Devrim's Discipline - Brianna Hale Page 0,46
orphans who were neglected under the People’s Republic. The King didn’t speak out about Devrim, but he put out a statement saying that the children are now being cared for, and there will be a royal commission into all children’s homes and care institutions.
There should be more news like this in the papers. Good things that are happening because of King Anson and the things he’s putting right. Less gossip and fawning over dresses and uniforms, and more things that actually matter. Even the sight of one of Mama’s tabloids is enough to make me feel sick.
Mama and I are sitting in prickly silence over breakfast when there’s a knock at the door. She goes to answer it as I crane my neck, trying to see who it is. Is that a flash of burgundy palace livery I see? At our front door?
Mama comes back with a long, cream envelope, and my insides do a belly flop. If the palace is sending her letters, it can’t be good news. Perhaps it’s Mama who’s going to be tried for treason.
Perhaps it’s both of us.
“It’s an invitation for an audience with the King.” She swallows and turns a little pale. “Or rather, a demand.”
“Maybe you’ve got your wish at last,” I mutter sarcastically. “Let me know when I should start packing for the move to Rugova House.”
“It could be good news,” Mama says, doubtfully.
“Oh, sure, because the King always rewards imposters and sneaks who sell Court gossip to the press.”
“Your name’s on here, too.”
“What?” I get up and take the letter from her. There’s my name, printed right after hers. I hand it back to her. “Thank you, Mama. I always wanted to see the inside of a prison cell.”
“Don’t be dramatic, darling. We’re not being summoned to the palace to be arrested.”
“No, we’re probably going to be asked to explain ourselves, and then be arrested.”
Mama studies the letter again, her brows pinched. “There will be questions. We should get our story straight.”
I sit back down. “You tell the King what you like. I’ll settle for the truth, and if it contradicts whatever story you come up with, I don’t care.”
The next morning, we’re both dressed in our smartest day clothes, sitting in a state room at the palace. A footman, in burgundy and gold livery, enters the room and bows, and we hastily get to our feet as he calls our names.
We follow him through a set of gilt doors into what seems to be the King’s study, a large room with high ceilings and enormous oil paintings on the walls and dominated by a huge desk. The King himself is sitting behind it.
Mama and I drop into curtsies, and then stand there. The King regards us silently, an unreadable expression on his face. The seconds tick by in excruciating silence.
Despite my defiant words yesterday, my stomach is roiling with anxiety.
King Anson comes out from behind his desk to stand in front of Mama. He’s a tall man, and we both have to tilt our heads back to look into his face.
He puts his hand on his heart and speaks gravely. “Lady Rugova, I deeply apologize.”
Mama seems to have to work to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth. “Your Majesty?”
“My clerks have gone through the records,” he continues, with a glance at me. “The Rugovas should have been contacted weeks ago, regarding your lands and fortune. As soon as I discovered the error, I moved swiftly. As of this morning, everything has been restored to your family. My condolences for your late husband. I understand my father greatly valued his presence at Court.”
Mama’s eyes fill with tears. She gazes up at the King like he’s the Archangel Gabriel himself. “Restored, sir?” she whispers. “Do you really mean that?”
He smiles at her. “I’m thankful that your daughter didn’t miss her debut. Please send me a letter as soon as you’re settled into Rugova House, and I look forward to seeing you both at Court.”
Mama plummets into another curtsy, babbling her thanks and making a hundred promises about how she will write immediately and that Court is even more splendid than it was in the old days.
I study the King, perplexed. He speaks in a beautifully measured way and radiates charisma, but that doesn’t make any of what he’s said right.
Before Mama can take my hand and draw me from the room, I address him, “Your Majesty, thank you for your generosity. I feel like I must tell you, though,