“Carrington said you’d have words against this,” he muttered.

“For once, Carrington was correct,” she snapped.

At that, his head twitched.

And then he rose.

She stood straight and still and stared at him.

“You’d do well to remember who you are and who I am,” he stated softly.

Mercy made no reply.

“You know, the streets ring with excitement for his wedding,” he shared unnecessarily, for she did know.

Unlike her husband, she knew everything.

“I was wed in this very city, to you, not some Firenz hussy, and shops did not put signs in their windows to say they would be closed,” he went on bitterly. “Pubs did not put signs in their windows to say they’d be celebrating with free leaf cakes and sparkles. There are people already camping outside the steps of the temple to catch a glimpse of their prince and his new princess and the ceremony isn’t for weeks.”

“You can learn from this, my husband,” she told him carefully.

“I can, indeed,” he spat. “They adore him. They worship him. And I returned home from weeks away, raised my standard above the castle, and not a flower fell at the castle gates.”

They hadn’t.

But if he’d announced that Mar-el were allowing ships laden with wool through the seas instead of there being murmurs of increased taxes upon his return, they would have.

“And you make of this that you need to raise an army?” she queried.

“I make of this that I’d do well to do as Carrington advises. Protect my rule,” he replied.

They held each other’s gazes.

It was Mercy who broke the silence.

“You do this, you make me choose.”

“Choose wisely,” he advised.

She stared her husband in his eyes.

And she answered, “I will.”

With that, she swept from the room.

She then located her secretary, or one of them, the one who was in charge of her correspondence.

And she ordered the royal summonses.

She then found her other secretary, the one keeping track of the wedding plans.

And she ordered rose and cedar incense.

She then called for the royal seamstresses.

For they were making a different wedding gown.

59

The Worth

Queen Silence

The Corridor, Cord Cottage, The Arbor

WODELL

I carried the tray bearing the tea service myself, for the servants had again gone missing.

Or, not missing, precisely.

I knew where they were.

I was just ignoring it.

(Or trying to do so.)

An endeavor destined to fail, I realized, when I walked into the drawing room and saw my father standing, gazing out the window.

“The tea is ready,” I called false brightly.

He turned and scowled at me, continuing to do so as he watched me set the service down on the table between the two leather chesterfields that were positioned perpendicular to the fire.

I’d always loved Cord Cottage, especially the drawing room.

And particularly the fireplace.