The Queen's Secret (The Queen's Secret #2) - Melissa de la Cruz Page 0,19

of royal enclosure. It feels strange to use this grand public thoroughfare, when he’s more accustomed to the narrow stairs from the cellar that lead to the Queen’s Secret.

The Small Council meets in an impressive chamber, wood-paneled, with a decorated ceiling so high, the room requires two large fireplaces to keep it warm. Darkness is settling outside, and the table is ringed by tapers on ornate stands. The place reminds Cal of some kind of Montrician hunting lodge, particularly as King Hansen’s enormous hounds lie sprawled across the floor, their long tongues lolling.

The presence of the dogs means that Hansen’s here—that’s the first surprise. The second surprise is that Lilac is here as well, sitting at the opposite end of the table, facing the door. The sight of her face, beautiful but troubled, knots Cal’s stomach. He wishes he could rush to her and kiss her sweet, soft lips. Instead he merely bows and maintains his usual expression, emotionless and staunch. Lilac doesn’t meet his gaze.

The only member of the Small Council who looks pleased to see him is Daffran. The Duke of Auvigne sprawls in his chair, the usual scowl on his face, his fat fingers twitching because he isn’t holding a tankard of mead. Cal doesn’t trust the duke—not because he suspects him of being an Aphrasian, like Duke Girt before him—he doesn’t believe Duke Auvigne supports or cares about Lilac. She’s a political pawn to him, not a real woman.

Today even the wheezy old chancellor, Lord Burley, has taken his place at the table, though these days he must find it difficult to climb the stairs. He seems uninterested in Cal’s arrival. Cal stands near the high window, waiting to be addressed or summoned forward. When they want to confer with him or dispense an order, they’ll know he’s there.

The stairs aren’t the only reason that Lord Burley isn’t often at these meetings. In the tortured Montrician hierarchy, he outranks the entire Small Council and usually advises the king in private, in the royal audience room near the chancellor’s own apartments. Cal rarely sees him. Lilac barely sees him, either, from what she tells Cal, though occasionally Hansen summons her to these private meetings, so he doesn’t have to pay attention himself. Too occasionally, according to Lilac. She’s told Cal that Lord Burley doesn’t—or won’t—remember that she’s a joint ruler, and not a consort. Apparently they still like to do things the old Montrice way.

But the Montrice way isn’t her way, and it’s not Cal’s way.

“I’ve told all this to the Chief Assassin,” Daffran is saying, gesturing at Cal with an ink-stained hand. “He knows what’s going on.”

“What you think you’ve seen,” says the Duke of Auvigne, his mouth settling into a dissatisfied sneer. “You saw a cloak you imagine is gray, but you saw no black mask. You smelled no feral stench. Why would an Aphrasian monk haunt the stairs of the tower, of all places? Nobody important lives there. And there is only one way in and one way out. No cellars or dungeons or passages. And the chapel window on the ground level is too small for a man to get—”

“Perhaps,” interrupts Lord Burley, “it is one of your scribes playing a merry prank.”

“I can assure you that the royal scribes do not play pranks.” Daffran sounds mortally offended. Cal has to suppress a smile. “We take our work with the utmost seriousness. We are not jesters or fools!”

“There’s the priest as well, of course,” says the duke. “Father Berry, or whatever he’s called.”

“Juniper,” Lilac says, in her most imperious tone. Even in the room’s twilight, Cal can spot the impatient flare of her nostrils. She looks much more distracted and unhappy than she should, he thinks. He thought that this morning’s training would have helped her shake off the doldrums of the aborted ride to the harvest festival, but clearly it wasn’t enough.

“Aren’t the guards doing everything the guards should do?” It’s Hansen’s turn to be impatient. He seems no happier than Lilac to be here. “I don’t see the point of discussing this over and over. Searches will take place, and whatnot, and anyone threatening will be tortured in the dungeons, in the usual fashion.”

“Quite right,” the Duke of Auvigne says. “Your Majesty has it. The guards are investigating. They will make sure that the Chief Scribe and his underlings—”

“And Father Juniper,” Daffran reminds them.

“Yes, yes. The scribes and the priest—all will be guarded and protected. If a gray monk has managed