Before she quite knew it, she had a bundle of pages cradled in one arm and had sorted several dozen according to the headings of the pages. Oddly, she found the motions somewhat soothing. She glanced at the headings and sorted and her mind drifted. At least she wasn't dithering over Leffisand and his foolish—
"Scorch it," she muttered, and nearly threw the papers down. "Just when I was starting to feel better. I wish I could—no, I don't really want to forget about Leffisand entirely. Those few years we had together were rather enjoyable. I liked life in Carlion much more than I did back home." A sigh escaped her. "I don't want to forget Leffisand. After all, what use would it be trying to get my kingdom back if I couldn't remember why I was Queen of Carlion? No, I just wish it would stop hurting so much."
She paused in reaching for another stack of pages to sort. Odd, how this work was going much quicker than she had anticipated. Merrigan could have sworn someone called her name. Her real name. She was going by the name Mara. False names were much better for protecting her dignity. It wouldn't do for someone she had met along her exile travels to show up in Carlion, expecting payment for the piddling little good deeds they had done for her.
Merrigan paused, half the pages sorted, caught between the urge to fling them across the room and to sort faster. What was wrong with her? It was like there was an argument in her head, correcting her every time she spoke her thoughts aloud.
"Granted, Leffisand employed far too many lies and nasty tricks, but wasn't he justified in punishing people who got in his way? He was the king. He had to protect his throne, his kingdom, his people ... his lies." Merrigan looked at her empty hands and the sorted piles of pages. Somehow, she had gotten through the first stack of ripped-out pages and had ten piles of pages now. She rubbed at her temples. She actually felt a little better, as if she were accomplishing something important.
"Poor Fialla. She simply wasn't the right wife for Leffisand. Much too sweet and good-hearted and weak. King Conrad would have been a much better choice for her." Another snicker escaped her. "Thank goodness he ran away in horror when someone proposed he ask for me. The only one who really wanted me was Bryan, and he ..."
Merrigan closed her eyes to wish away the image of a long-forgotten, handsome, young face. She hadn't thought of Prince Bryan of Sylvanglade in years. Had it been ten, or more than that? At least he had never formally proposed marriage. The youngest son of a large royal family in a small kingdom, he had no chance. Even before she learned to always consider power and never accept anything less than an heir, she had known better than to encourage Bryan.
It just showed how low she had fallen in the world, to think of him now. Better to concentrate on other things. Such as all the handsome crown princes who had looked at her and either shuddered in fear or stomped away in disgust and wounded pride when she refused them. Conrad of Jardien had been one of the former.
Chapter Four
Merrigan sat in front of the piles of pages, rested her head in her hands, and let out a few odd, teary chuckles. It was the dust from the pages that got on her hands. The paper dust got in her eyes. That was where the tears came from.
Someone whispered behind her, "If that's what you want to believe, go ahead. It'll just make everything take a little longer."
"Who asked you?" she snapped, and looked around, making her neck ache a little from the sharp, quick movements.
She was losing her mind. There was no one else in the room. While it was all well and good, and rather relaxing to be shut up in a library all day, she might just need someone to talk to. Or at least to hear some voices other than Judge Brimble pontificating and lying and mocking, his voice coming in hollow tones from the room below her. She had thought the plan was brilliant at the time she came up with it, but Merrigan saw flaws in it now. Sitting still all day, sewing in solitude, with servants to bring her tea and check if there was enough oil in the lamps, had seemed a wonderful, intelligent plan at the beginning. Now, though ... she might just be losing her mind, if she was hearing voices in her head. And worse yet, voices arguing with her, correcting her. No one had dared correct her since her mother died and she lost Nanny Tulip.
"Oh." Flora peeked around the door, instead of coming in to pick up the tray with her empty dishes. "Didn't you like the stew? Or the apple dumpling?"
"Hmm?" Merrigan rubbed at her face and got up. Yes, she simply needed to get up and walk and get her blood flowing a little faster. "Oh, yes, they were delicious. I'm simply not used to eating so much at a sitting, and so regularly."
"Are you all right, Mistress Mara?" The dumpy serving girl peered up at her, wrinkles of concern around her eyes and mouth.
"It's rather quiet in here. When I was—when I had a home," she corrected quickly. If she said, "when I was queen," she would find herself locked up in the local madhouse, with others whose minds had been broken by too much magical interference. "My husband used to play his fiddle in the evenings when I did my sewing. Or he would tell me stories." She certainly
