Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,176

Speaker nearly trips in her haste to get out of Margaret’s way. Feeling my pulse quicken, I watch Mags clutch the Robe of State in one hand. Holding the velvet train like she would a gown, she sits delicately in the spot that’s always been reserved for the person responsible for maintaining order during parliamentary sessions. Today, like during her father’s reign, that person wears a crown.

Her chin tilts upward.

Her blue eyes scan the room.

“Members of the House of Commons,” she begins, her voice ringing throughout the chamber, “this moment has been four months in the making, since the king was killed outside St. Paul’s Cathedral. The same way that I, too, almost died at the hands of an assassin only weeks ago.”

Murmurings begin, gaining traction with alarming speed but with a raised hand, Margaret silences the chamber. Then she presses her gloved hands to the armrests, her body listing forward on her makeshift throne. “You saw a fire that ravaged a palace while I breathed smoke into my lungs. You felt fear like a finger trailing down your spine while I tasted blood on my lips. And you watched our history explode—our traditions go up in flames—while I crawled toward death on my hands and knees.”

I’m pinned in place by the weight of her stare, and the guilt glittering in the blue nearly knocks me flat. “I was saved,” she says, never allowing her gaze to waver from my face, “not by the guard assigned to protect me or the staffers who fled to save their own lives but by the woman who has been my best friend for twenty years—Rowena Carrigan.”

Unshed tears clog my throat, and I feel myself stumble backward.

“We ought not to be punished for the sins of our fathers,” Margaret says, cutting eye contact, “but by the misdeeds that we commit ourselves. We should be judged, right or wrong, for what good or evil we bring into this world—and today, I shall play your judge, jury, and executioner. Whatever grievances you held with the king will not be found with me. What say you?”

“Aye.”

My head snaps toward the female voice, pinpointing her to the second tiered row on the opposition’s side. I don’t recognize her, but I watch with a small smile as she bows to Margaret and then lowers back down to the bench.

“Aye!” I discover the owner three rows behind where Gregory still holds Father. Like the woman who came before him, this man bows and then takes his seat.

“Aye,” comes another voice.

An elderly woman sitting to the left of Margaret shouts, “Aye!”

If there are any nays, they’re drowned out by the overwhelming support. I press a hand to my stomach, unable to breathe when the plan . . . Oh, God, the plan is working. Margaret turns to Caren Fitz and motions for him to step forward. When he stands before her, she asks, “Do you support the Crown, Mr. Fitz?”

His audible choking can be heard clear across the chamber. “Your Majesty, I don’t . . . I mean, I—”

“An honest answer, please.”

He throws a hasty glance in my direction.

Caren Fitz doesn’t know me from a hole in the wall but whatever encouragement he sees in my expression must do the trick because he turns back to Margaret without further protest. “I didn’t support your father, Your Majesty.”

“Did you actively try to harm him?”

Fitz’s shoulders draw up to his ears. “Ma’am, I manage hotels for a living—I’m no murderer.”

“And yet . . .” Tapping her fingers on the armrests, Margaret purses her lips. “And yet, Mr. Fitz, you found yourself walking home three years ago when you suddenly vanished from thin air. Where were you brought?”

“I woke up in Broadmoor Hospital.”

“Did you suspect my father of the crime?”

Head tilting, the hotelier peers up at the benches to the left of Margaret and then to the right, as if hedging his bets on whether he’ll make it out of Westminster alive. In the end, though, he only runs a hand over the back of his neck. “In the beginning, it seems liked that was the case.”

“But?” Margaret prompts.

“As often as I could, I’d sneak conversations with the other patients. Pretty soon it became obvious that we shared only one thing in common.”

“Which is?”

“Well, the king couldn’t have been responsible because we were asked if we would support an uprising against your father.”

Boisterous shouting comes from all corners of the Commons, and I smother a small cry with the back of my hand. I