Lady Death's Diary: Chapter 26 (Patreon)

Loren came to visit me the next morning. Although I restricted to bed rest (Delphine having threatened to break both my legs again should I attempt to leave prematurely) and wore nothing but my nightgown, my fiancé arrived dressed in one of his most formal uniforms usually reserved for diplomat visits and ship launches. He’d worn it to our wedding breakfast, the day I’d been poisoned.

Even back when I’d loved (or rather, thought that I loved) Loren, I’d always found his propensity for military uniform to be somewhat ridiculous. King Eldin had led troops during past border skirmishes with Anterdon, but Loren? He simply liked the way that the cut showed off his shoulders.

When he arrived in my chamber, Loren promptly fell to his knees by my bedside. This was not accomplished without some difficultly for, in addition to the fitted cut of his jacket, the snug breeches left little room for maneuverability. Impractical in actual battle, I assumed.

Despite taking a few attempts to get down on one knee, Loren eventually managed and tilted his face to where I was propped upright by my pillows. He looked every inch the concerned finance, with a poetic shadow under his eyes hinting at his devastation over Armond’s betrayal.

“Lady Vitrula,” he declared earnestly, “words cannot express my—”

“Your abject devastation over recent events,” I finished for him with a tired sigh, knowing the formal protocol for apologies as well as he did. In a different life, I might have felt wounded that my near-death at the hands of his former best friend didn’t at least warrant an independently worded apology instead of one prewritten by scribes.

Something flashed behind Loren’s sky-blue eyes, a darkly quiet devastation that I’d never witnessed in him before, I felt momentarily guilty for being petty when his dearest friend had just died. Yes, Armond had been a murderer, assaulter, and all-around jackass, but he’d always been unfailingly loyal to Loren.

Which made his attempt to kill me so odd, now that I thought of it. Armond had to know that doing away with the Prince’s betrothed would cause problems, especially since he’d made little effort to cover up signs of foul play. Then why . . .

“You’re right to chastise me!” Loren burst out, interrupting my train of thought. “It was my fault that Armond—that Lord Delos attempted to take your life. He no doubt thought that he was doing it for me, you see.”

“Why would he think that?” I asked carefully.

Loren looked distraught by my question. He stood, heedless to how his sudden movement caused small rip along the seam near his knee. With a tormented expression, he paced alongside the length of my bed, wringing his hands and biting his lower lip. Finally, he sat down on my bed besides me, too engrossed in his own inner turmoil to notice how I winced when he jostled my mattress.

His eyes met mine. “We don’t love each other,” he said in a flat, defeated tone.

“No,” I said. “We do not.”

At the cool civility of my reply, Loren let out a small laugh. He ran his fingers through his pale blond hair, giving him an almost rakish appearance.

“Armond knew,” he said softly. “I think . . . I think he was trying to do me a favor. By killing you. What happened was my fault.” His eyes met mine, bright with anguish, and his voice cracked. “Tru, if I had known—”

It was unlike Loren to take responsibility for, well, anything, let alone something that wasn’t his fault. Uncertain what else to do, I rested my hand atop of his, and he stared down at it with almost fearful hope.

“I don’t love you, Loren,” I said firmly. Truthfully, I never really had. “And you don’t love me. It seems we have common ground after all.”

Loren was silent for a long moment.

“Common ground is more than many marriages start with,” he finally said.

His fingers curled around mine, warm and tentative. I squeezed back briefly before withdrawing. It wasn’t a lover’s grip, but rather a bargain’s finalizing handshake.

* * * *

Despite our newfound understanding of each other, the days following Loren’s visit were an experiment in frustration. I was confined to my bed to fully recover from my injuries. Meanwhile, Uncle Alistair and Xander spoke with their connections in the palace in order to learn who Armond had been in contact with in the days leading up to his murder. Their investigations kept them busy and, with Emilia still at her parents’ house recovering, I found myself left mostly alone but for the endless rotation of guards outside my door. Delphine visited as much was possible, but her duties as Court Sorceress meant she could only stop by for an hour or so a day during the time period when we had previously held our lessons. And Theo, despite his plethora of good intentions, quickly grew impatient being cooped up inside.

Only one person possessed both the time and patience to keep me company. Letty used the hours that she spent with me to embroider an intricate throw pillow that she swore would brighten up my entire room upon completion. She seemed content enough to remain quietly by my side despite my having made clear I had no desire to converse with her. We passed time in silence, me reading as she stitched. Occasionally, I caught her staring at me with a look of puppy dog sadness on her face. After the tenth time catching her stare in as many minutes, I closed my book and arched a brow.

“I know that I’m not so devastatingly beautiful that you cannot bear to look away,” I quipped. “What’s wrong?”

Other than guilt, I added silently.

Letty twisted her thread around her finger until its tip whitened. She bit her lip for a long moment before blurting out, “Do you ever wonder why we’re not closer?”

My eyebrows rose even higher. Of all the things I’d expected Letty to say, a complaint about our lack of sisterly bond was last on the list. After all, she was the one having an affair with my fiancé.

“We don’t have much in common,” I said with a dismissive shrug.

Letty looked down at her lap. The red thread was now hopelessly knotted around her finger; she sighed and cut herself free with a small pair of sewing scissors. “I remember when our parents married,” she said softly. “I was terrified to meet you. You were a lady and betrothed to the Kingdom’s Prince, and I . . .” She laughed without humor. “I was just Letty Brown. Even my last name was drab.

“Then you arrived, and you were so lovely and kind that I thought that we’d be bosom friends as well as sisters. Yet when we came to Bellcrest—” She hesitated before lowering her volume even further. “You acted as if you didn’t want me here. I don’t know what changed but I wish it hadn’t. Did I do something wrong, Tru?”

I resisted the urge to snort. Let me list the ways, I thought. You’ve continually stolen my fiancé, framed me for attempted murder, caused my brother to die in a pointless war, caused my brother to kill me in an even more pointless duel, and had the audacity to smile while I was having my head chopped off.

Yet as I mentally listed off the different ways that Letty had betrayed my trust, I realized something. Each and every number on the list came from one of my past lives. If I were to go only by Letty’s actions over the past three years, I didn’t have a single shred of evidence to indicate she’d worked to harm me.

I’d treated Letty based on what I thought her to be capable of rather than her provable actions. Yet I had no proof that she’d actually conspired with the person behind my attacks this time around. Even if Letty had been responsible for each of my past deaths, who was to say that this Letty was the same as her prior versions? I’d changed with each new life. Was it impossible to think that perhaps others had too?

What had this Letty done wrong?

Lost in my own musings, I failed to answer her question. My stepsister sighed and stood from her chair. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I shouldn’t have bothered you with such things when you’re still recovering.”

She departed. I stared at the incomplete pillowcase she’d left behind, the roses still missing half their petals, and wondered if I owed her an apology as well.

* * * *

The next week, Alistair, Xander, and I decided to meet in Lady Delphine’s study at her invitation while she was busy performing her Court duties. What better place to talk undisturbed, she’d said tartly, than in the lair of a witch?

“Before his death, Delos was witnessed in the company of Hargraves and Drixton,” said Xander.

My uncle took a sip of tea, grimaced, then added a few drops of something else into the cup from his flask. “Both Councilors have been vocal about their desire to see Prince Loren engaged to Fengal’s youngest princess in order to strengthen diplomatic ties.”

I wrinkled my nose, as much as my uncle’s words as his early drinking. “Isn’t Princess Faluna only six?”

“Anterdon’s queen married King Hesiod when she was but three,” said Alistair. “Her nanny had to hold her during the ceremony.”

“One is never too young to be used as a diplomatic bargaining chip,” Xander added, his tone light but his expression dark.

“That’s repulsive,” I said.

Alistair chuckled. “Slightly less so when you realize that King Hesiod was the same age as his toddling bride. They each lived with their parents until they came of age, then renewed the ceremony when they were both sixteen. From what I observed of them in Anterdon, the couple is now very much in love.”

“Still,” I protested, “Loren is over a decade older than Faluna.”

“Simply noting that purely political unions are not as uncommon as one might hope.” My uncle looked at me pointedly, and then at Xander. My cheeks heated in response. Any feelings that I might possess for Xander had to come second to surviving and my duty to Verdan. Which meant that I had to marry Loren.

Even if I stayed in Bellcrest after cancelling our engagement, I’d spent the past three years immersed in learning magic. If the northern noble protested the end to my engagement, no one would take me seriously enough in this itineration to let me negotiate on their behalf.  My studies had compromised the Council’s belief in my judgement—one wrong accusation, and I had personally already laid the groundwork for their next public denouncement. I’d been permitted to learn magic due to being engaged to Loren, and without that protection, Duke Kothe’s daughter’s ability to cast spells would ironically likely result in my being labeled a threat similar to my great grandfather.

I wouldn’t put it past Timons to order my assassination just to be on the safe side. Even if he wasn’t in league with my mysterious attacker, the Councilor was consistently paranoid about any power imbalance between Kothe and the rest of Verdan.

I decided to change the subject. “Hargraves isn’t particularly fond of me.” In fact, he had been downright hostile at each of my multiple trials.

“Hargraves is unpleasant to everyone,” said Xander. “Drixton, however, is openly discontent with his position on the Agricultural Table. Perhaps he believes the King will promote him to the judiciary if he plays a crucial part in arranging Loren’s next engagement. Especially if said engagement secures an alliance with Fengal.”

Alistair eschewed his teacup this time to take a deep swig from his flask. “As motives for murder go, I’ve heard worse. Still, Drixton is a bureaucrat through and through—we had the same tutor as boys, and he was a stickler for the rules even then. Starched suck-up never missed a single lesson. I have a hard time imagining him as our culprit.”

“It could still be Hargraves,” suggested Xander.

Alistair gave a noncommittal grunt. “We’ll investigate both. Tru, Delphine mentioned that you had a way of getting people to confess things. A spell of some kind?”

“It’s a soothing charm,” I said, “meant to calm infants. However, I’ve found that it will lower someone’s guard enough to render them more or less incapable of lying.”

“Innovative.” Uncle Alistair’s eyes gleamed speculatively. “Although, we can’t permit rumor that you’re bespelling the government begin to spread. So how do we arrange you to meet with all Councilors without any realizing your identity?”

The three of us fell silent, each pondering possible solutions. I wasn’t quite convinced that either Drixton or Hargraves had killed Armond, at least not for the motive that my uncle attributed to them. If their aim was that Loren wed Fengal’s princess, then why work with Letty? Unless Letty was uninvolved. But then why had they allowed her and Loren to become engaged time and time again as soon as my death was announced? Something didn’t fit, but I lacked any better leads.

“A masquerade,” Xander suddenly suggested. “As your relative, Alistair can host it. Claim that he wants to celebrate his darling niece’s engagement to the prince.”

“How can we be certain that they’ll both attend?” I asked.

Uncle Alistair smiled. There was a vaguely sinister crook to the curve of his lips. “So long as the invitation is addressed from me, neither would dare to refuse.”

We spent the next hour hammering out the details, deciding that the masquerade would be held in a week’s time at Bellcrest. Alistair assured me that the King would be happy to lend him use of the castle ballroom (“His Majesty owes me a favor or twelve”) and that he could isolate both Hargraves and Drixton from the main party (“Best you’re unaware of the details, little turtle”).

We also agreed that I should don two separate costumes. One, which I would wear upon arriving and attend the ball in, making sure that the Councilors saw me. The second, Xander would bring for me to don later in order to corner the Councilors and hopefully get them to confess. That way, even if they remembered being ensorcelled, neither would be able to trace their interrogation back to me. I’d been lucky that Timons hadn’t seemed to recall our encounter. Now that I was about to charm two, the risk of my target remembering doubled.

Uncle Alistair left the study, but Xander’s grabbed onto my wrist before I could follow.

“I have something for you.” He reached into his doublet pocket and pulled out a small box. “Your dress for the masquerade will most likely have a lower—” he waved his free hand in front of his chest in helpless gesture, cheeks pinkening. “Have a different neckline.”

“Ballgowns usually don’t have high collars.” I arched an eyebrow, slightly amused by his obvious discomfort. “I didn’t think you would be so easily perturbed by the lack of modesty.”

“No, of course not,” he sputtered. “I didn’t mean to imply that there was anything wrong with the fashion. Or that you were immodest. I’m sure you’ll look lovely. More than lovely.” His cheeks reddened further, and he looked down to avoid meeting my gaze.

I was astounded, and more than a little entertained. I’d never seen Xander this ruffled before. Hadn’t thought him capable of it, given his normally unflappable demeaner. Knowing that I was the reason behind his lack of composure made me feel uncharacteristically bold. I decided to tease him a bit.

“It’s not as if I’ll be going with my breasts fully bared,” I said, trying hard to bite down on a smile. “Other ladies will be dressed much the same.”

His head shot up, startled green eyes finally meeting mine. Noting my amusement, he grinned self-depreciatingly. “I never know what you’re about to say,” he said, shaking his head. “Not many people succeed on so often surprising me. It’s refreshing.” He cleared his throat. “My point was that you'll need a new chain for your wardstone. The current cord may be serviceable hidden beneath the dresses you usually wear, but I doubt it pass muster on display at a formal dance.”

I gasped. “Oh, gods.” The wardstone. I hadn’t thought about it since a few days ago, when I’d taken it off for my lesson with Lady Delphine. What had I done with it after?

Xander studied my expression. “You lost it.”

“I didn’t lose it,” I snapped. “It’s . . . temporarily misplaced.” I took a deep breath, trying to recall when I’d last worn it. “I took it off for my magic lessons but I’m certain that your mother gave it back. I wasn’t wearing it when I woke up from my accident though.”

Xander shook his head.

I squinted, straining to recall my motions. “I looped it around my wrist,” I said with relief. Then I frowned. “It wasn’t there when I woke.”

“Could it have been flung off during your fall from Dragon?”

I groaned. “Probably. I can’t believe I was so careless.”

Xander tucked the box back in his pocket. “Let’s go see if it’s still there. With any luck, it won’t be far from where you landed.” He held out his arm to me, waiting for me to take it.

I hesitated. Spending time with Xander was stupid; it was actively tempting fate, which wasn’t something I could afford to do. Fate, after all, had proven that it had a vendetta against me. Loren and I didn’t love each other, but I still intended to marry him, become Queen, and thus save myself.

And yet . . .

I accepted Xander’s arm. “Let’s go.”