me as he crosses the room to the worktable. “How is it coming?”
The man drops his tools and bows deeply. “It is almost done, Your Majesty. I must simply take a measurement before adding the final link.”
The king waves his hand in my direction. “But of course.”
The man approaches me like a horse that might bolt, and with dawning recognition, I understand what is happening.
He holds an elegant necklace of finely worked silver. It is long, longer than I am tall. Almost as long as a . . . chain.
I jerk my head around to stare at the king. He is pouring a generous glass of wine. I think he means it to be a careless gesture, but I can feel his attention on me. The man—a silversmith, I now realize—grunts. “This way, if you please.” His words are brusque and impersonal.
Before I can ask a question or register a protest, his arm snakes out and the cool silver is around my neck. He loops the chain once around the base of my throat, a second time so that it rests just below my collarbone, then a third time so that it spans across my chest, like a livery collar.
“Like this?” the silversmith asks the king.
He studies me from across the room, head tilted, eyes narrowed. “Yes. Although a little longer, I think, to trail halfway down her back.”
The silversmith adjusts the length, then glances once more to the king, who nods in approval.
A part of me wishes to yank the rutting thing from my neck, throw it in the smith’s face, then ask the king to explain what he thinks he is doing. But the other part, the part that chose to protect Sybella from the king’s version of justice, is genuinely curious as to what game is being played here.
Besides, penance is not meant to be easy. I am lucky his idea of punishment does not extend to scourges or hair shirts, as many in the Church prefer.
Behind me there is a tug and a twist, followed by the sound of a tool snipping, then the entire thing comes to rest against my neck. It is surprisingly heavy. Carcanets are the height of fashion, the sheer weight of the precious metal involved adding to their prestige.
I slip my hand behind me to grasp the loose end of the necklace, smiling at how sturdy it is. It is truly a chain, which means it is also a weapon if I so wish.
At the look in my eye, the silversmith steps away and packs up his tools, not bothering to call for his assistants. When he has quit the room, the king comes over to study me appraisingly. It is so plainly a move to gain control and make me squirm that it loses any power to do so. But there is more than one way to play with power, so I remain silent, forcing him to speak first. Truthfully, serving in Angoulême’s home has trained me well for these stupid games.
“Why are you smiling?”
“I am admiring your gift. It is remarkably generous and an undeserved sign of your favor.”
“It is not a gift,” he snaps, “but a punishment.”
“You have given me a necklace a third of my weight in silver as a punishment?”
He grits his teeth. “It is a chain. A chain to keep you in your place.” He takes a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. “I told you to avoid Sybella, and you didn’t listen. Three times you snuck to her room, and during the last of those visits, you killed someone.” He folds his hands behind his back and nods his head in a grave manner. “I can no longer trust you, Gen. I cannot let you run free anymore.” The words please him more than they ought.
“You should feel grateful,” he continues. “I thought about branding you—we do that to some criminals, you know.”
“I do know, Your Majesty.” My words work to calm his ruffled feathers, and his features relax somewhat. I move to stand in front of the mirror. “It will show.”
The king drinks heavily from his goblet before answering. Another move intended to intimidate. “Not if you keep the back of it underneath your gown. To everyone else it will simply appear as if I have given you a most generous gift.”
My eyes meet his in the mirror. “So what am I to be chained to, Your Majesty?”
His smile is filled with pride. “That is where I have chosen to show you