“Mama, if you’re not honest with me, then I’m not going to keep up this charade a second longer. Where did the money come from?”
She glances furtively at the newspapers stacked on the kitchen table.
A moan of horror slips from my throat. I swallow, trying to calm the frantic beating of my heart. “You didn’t.”
“Wraye, you don’t understand the sacrifices I’ve had to make to get us where we are today. I would have done anything to restore our name’s former glory. I will do anything.”
Black spots swarm in front of my eyes, and I double over, clinging to the back of a kitchen chair for support. I should have asked more questions right from the start. “You’ve been selling Court gossip to the newspapers?”
“It was an exchange. We could never have managed on our own. A palace steward took money from the newspapers, too. He’s the one who saw that we were invited to all the balls. It was harmless, and it was necessary.”
“You have no idea what you’ve done! Briar Balzac’s family have all but disowned her. Archduke Levanter could be tried for treason. Do you know what they’ll do to him, if they find him guilty? Your horrible old Paravel executed people all the time. The Archduke is a soldier, and they’ll shoot him.”
My throat is raw, I’m screaming so loud. Mama looks thunderstruck, and for the first time, fearful.
But not for Devrim. For herself.
“Darling, you need to get a hold of yourself. We must proceed as if nothing’s changed. It’s more vital than ever that we—”
She tries to take my hand, but I yank it from her grip, like she’s burned me. “Don’t touch me. Don’t you get it? I’m done. With you, with Court, with all these stupid hoops we’re jumping through to get back to something I don’t even want. I’m plain, common Wraye, and that’s enough for me. I wish that was good enough for you.”
I grab my handbag and run blindly out the door, desperate to be far away from here, from her. Desperate to see the one person in Paravel who must be in even more pain than I am.Chapter SeventeenDevrimAubrey’s dark hair is tumbled across the pillow, and she wears a buttery yellow nightshirt. I sit quietly on the edge of her bed. Watching my beautiful daughter. Delaying the inevitable.
I reach out and gently touch her shoulder. She awakens slowly, rubbing her hands over her face, and then opening her eyes. “Oh, morning. Is everything all right?
“I have something to tell you.”
She sits up, concern filling her eyes. “Daddy?”
I hold the newspaper in my lap. I debated burning it, but it’s better this way. She should know what the whole country will think of her father by lunchtime.
“I wanted everything to be perfect for you. That’s why I didn’t talk about it.” I take a deep breath and hand the newspaper to her. I watch her face as she reads the story.
Shocked, she raises her eyes to mine. “But this isn’t true. The riots overwhelmed the whole country, and you would have died, before abandoning your post.”
While I was in prison, I imagined telling a daughter I’d never met about the day the King and Queen were murdered. In how many of these conversations did she believe I did everything I could? Maybe one percent. Less than one percent.
“You didn’t read it properly.” My voice sounds choked.
“Yes, I did. Daddy, why are you crying? I’m right, aren’t I?”
The newspaper falls to the floor as she wraps her arms around me. I sit there, flooded with apprehension. Finally, I pull away and take hold of her shoulders. “There were things that I should have done differently. An order I wish I’d disobeyed.”
“I don’t know you inside and out, but you could never disobey an order, and you would never abandon your duty.” She smiles tentatively at me. “But I’d like to know you better.”
I study her face, a guilty blade twisting in my gut. Duty first. Family second. That’s how it’s always been.
Maybe it’s time that changed.
“My first thought has always been for the King and his family, but that’s not enough for me anymore. My family is important, too.” I reach for her hand. “I have something else to tell you. Something you may find harder to hear than what’s in the papers.”
She’s going to be angry, and I won’t be able to take the pain away from her, quite so easily. She’ll want me to say sorry, but I don’t think I can apologize.
“Aubrey, I’ve fallen—”
The front doorbell rings. A moment later, a footman appears, saying that Lady Wraye is downstairs.
Aubrey clambers quickly out of bed and reaches for her dressing gown. “She must have come as soon as she saw the story in the papers. She must be worried about us. See, Daddy? Not everyone’s going to believe these lies.”