know me, Viktor. I’m Beatrice Irvine, not your Rosa, and you must forget me and her when you walk away from this.” She sent a trickle of stillness through the power, holding him away from climax. “But first tell me when Akilina and Sandalia meet, and why.”
He groaned in protest, thrusting harder into her in search of his own pleasure. Belinda laughed, quiet liquid sound, and let her head fall back, riding his strength inside her for her own benefit. “Tell me, and I’ll let you finish,” she promised, and out of selfishness, murmured, “but keep doing that.” A woman could separate out words from pleasure; surely a man could as well. Viktor’s desperate grunts and fierce rutting seemed to belie that logic, and impatience took her. The witchpower stillness resided in him; she withdrew it and filled him instead with her own building desire. He cried out more loudly than he ought to have, strangled sound of release, and she forewent the urge for satisfaction to snap, “Now, Viktor, tell me of Sandalia and Akilina.”
And finally, in gasping words, he did.
AKILINA PANKEJEFF, DVORYANIN
24 November 1587 Lutetia Akilina watches Viktor slip out of the alcove, and taps a toe against the chilly floor. Her feet ache from the hard stone and her toenails are edged with blue from cold, but bare feet and the soft shift she wears made no sound as she followed her guardsman through the palace, unbeknownst to him and very clearly unbeknownst to Beatrice Irvine. Explaining her outfit will be unnecessary, should she come upon a courtier as she returns to her rooms: she is, after all, Khazarian, and can use that as an excuse for any oddities in behavior the palace hangers-on might observe.
She heard very little of the conversation from her hideaway; she heard much more clearly the sounds of passion. That alone would be enough to condemn Irvine on; Akilina is a countess and a noblewoman of repute, and Irvine is almost nothing. Even backed by her lover-by Javier, Akilina corrects her own thought, as it appears the term lover can be used generously when speaking of Beatrice Irvine-even backed by a prince’s belief, Irvine’s reputation would be shattered with Akilina’s accusations of infidelity. Javier would have to put her aside.
But better still is the fact that what words Akilina did catch spoken between the lovers were spoken in Khazarian. That lends strength to Viktor’s feverish insistence that he knew this woman on Gregori’s estates in Khazar: at the very least, she has the tongue for it.
Ruining Javier’s marriage is a delightful end in and of itself, but discovering the truth of who Beatrice Irvine is is the far more entertaining game. Akilina tucks her shift beneath her feet and stands watch, waiting for Beatrice to leave the alcove down the hall so that she might say she saw the assignation with her own eyes, both lovers identified.
In time, the curtains shift, but no one emerges. Akilina frowns and watches more closely, keeping her place until afternoon sun has crept around the palace to pour into her nook. Aching from sitting on stone and weary with the wait, Akilina rises and stalks down the hall to push back the velvet curtains.
No one at all is within the alcove.
It’s only then that she remembers Viktor’s flushed cheeks, the sickness that seems to ride him, and his mumbled accusation of witchcraft.
BELINDA PRIMROSE / BEATRICE IRVINE
25 November 1587 Lutetia Belinda curtsied deeply enough to border on the absurd, keeping her eyes lowered and the deferential pose until Sandalia flickered her fingers, a gesture Javier had surely learned from her. And Eliza had learned it in turn, Belinda thought as she rose. The bruise on her jaw had faded-avoiding Javier’s mother for the days it took to heal had been a challenge-and Belinda had taken care in dressing that morning, knowing Sandalia would insist on seeing her. Her gown was flattering, though not one of Eliza’s new fashions; whether she chose to dress as Eliza had set fashion or not, it would remind the queen of her son’s missing friend, and Belinda found she preferred the more familiar armour of an older style.
Sandalia, in contrast, wore one of Eliza’s high-waisted gowns, and looked ravishing-or ravishable. She wore her nearly forty years well, but with the costume’s soft lines and attention drawn to her bosom, she seemed some sort of Madonna, full of beauty and grace. Belinda curled the tiniest of smiles as she straightened, pleased beyond expectation that she’d been correct in the style suiting the Gallic regent. “Do we amuse you, Lady Irvine?” Sandalia’s voice was cool; she knew as well as Belinda did that Belinda had been avoiding her, and a queen did not like to be treated thus.
“Not at all,” Belinda said, then gambled on Beatrice’s impetuosity and added, “It’s just that Your Majesty is lovelier than I’d even imagined. Forgive me for being so bold, but the fashion suits you wonderfully.”
Sandalia’s mouth thinned momentarily, dry humour infusing her voice. “As you suggested it might. Will you now go to the Aulunian queen and mock her for the same dress?”
Belinda bobbed another curtsey and dared a brief, brilliant smile. “As Your Majesty commands. I would beg leave to bring a court artist with me, that he might sketch her expression when I do so.”
Sandalia’s mouth twitched again and she rose in a swirl of gossamer skirts. “We cannot decide if our son likes you for your tongue, Lady Beatrice, or if he likes you despite it. Walk with us.” She stepped down from the throne dais to Belinda’s side, startling the younger woman with her diminutive size. Even crowned-not heavily; the crowns of state were left for formal affairs, and Sandalia’s daily tiara was a delicate thing of gold and jewels-even crowned, Belinda could easily see over the top of the regent’s head, and heard herself ask, impertinently, “Was my lord’s father a tall man, Your Majesty?”
Astonishing silence fled out around them, the courtiers who caught the question falling quiet so quickly it made others do the same, craning to see what they’d missed. Sandalia turned her head to look up the few inches at Belinda so slowly that for long seconds it barely seemed the queen moved. Her expression, when their eyes met, went beyond outrage into incredulity, and Belinda wished desperately for the ability to call a blush on command. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I have no idea what came into me.”
“You have no sense at all, girl,” Sandalia said. “If Javier doesn’t teach you to control that tongue he’d best cut it out. You cannot say such things.”
“Your Majesty.” Belinda put mortification into her voice, though that same impertinent part of her wanted to insist that she certainly could, though she clearly should not. God in Heaven, if this was what the witchpower brought out in her, Robert had been righter than he knew. A lifetime would be too soon to unleash the foolishness she found herself playing at.
And yet the question pricked her curiosity. Louis had not, from description, been an especially tall man, and paintings showed him as pale and aesthete, with none of Javier’s height or colour. Belinda had no way to determine whether witchpower burned inside someone from a portrait, but looking on Louis’s image, she would far more imagine his tiny, once-widowed bride to carry magic within her blood, and knew that Sandalia did not. It was far from proof, but it whet her appetite for the truth, and so she laid the question out and hoped, despite her appalling rudeness, that Sandalia might say something indiscreet in response.
“Louis was taller than I” was Sandalia’s reply, after a frosty silence that brought them both out of the courtroom and toward Sandalia’s more private meeting chambers. Surprise curdled in Belinda’s stomach as she realised the queen had dropped formality; whether it was a sign of liking Belinda despite her unfortunate tendency to speak her mind, or whether she intended to appear soft until bitter hardness was necessary, Belinda was unsure. “As you so rudely implied, however, most people are. Perhaps Javier’s length is from his uncle; Rodrigo, whom you have not met, is quite tall.”
“And dark,” Belinda said. “I’ve seen a portrait. He’s extremely handsome.”
Sandalia smiled unexpectedly. “He is. I would that he had wed and had children of his own. But there’s always Lorraine,” she added, dryness returning to her tone again. “Do you understand the political situation there, Beatrice? You give lip service to Lanyarch’s freedom, but do you understand?”
For a moment Belinda imagined herself flanked by Sandalia on one side and her father on the other. It took effort to not glance to the side, looking for Robert, and she schooled her voice to show no amusement as she
