Devrim's Discipline - Brianna Hale Page 0,26

addressed him. I know exactly what’s passing through his mind as he looks at me, because it’s what I’d be thinking, too.

This is the man who allowed the King and Queen to be slaughtered.

I give the King a final bow and walk away.

Over the following days, I throw myself into my duties with the King’s Guard. The new recruits need a great deal of basic military training. It used to be that we’d recruit from the Armed Services, but that won’t be possible for years. These young men are used to hard work under the People’s Republic, at least. Most are former factory workers, bewildered to find themselves suddenly rich and important. The King’s Guard is just the place to keep them from going off the rails and turn them into useful members of the Court.

But first, they have to be taught marching, saluting, palace protocol and, in a few cases, basic cleanliness. I yell myself hoarse one morning at two ensigns who have their hair falling into their eyes, dirt under their nails and rifles unpolished.

The summer heat is fierce, but we march around the parade ground over and over, until they can keep in step. Then, we do it again. And again. At night, I collapse onto my bed, mentally and physically exhausted. I dream about the parade ground at night, marching and marching and marching, as I did when I was an eighteen-year-old Air Force recruit.

At breakfast one morning, Aubrey hovers in the doorway, wearing jeans, a cropped tee and espadrilles. “I won’t sit down. I’m meeting Wraye for breakfast. She’s been miserable lately, so I’m treating her at that French café that’s opened up by the park. Les Trois Petits Cochons.”

My hand clenches in my lap. It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen Lady Wraye. “Take the driver, if you like.”

“Thanks, but I’ll walk.” Aubrey gives me a wave, and then hurries out the front door.

The house settles into silence around me.

Miserable. She’s miserable.

I throw my napkin on the table and head for the garage, where I get into the black Range Rover and drive out onto the street.

I go the long way around, so I don’t pass Aubrey, not knowing what I’m intending, but just needing to see Wraye. I find a parking spot, two doors down from the café. It has tables and chairs in the fresh air and waiters in crisp white shirts and black aprons.

A blonde woman emerges from a side street and walks right past my car.

My hands grip the steering wheel as I stare hungrily at Wraye. She’s wearing a sundress and heels, and her golden hair is plaited over one shoulder. When she turns around to sit down, I see that her cheeks are thinner, and there are tired circles under her eyes.

Aubrey arrives, and they order. As they talk and eat, both of them are animated and smiling. I wish I knew how to make Aubrey laugh like that. Me merely walking into a room seems to make happiness drain from my daughter’s face.

Wraye doesn’t eat much, and when Aubrey goes inside to use the restroom, her face collapses, and her shoulders slump. She plays listlessly with her napkin, her head down.

I’m there for an hour and a half, unmoving, watching them. Trying to read their lips. Drinking in the sight of Wraye playing with her hair, crossing and recrossing her ankles, dabbing at her lips with her napkin.

Finally, the two women get up to leave; they hug and then walk in opposite directions.

I jump out of the car and jog down the side street, waiting in an alcove. When I hear the clicking of high heels, just a few feet away, I step out.

Wraye sucks in a breath when she sees me. “What are you doing here?”

I peer at her face, confirming what I suspected when I was watching her from afar. “You’re too thin. You look pale and tired.”

“Wow, thanks. Did you follow Aubrey? Wait, were you watching us the entire time? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I hate seeing you like this.”

“Then don’t look at me, Your Grace.”

She tries to move past me, but I slam my palm against the wall, blocking her way. Wraye glares up at me. “Don’t you soldiers have a code or something? Mama said that the King’s Guard are supposed to be gentlemen.”

“I’m worried about you.”

Wraye wraps her arms around herself and gazes off to one side. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine?”

She’s proud. But something’s causing her