More murmurs from the crowd. Raffaele is awed by such excellent lying. Maeve’s declaration in front of who she knows must be families suffering from the loss of their own malfetto loved ones.
Teren sneers at Maeve. “You cannot ask our queen to show respect for a disgusting dog of a demon.”
At Maeve’s side, Kester places a hand on the hilt of his sword. His Elite energy stirs. Raffaele’s attention shifts first to him, then to Tristan, as he moves ever so slightly. It is the first time Raffaele has ever seen the youngest prince frown—and something in the expression chills Raffaele to his core. Maeve had said that bringing Tristan back from the Underworld increased his strength tenfold. For the first time, Raffaele believes it. Maeve waves a subtle hand, and Tristan stands down.
Teren looks as if he wants to continue, but Giulietta shakes her head once, stopping him. Raffaele takes it in—a small moment of disagreement between the two. He stores the image away.
Finally, Giulietta addresses Maeve. “I can promise you nothing. But I will consider your request.”
Sudden movement distracts Raffaele. It is Teren, stepping away from Giulietta’s side and marching toward him. A knot of dark, frustrated energy churns in the Inquisitor’s chest, and Raffaele tenses. Behind Teren, Giulietta watches him with stony eyes. She didn’t tell him to move, Raffaele thinks. He’s acting without her permission?
Teren pauses a few steps from Raffaele. He smiles at Maeve. “Your Majesty, Beldain considers such marked survivors sacred, you say.” He turns in a circle so that the entire crowd can hear him. “We are privileged to have a Queen of Beldain in our nation, and are thrilled to honor your stay here. But in Kenettra, we have different customs.”
“Master Santoro.” Giulietta’s voice is not loud, but Raffaele hears the sharp warning in her tone. She doesn’t want to shout it, because she doesn’t want to look like she has no control over her Inquisition. Teren ignores her. “In Kenettra,” Teren continues loudly, “a malfetto, gift or otherwise, is not to set foot inside Estenzia.”
Good, Raffaele thinks. They had chosen to gift Raffaele precisely to anger Teren. Is he angry that he didn’t capture me first, or that his queen is looking at me instead of him?
“In Kenettra,” Teren says, “a malfetto who has committed treason against the crown must be executed. My Inquisition is grateful to Your Majesty for bringing this criminal back to us, so that we can carry out the appropriate punishment.”
“Master Santoro.” This time Giulietta’s voice is a furious whip. Teren finally turns to face her, and she narrows her eyes at him. Her mouth is set in a firm line. “Cease.”
As the crowd stirs restlessly, she holds her hands up for silence. “We have enough bloodshed in our past,” she says. “Let there be none today.”
Teren opens his mouth, then quickly closes it. He bows his head to Giulietta, shoots Raffaele one last withering glare, and stalks back to Giulietta’s tent. Giulietta doesn’t look at him. While Inquisitors grab each of Raffaele’s arms, Giulietta approaches.
“Do you always let your Lead Inquisitor speak for you, Queen of Kenettra?” Maeve asks in a low voice.
“Would you have stepped in to save your gift, Queen of Beldain?” Giulietta replies, a small smile playing at the edges of her lips. There is a coldness in her voice, a challenge, and suddenly, it seems the polite words exchanged only moments ago will be for nothing.
Then, Giulietta shakes her head. “Forgive my Lead Inquisitor’s actions,” she finally says in a loud, clear voice. “He defends his country fiercely, that is all.”
Raffaele looks on as Maeve rises, bows a farewell to Giulietta, and takes the reins of her new horse. She leads the stallion down the path, toward the Estenzian palace, as the crowd watches her go.
Giulietta studies Raffaele awhile longer. Beside her, Teren notices the way she admires Raffaele’s features. He scowls.
Raffaele’s thoughts spin. Never has he heard of such conflict between the queen and Teren. More so, Giulietta’s attitude toward malfettos seems to have shifted since the time when she wanted Enzo dead. Now that she has her throne, has she given up on her supposed war against malfettos? Had it all been part of her plan to both secure Teren’s support and get rid of her brother? Raffaele studies her energy, wondering. Will Giulietta punish Teren for defying her?
Finally, Giulietta stands up. Her Inquisition gathers to escort her. She walks down the steps, stops before Raffaele, and walks once around him. She kneels down to his eye level. “Rise, consort,” she murmurs, lifting his chin. Her touch is firm, even harsh. Raffaele trembles and does as she says.
“Come,” she commands. Then she turns away, toward the palace.
Uncle Whitham, quickly out of bed!
Uncle Whitham, he’s come for your head.
Hide under the stairs, hide anywhere,
Uncle Whitham, he wants you dead.
—“Uncle Whitham and the Ghost of Darby,” children’s rhyme
Adelina Amouteru
The next morning, I wake up in the Little Baths feeling strange.
I lie very still for a moment. It’s not pain, exactly. Instead, there is a faint pressure in the air all around me, making everything blurry. I close my eye and wait. Maybe I’m just dizzy. I slept poorly, haunted by nightmares of bleeding kings, and now I’m exhausted. Or maybe it’s the moisture in the air—when I glance up at the holes in the ceiling, the sky looks overcast, the clouds a dark gray. The whispers in my head are stirring again, active as usual after a night of vivid dreams. I try to understand what they’re saying, but today they are incomprehensible.