The Queen's Secret (The Queen's Secret #2) - Melissa de la Cruz Page 0,56

half-hearted attempt at a fanfare on a single hunting horn. Castle Mont really is in disarray these days. My mother enters and begins to climb the stairs, taking her time rather than sweeping up as she always did at home in Violla Ruza. There the grand staircase is marble. Was marble.

My mother wears her hair in a simple bun rather than in her more usual elaborately pinned braids. Her smile is weak. She’s tired, I think. Sick and tired.

I drop into a curtsy and my ladies follow suit. I glimpse Hansen bowing, but it’s not a deep-enough bow for my liking. When my mother pauses at the top of the stairs to curtsy, an impressive puddle of regal purple in this bleak taper-lit gallery, I can barely wait for her to stand again so I can embrace her. Meanwhile, Hansen seems to think protocol has been observed and looks eager to return to the warmth of his chambers.

“Welcome, twice welcome, Your Majesty,” he says, the words sounding stilted, as though he were reading a prepared speech. Hansen was too spoiled as a child and took over the throne on his father’s death without sufficient preparation. He can only ever manage the most basic of civilities. “You are most welcome here. Please treat this castle as your home. Because, you know, your own home is . . . is . . .”

My mother waits to see if he’s planning to finish his sentence. “Burned to the ground?” she offers, and he nods, with what he no doubt imagines to be a sensitive grimace.

I hustle past him to embrace my mother. She pats my back rather than hugs me, conscious as ever of public shows of affection. When we kiss, her cheeks feel cold. Her hands are cold too. It’s the worst time of year for such a long journey.

“I’m so relieved that you’ve arrived safely,” I tell her, and lead her back to the warmth and privacy of my own chambers. Hansen makes no attempt to follow us, and I’m grateful for that. For now, our courts can continue to remain separate. Our lives can continue to remain separate.

“I thought we would never get here,” my mother whispers, leaning into me. The silver in her hair looks painted on, like lacy frost on winter trees. “I was fretting the entire way. The countryside in Renovia is a sad sight, the roads thronged with people and all their belongings.”

“People from Serrone fleeing the capital?” I ask her, and she nods.

“I wonder whether many will move to Argonia,” she says, “abandoning Renovia forever. Many seem to be headed here to Montrice. Our kingdom will struggle to recover from this blow.”

“At least you’re here and you’re safe.” I touch her arm, and try to sound reassuring. But I don’t really believe this. None of us are safe—not here, not anywhere.

In my chambers, the queen mother and I settle by my fire. She doesn’t say anything, of course, about how rustic it is here, but these are not the fine royal apartments she’s used to in Serrone. I’m conscious of the dark wood on the floor and the walls, and the wooden shutters hung within the window casements to keep the draft out. Everything is fine here and well-made, but it’s not the marble and gilt of Violla Ruza, or the gleaming white stone of the palace buildings. Montricians care more about their personal finery than their homes, spending a fortune on wardrobes and wigs. There’s no stained glass here, no polished timber from Argonia. There’s money here in Mont, but little elegance.

Then I remind myself that everything I remember of the finery of Serrone is gone. The palace is destroyed. It’s hard to believe. When my mother talks about being awoken by swirling smoke, and how her ladies and guards risked their lives to get her out of the palace before the roof caved, it sounds like a bad dream.

I dare not mention Cal’s name, though I know she had an audience with him after he arrived in Renovia, and in her letter she said she was summoning him to Violla Ruza to investigate the blaze. He must be there now, I think, with Jander. And that Rhema Cartner. The thought of fire reminds me of her hair, the same color as flames, but more beautiful. I wonder whether Cal finds her beautiful.

I’m startled back to my mother’s story by the mention of his name.

“At least Caledon Holt is in Renovia,” she says, pulling