The Oracle Queen (Three Dark Crowns #0.1) - Kendare Blake Page 0,18

been sewn into the collar.

“A gift for you, from the king-consort,” one of the boys said.

Bess ran her fingers along the collar, thumb rubbing the silver. “It is very fine.”

“He sends me gifts instead of returning to my bed. He sends me gifts with one hand while the other is inside some other woman’s bodice.” Her anger returned quickly. Her words took shape inside her head until she could see them, hear them, and she clenched her fists together and tore the cape along the seam.

“Take it! Get it away from me!”

The servants bowed their heads and ran, mumbling apologies.

“Elsabet.” Bess put her hand on the queen’s arm.

“Forgive me, Bess. I need no spies to know what the people are saying about me. And what new things they will say about me now, following this outburst.” She took a breath. “But I would know where my king-consort is spending so much of his time. Would you and Rosamund be kind enough to find out for me?”

Jonathan met Elsabet on the top floor of the West Tower as she spoke with her master builders about the progress of the construction. It was a hive of careful, deliberate activity as always, the air full of moving ropes and brick and stone. The clumsy poisoner boy nearly tripped twice and almost had his head taken off by a swinging board. Elsabet could barely contain her laughter as she watched him from the corner of her eye.

“This is coming along nicely,” he said when he reached her, and bowed. He ran his hand along one of the interior walls, up the arch of the doorway to squeeze the keystone with his fingertips. The door led to a large chamber with several windows. “Will this be yours?”

“You could say the West Tower will be all mine. All of the queen’s apartments contained within.” She peered with him into the new space, still dusty from construction. “But no. My personal chambers are a floor below. Already complete. Perhaps I’ll give these to my king-consort. Or perhaps not. I’d rather not hear him creeping past my floor on his way to . . . somewhere or other.”

“In any case, the king-consort’s rooms should be beneath the queen’s.”

Elsabet smiled. “What have you brought me?”

At the question, Jonathan ran back into the hall and returned with the covered canvas. He studied the light quickly before placing the easel to catch the soft afternoon sun. Then he uncovered the portrait.

Elsabet could hardly take it all in. It was as if he had taken Midsummer and made it tiny, such was the exactness of his rendering. The food piled high on the banquet table looked good enough to eat. And she even remembered seeing those exact familiar-dogs, brown-and-white with curling tails, a pair of them seated with great composure to one side, awaiting scraps.

The Volroy rose up in the background, a dark, majestic giant, even as the black stones were kissed with summer light.

“You have placed me down among them, not high up on a dais,” Elsabet said.

“I thought you would prefer that. It—it suited the composition.”

She nodded. It was the most accurate representation she had ever seen of herself. No great beauty. He had not embellished or softened her features. Yet somehow he had captured the air of her, the spirit. He made her eyes warm and sparkling, her expression confident and capable. She was, in his eyes, a handsome queen.

“The Volroy is unfinished, as you can see. I wanted to await your instruction, on how it should be depicted.”

“Good,” she said. “In due time. There is no hurry.” Her fingers floated above the canvas. He did not need to ask whether she was pleased. She had not smiled so broadly in weeks.

“My queen, there was something else.”

“Please, Jonathan, call me by my name. I give you leave.”

“Queen Elsabet,” he amended, and blushed. “There was something else. Have you . . . Has there been any noticeable weakening of your sight gift?”

“What?”

“Forgive me,” he said quickly. “It is just that I have been evaluating the ingredients of the tonic you take, and I believe it may be harmful to you. And your gift.”

Elsabet turned away from the painting. “That’s not possible. The tonic comes from Gilbert. I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

“Of course. Though perhaps he is as well? He is not a poisoner; he would not know. Do you know where he got it? Would you allow me to investigate the matter further?”

Elsabet blinked. It made no sense, what he was