Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,47

gritty truth: “It can definitely get worse.”

With the Priests at the helm, there’s no telling what other destruction might unfold.

As if the universe hopes to prove Sara right, I hear the telltale sound of car doors slamming shut, followed by a distinct release of breath from the other side of the room. Sara paces toward the corridor, her shoes clipping eagerly against the wood floor, before stopping in place. “Do you want me to wait with you?” Her voice is clear, like she’s turned to look back at me. “Because I will.”

“No.” I shake my head. “Just send them here.”

“Will do.” She manages two steps before I call her name. “Did you need something else?” she asks.

I think of the man locked away in the windowless attic of the house. Benjamin Lotts, he’d confessed, after feeling the wrath of Gregory’s hulking fist. I wonder how long it’ll take the Priests to realize that we’ve commandeered one of their precious agents. “Take care of our own, first, but then check on our guest.”

A small pause precedes her half-hearted, “And if he spits on me again?”

A cynical grin curves my mouth. “Then spit on him back.”

Sara makes a choking sound—muffled laughter to cover her surprise, I hope—and then she’s heading down the hallway and leaving me to stand alone in the drawing room.

I’ve wandered the mansion so many times over the years that it’s impossible to forget every detail. Wooden beams line the ceiling and moonlight seeps in through Gothic-styled windows. A portrait of the property’s original patroness, a wealthy Victorian baroness, sits poised over the marble fireplace in a gilded frame. Bracketed on either side are ivory sconces lit with flickering gas flames. Beneath my feet, a soft Aubusson rug covers the center of the room, where an antique chaise waits, tempting me to sit and rest my aching body.

Resting seems impossible when coming face to face with the unknown.

I swallow, tightly, and reach up to slip a strand of hair behind my ear—only to remember that the nervous gesture can’t be satiated anymore.

Bald. Broken. Blind.

A costume I never anticipated wearing, but the most permanent one of all.

Just because you can’t see, doesn’t mean you don’t already know too much.

The words infiltrate my head, and bloody hell. I can’t think of him—can’t afford to think of him—not ever again. And especially not like this, as I stand here and wait for news that the attack on the Palace went according to plan. Because if did go well, then Damien Priest will hate me with every breath he—

“Rowan?”

At the sound of Hugh’s voice, I launch forward. “Where is she?”

Bodies gather into the drawing room—their heavy feet sounding like a herd of elephants stampeding forward—and I strain my ears, listening for any sign of Margaret amongst them. A whisper of her voice. A lighter stride. But when the blokes all settle down, as if everyone has claimed a spot before me, something that feels an awful lot like dread clogs my throat as I realize that Hugh . . .

Hugh hasn’t answered.

“Coney.” Another step forward. I look from left to right, seeing nothing. “Coney, where is the queen?”

Someone clears their throat.

A shoe scuffs along the floor.

And then, from the back-right corner, nearest to the windows overlooking the front drive, “We ’asn’t got her, Rowan.”

“You haven’t . . .” I blink, just once. The dread twists and turns, surging forth like a fountain of rage that I feel all the way down to my toes. Turning from Gregory, I sweep a furious “glance” over the room. “Hugh, where the bloody hell are you?”

No one comments on the obvious.

I should be happy—grateful, even—that there aren’t any snide remarks that I’m somehow less than who I was a week ago, when Buckingham Palace caught fire and I was caught inside its walls. But all I feel is fury that Hugh hides like a coward, knowing that I can’t see him worth a damn.

Bastard.

“Three seconds.” The words escape past the rage, whisper-soft and just as deadly. “You have three seconds to step forward or—”

Samuel coughs awkwardly, and then someone stumbles, their feet audibly tripping over the rug like they’ve been unceremoniously shoved forward.

“Rowan.”

Hugh.

My chest tightens with unreleased air. “Where is she?”

“We’ve good news,” he says, “and some bad—”

“You’re going to tell me where Queen Margaret is, right now, or I’ll—”

“They’ve got her, okay? They’ve still got her.”

If this were the theater, it’d be an appropriate time for an actor to drop a pin, just to send the