The Queen's Secret (The Queen's Secret #2) - Melissa de la Cruz Page 0,94

popular before, you know,” Hansen says, in that familiar sulky tone. “Before I married you.”

“And now I’m popular as well,” I tell him. “Our people love us here, and in Renovia as well, I’m sure. So we should think about taking advantage of it.”

“How?”

“I don’t know,” I say. My acting skills are improving. I can’t shout my proposal at Hansen here as we ride along the lanes of Montrice, not least because we’re in public. I need him to come to the same conclusions himself, believing them to be his idea. “But I wonder . . . oh, maybe not.”

“What?” Hansen reins his horse in so sharply it bucks. We’re almost touching feet, riding close, side by side.

“Just a foolish notion, I suppose,” I say, pausing to wave at a group of women hauling pails of water from a well. “About our palaces. Violla Ruza needs to be rebuilt, of course. But that’s Renovia. We live here in Montrice. I was wondering if we could perhaps beautify Castle Mont as well, so it’s even more impressive than the old Violla Ruza.”

“It’s a palace, you know,” Hansen tells me. “I don’t know why you persist in calling it a castle.”

“We could make it look more like a palace. Or more comfortable and useful, like your summer palace. I know we could never match its huge lake—”

“Best trout fishing in the four kingdoms,” says Hansen, puffing up with pride.

“Yes—or the forests around it, and the mountains—I know. But if we brought all three residences up to the highest standards, using the profits from the obsidian mines at the old Baer Abbey, well . . . we could move the court as we saw fit. Or even maintain two courts, if we choose. What a show of our power it would be! What a show of our wealth! Which other kingdom has such riches?”

“Not Stavin, certainly.” Hansen makes a face. “They have all the airs and graces, but the king’s palace there is poky, I think. Gloomy sort of place, with stables for only a hundred horses, and the smallest kennel you’ve ever seen. The king can’t keep more than twenty hounds, I’d say.”

“I don’t believe that Argonia would be able to match us either.”

“Argonia!” Hansen scoffs. “Everyone goes on about it having the sea and good weather and so on, but it’s a sweaty kind of place, in my opinion, and that sand gets everywhere.”

“Indeed,” I agree. “Rhema Cartner—she’s from the mountains—and she told me that she thinks nowhere in Montrice is finer. Of course, she’s biased.”

“Actually, she’s quite right.” Hansen sounds indignant. “The mountains are the glory of Montrice. Forests bulging with wild boar, hares, foxes. Wolves higher up, but I would never hunt wolves, of course. A man has principles.”

“Of course,” I agree. The real reason, I think, is that wolves look too much like Hansen’s dogs, and he’s afraid of shooting at the wrong creature. “It’s a shame that the Small Council won’t let us spend more time there.”

“It’s not up to the Small Council!” Hansen barks. “We’re the king and queen. Without us, they’re nothing.”

We enter another muddy hamlet, all its small but loud populace gathered outside to cheer us. Time to wave and smile, and leave Hansen alone for a while. Hopefully I’ve planted some ideas in his head. They need time to brew and shape themselves into something he sees as his own schemes and plans.

I look for Cal and spy him in the distance, near the vanguard of our procession. He’s doubling back on his horse, saying something to a guard. I would know his dark head, the strong curve of his jaw, anywhere. Instinctively I close my eyes, trying to imprint his face on my memory. I’ve gotten used to this, taking every glimpse of Cal and fixing it in my mind. That night, when we could be close again, albeit briefly, was like a dream. I could inhale him and touch him and feel the strength of his body next to mine. The taste of his kisses makes me almost delirious.

Maybe this is all I’ll have of Cal from now on: the dream of him, the memory of those ardent kisses, the grip of his hand, the scent of his face. I’ll have stored enough memories to keep me going night after night by myself, or in my husband’s bed. Being a queen means I’m confined by many things—expectations and protocol, courtiers and guards—but nobody can control my dreams, memories, hopes, or my