The Queen's Secret (The Queen's Secret #2) - Melissa de la Cruz Page 0,26

more a quiet presence who makes me feel some kind of peace. We’ll pray together, perhaps, to Mother Deia, and in the murmur of our voices something will be offered up to the universe—a plea, a supplication, even if it’s not an explicit request. Like Bring Cal home. Like Ask Cal to forgive me. Like Save me from the duties of a royal bride. The last is impossible, I know.

I settle on the bench, sniffy with the chalky dust in the air. The only window in the chapel is small and paneled, high in the wall. It’s not usually dusty in here: Father Juniper keeps it clean, I know, but I heard that guards searched the tower last night and this morning, and they no doubt tramped in dirt from the yard.

The taper carries with it the scent of lavender and thyme. If I close my eyes, I can imagine I’m back in my aunts’ herb garden, bees buzzing around me, on a sweet spring day in Renovia. If I could go back to my girlhood and its freedom, I would. But that’s never possible: Life pushes us forward, into more complications than we ever imagined as children. Even when I first fell in love with Cal, I never imagined the pain we would cause each other or the obstacles we would face.

I look toward the vestry’s door: It’s painted white, to fit the rest of the chapel’s plain décor, and is smaller than the main door. The arch shape reminds me of a shield. As though he can sense my gaze, Father Juniper emerges, a slender figure in his white robe.

“Your Majesty,” he says in his soft voice, and bows his head. “I’m so pleased you’ve come. Shall we sit together?”

I nod, relieved to have his calm presence next to me. My ladies wind me up, I think, with their fluttering and gossip, their infernal deference. We sit looking at the taper, watching its narrow, dancing flame. Deia is light, I tell myself. She shows the way when all seems dark and mysterious. I pray to her for strength, and I pray for the villagers in Stur who lost their lives. The children trapped beneath the ice. The people washed away in the terrible torrent of melting snow. My personal unhappiness seems so selfish by comparison. I’ve been too petulant, I decide, the very spoiled royal I was always determined not to become. Yes, I miss Cal, but I have to think of others, not myself. I shudder. It’s drafty in the room, the fire not enough to warm me.

We sit in silent contemplation for so long, I grow stiff on the bench and wriggle like a schoolchild.

“Your Majesty grows cold,” says Father Juniper. “I’m sorry there is no fireplace here in the chapel. Or in my vestry where I read and write.”

“How do you manage all winter?” I ask him.

“My own bedchamber is on a higher floor, and that has a large fireplace. As winter progresses, I spend more time upstairs, I confess, than down here. Every room up in the tower is like that—small windows but large fireplaces. In winter it is very comfortable for me, and for the scribes who live here as well.”

“Yes! Daffran and his workers. I’ve heard about the sightings he reported. A gray monk, he says. But you’ve seen nothing of the sort, I trust?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. We all hope that the scribe is, in this instance, mistaken. Certainly, the guards have found no evidence, and they will be searching the tower tonight, once again, and securing it. We feel quite safe here, I can assure you.”

“Well, I’ve been told to trust no one,” I say, and Father Juniper gives his shy smile.

“You can trust me, I hope,” he replies. “And, Your Majesty, may I pass on a message I was given this morning, by the Chief Assassin?”

“Ah—yes,” I reply, trying to steady my voice, though my heart is bounding and jumping like a fawn in the woods.

“He requested that I take care of you, ma’am, and I assured him that I would.”

“Very kind.” I lower my head, tears prickling my eyes.

“And he also wished you to know that he is praying for your safety, and will be conscious at all times during this mission of protecting you and ensuring you are both happy and secure.”

I can’t speak. I would squeeze Father Juniper’s hand to thank him, but that would be quite the scandal in Montrice. Poor Father Juniper would