ground over and over, until they can keep in step. Then, we do it again. And again. At night, I collapse onto my bed, mentally and physically exhausted. I dream about the parade ground at night, marching and marching and marching, as I did when I was an eighteen-year-old Air Force recruit.
At breakfast one morning, Aubrey hovers in the doorway, wearing jeans, a cropped tee and espadrilles. “I won’t sit down. I’m meeting Wraye for breakfast. She’s been miserable lately, so I’m treating her at that French café that’s opened up by the park. Les Trois Petits Cochons.”
My hand clenches in my lap. It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen Lady Wraye. “Take the driver, if you like.”
“Thanks, but I’ll walk.” Aubrey gives me a wave, and then hurries out the front door.