I switch on the TV, but my mind keeps drifting back to the recent encounters with Rasmussen. As I curl into the sofa with my arms wrapped around a cushion, my unfocused gaze on the television, I remind myself that he’s ruthless. Implacable. Dangerous.
But other memories crowd my mind. Rasmussen crouched down next to me last night, asking if I’m all right. Pulling me beneath the table when there was danger. Getting his hands on me. Licking me. Gazing at me like I’m the most precious thing he’s ever laid eyes on. No one’s ever looked at me like that before. He might want me, but I know he’ll arrest me if he thinks I’m dangerous.
Around six in evening, there’s a knock at the front door, and my heart jumps into my throat, certain it’s Mr. Rasmussen and his soldiers here to take me in.
Thankfully, it’s Archduchess Levanter and Aubrey. When they’re shown into the lounge, I apologize for being in my pajamas. “I’ll go and change.”
Wraye waves me back down. “Don’t, please. You need to take it easy after what you went through yesterday. I thought I’d drop by after work to see how you are.”
Aubrey is holding a bunch of flowers and passes them to me. “It must have been a horrible shock. How are you feeling?”
I take the flowers, admiring their petals and delicate scent. “Better now, thanks,” I lie. “We weren’t in any danger.”
“All the same,” Aubrey says, her hazel eyes sympathetic, “you don’t expect things to be thrown through windows while you’re at dinner.”
Wraye’s eyeing me curiously. “Do you know Mr. Rasmussen well?”
So, she’s heard who I was having dinner with. I want to declare that no, I don’t, and I don’t want to know him, but that will invite more questions about why I was having dinner with him in the first place. “Not very well. He asked me to dinner, and I…”
“Is he helping you with your research?” Wraye asks.
“Oh. Yes. I did hope that he might, but we didn’t get that far.”
“Sachelle’s working on a history of Paravel,” Wraye explains to Aubrey. “She’s been researching at the palace.”
“Like a family tree of the First Families?” Aubrey asks.
Maybe this lie isn’t a bad idea after all. The papers are filled with what’s happening now, and textbooks are likely being written to teach children how we won the country back from the People’s Republic. But who’s recording the reasons why Paravel fell in the first place? That sounds like an important question to answer.
I play with the petals of a daisy. “I’m curious about the first revolution. I want to know why Varga was able to seize power from the King and Queen in the first place.”
“Good idea. I’ve wondered that too, and Daddy won’t talk about it,” says Aubrey, crossing her long legs. She’s wearing jeans and deck shoes and her long hair is in a careless ponytail. Her nose is tanned a darker color than the rest of her face and her nails are short and unvarnished. She defied tradition and married an ordinary man. I like that about her.
Wraye seems lost in thought, and I wonder if she thinks my idea is terrible or disloyal to the King, when she says, “There are a few people you could talk to. Devrim’s brother, Galen for one. He was a teenager when the revolution happened.”
“Uncle Galen is a wonderful idea,” Aubrey says. “I’m sure he’s got plenty to say, and he’s lovely. Nothing like Daddy,” Aubrey adds with a grin and a sidelong glance at Wraye.
Wraye looks amused. “There’s also Matilda Desjardins. She’s the daughter of Reynard Desjardin, a dissident who was executed by the People’s Republic. She’s employed in the Foreign Office and is working to get Paravel internationally recognized again.”
Reynard Desjardins. That name sounds familiar. “Wasn’t he hanged along with the Levanter brothers a few years ago?”
Wraye nods. “That’s right. Varga made an example of them and the hanging was televised.”
“I remember it was all over the news in France, as well,” Aubrey adds sadly. “Everyone kept asking me about it at the riding school, and if my uncles tried to assassinate Chairman Varga. I’d never even met my uncles.”
I’d like to speak to Matilda, but showing up out of nowhere and asking about her murdered father seems tasteless. Galen sounds like a better idea. I’m curious how he escaped persecution by Varga. I wonder if he knows anything about Mr. Rasmussen, too.
“Why was Mr. Rasmussen made Head of Security?” I ask them both.
Aubrey shrugs, as if she doesn’t know and doesn’t much care. Wraye considers the question for a moment, and says, “I don’t know. I suppose you’ll have to ask Mr. Rasmussen.”
Getting an appointment with Galen Levanter is straightforward; I arrive at his office at lunchtime the next day, notebook in my handbag. Barbican Manufacturing is a huge brick building with a worn but well-loved air about it. Galen’s office is up on the fourth floor, and I call an elevator and step inside. Just as the elevator doors are closing, a hand is thrust into the gap.