The Queen's Secret (The Queen's Secret #2) - Melissa de la Cruz Page 0,25

him—faithful Jander, never complaining—always ready for the next mission, however dangerous.

“I’ve never been farther than the mountains,” Rhema announces with a grin. She almost bounced off the stable walls when Cal told her she’d been selected for the mission.

“Then you haven’t lived,” Cal tells her, swinging up onto his horse. He allows himself one last look up at Lilac’s window, but it’s still shuttered. She’s not looking out at him, not waving goodbye. He’ll have to carry the memory of her beautiful face with him, and hope the image won’t be muddied by the anger of last night, or the pain of what she’s going to be doing while he’s away.

Chapter Ten

Lilac

Cal is gone. I know it the moment I wake, stupidly late. My ladies bustle in to pull back the curtains around my bed and the shutters at the windows, and a dull sunlight seeps into the room. He will be miles away by now, and I’ve missed the chance to say goodbye to him. Already I long for his touch, for the taste of his kiss.

Why did we have to argue last night and spoil everything? It’s so utterly infuriating. And now he’s ridden off with Rhema Cartner, not just an impressive fighter but a beautiful girl. He can’t expect me to be sanguine about that. Cal is a young man, fiercely attractive, charismatic. She’ll be in love with him before they reach the border, I predict, if she isn’t already. And a long journey like this, a dangerous quest, brings people together. I know that better than anyone.

After my breakfast I feel listless, tired to my bones. I’m still not permitted to ride anywhere, and I don’t have the spirit for a training session with whatever Guild member is left in the castle. I stand like a limp doll while my ladies dress me and do something elaborate and unnecessary with my hair. Morning drags into afternoon, and the sun begins its drift downward. I can’t settle to anything; my mind is too feverish, bouncing from regret to jealousy to fear. Finally I can’t tolerate sitting around anymore.

“Lady Marguerite,” I say, summoning her from the corner where she’s embroidering elderberries and holly on the hem of one of my nightdresses. “Please alert my guards. I’m going to visit the chapel.”

The castle settles into gloom at this time of year, its galleries in permanent dusk. I make my way down the long staircase out into the brisk courtyard, still busy with training soldiers. Lady Marguerite walks ahead of me, in case I trip on the ludicrous velvet folds of my gown and tumble onto my face. The other ladies rustle behind me, hoods up to keep the draft from their cold noses and ears. We must look like a procession of pantomime monks, I think, on our way to prayers. We scuff through the yard’s dirt to the portico, the guards keeping the servants and soldiers of the yard at bay, and one opens the heavy door to the tower.

My ladies, who always escort me to the chapel in a skirt-swishing battalion, remain outside. They arrange themselves on two benches outside the chapel’s wooden door and I step in, throwing my hood back.

I have my own priest here, Father Juniper. He’s soft-spoken and gentle, and although I resisted the notion of having a priest at all—it’s the Montrician way, not the custom in Renovia—I soon found my visits to the small chapel in the tower a comfort. A distraction, I suppose, from the clamor of the court and all the people who surround us, fussing over us, every moment of the day, and month of the year. With Cal gone, Father Juniper may be the only person I can talk to.

The chapel itself is plain stone, its pillars white and smooth as bone. The ceiling is rounded and flawless: It reminds me of the moon on a clear night, and when I sit gazing up at it, I feel some kind of peace. The only seating there is a plain wooden bench, just for me. No one else uses the chapel, and Father Juniper always seems to materialize when I arrive.

A single taper burns on its golden mount, the one item of royal ostentation in the place. I know that Father Juniper will hear the clunk of the main door and slip in from his small vestry, the place he spends his days reading. Today I’m not sure what to say to him: He’s not really a confidant,