Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,86
hand to her ear then hastily nods her head like she’s heard something. “Oh,” she murmurs sweetly, “that was our good mate transparency ringing to say that you’re a bloody hypocrite, Damien Godwin.” Her arms fold over her breasts. Clearly worked up, she jabs a finger in my direction a second later. “Confess, you said, so I did. But now you’re wanting more of my secrets while revealing none of your own.”
I don’t deny it.
Can’t deny it when I’m standing less than an arm’s width away with my mother’s necklace buried in my back pocket—a necklace that I ripped from her dead body.
“Then ask me something,” I tell Rowena. “I’ll answer, and then you tell me how it is that you afford everything.”
“I’ve half a mind to make you pinky promise.”
Laughter climbs my throat when I notice that she’s grinning. “Only you, Rowena Carrigan, would think that a pinky promise with me would mean a damned thing.”
“Are you saying that I can’t trust your word?”
“I’m saying that you should know better.”
“If you’re trying to convince me to keep my silence, you’re doing a bang-up job of it.”
“Then let me shut up before you change your mind completely.”
With a nod to allow that the battle lines have been drawn, she closes the wardrobe behind her and carefully picks her way through the room until she’s perched against her desk, her legs crossed at the ankles. “You have an accent.”
My brows lift in surprise. “I don’t.”
“You do,” she retorts swiftly with a tilt of her head. “I noticed it the first time that you spoke in Dr. Matthews’ OR. It’s so soft, honestly, almost indetectable, but I once spent an insane amount of time schmoozing with politicians from all over the world—I can recognize an accent when I hear one.”
“And Guy? Did you hear one from him?”
“A little but his is even fainter than yours.”
She watches, and she listens.
Didn’t she tell me that only days ago? At the time, it seemed particularly dramatic—only now, I have a gut feeling that she wasn’t exaggerating at all. Fucking hell. It’s unnerving to be confronted with someone who’s so eerily like myself. If I were to wave right now, I half-expect her hand to come up instinctively and wave on back.
“I lived . . . we lived in Paris.”
A frown tugs at her mouth. “Holyrood allowed you to leave?”
“In theory, no.”
“Which means what exactly?”
“It means that we were exiled.”
I utter the words matter-of-factly, but still, they send her jaw flapping open. “Exiled,” she repeats on a hushed murmur, “the lot of you were exiled? Is that a thing that still happens nowadays? One minute everything’s going brilliantly and then surprise!” Her hands clap together. “You’re banished, just like that?”
Not just like that.
I don’t remember every detail in the days leading up to when we were sent to France. But I do remember Mum crying hysterically and Guy, at only twelve, trying his best to calm her down. I remember Jayme Paul standing in the middle of our cramped Whitechapel flat with his cap clutched in one hand and the other rooted firmly on Saxon’s shoulder while he informed us that, for our safety, it was best if we left England until Holyrood could make sure that whoever attacked Pa wouldn’t come for us next.
Pain and fear followed us across the Channel.
The City of Love broke me irreversibly. Saxon, too, after the butcher cut his mouth and left him forever scarred. If Guy suffered during those five years, more so than the rest of us, at any rate, he’s never said a word. Then again, his midnight screams lead me to believe that he probably did.
Aware that Rowena is still waiting for an answer, I give her the unvarnished truth: “Henry Godwin was my father.”
Her expression instantly falls. “Oh, Damien.”
It’s all she says, but really, is there anything else that needs to be said? We were sent to Paris because Paul wanted us Godwins away from the Crown while he assumed Pa’s place in Holyrood. Four generations of Godwins in power and then Paul saw an opportunity and he snatched it with both hands.
I can’t say that I wouldn’t have done the same.
“No one’s ever mentioned me having an accent,” I go on, as smooth as I can, “but if you hear anything at all, it must be what little I’ve kept of Paris.” Even though I’d give just about anything to have retained nothing of that city at all. “It’s your turn, Rowena.”