them—had been carved many years ago. Decades, most
likely.
Monsieur Bellefontaine approached and stood beside him. “It was your mother who carved
this,” he said, as if reminiscing. “I also have an engraved ring to show you, and
dozens of letters if you wish to read them. Lord d’Entremont saved everything from
the year they spent together.”
A knot formed in Nicholas’s stomach, for he had been clinging to the possibility that
all this was a lie … or some sort of malicious scheme to smear his late father’s reputation
and topple the Sebastian monarchy from the throne of Petersbourg.
Nicholas, Randolph, and Rose had lived most of their lives under the threat of an
overthrow. Their father, the king, had died from one such plot little more than a
year ago, poisoned by enemies who hoped to seize his crown.
But this —a box of love letters, jewelry, names carved into trees—this was something else entirely,
and all his instincts and intuitive powers told him that his mother had truly been
here, and there were secrets that his father had never revealed.
As a child, he never felt as privileged, cherished, or loved as his older brother,
Randolph, or even Rose, who had been spoiled rotten and doted upon by their father.
Nicholas had always assumed it was because he was not the heir to the throne, but
merely the spare, but there was so much more to it than that. Perhaps he should have
known. Why hadn’t he? Had he consciously chosen not to look more deeply into the roots
of things?
He had always assumed it was his fault that his father despised him—because he was
badly behaved. Irresponsible. Wild. Perhaps he had simply been too young to see through
the layers.…
* * *
“Boy, come in here.”
Nicholas approached his father, who was seated at the giant desk in the Privy Council
Chamber. He had never been summoned to this room before. Randolph had been, many times,
but not Nicholas.
He was distracted briefly by the oversized portrait of his father that hung on the
wall behind him. In it, his father sat on the throne like a proud and mighty conqueror
on his coronation day. He was draped in heavy fur robes, and he gripped a golden scepter
in his fist.
“Your mother is dead,” his father said.
Wrenched out of his reverie, Nicholas sucked in a breath. His widening gaze met his
father’s.
“She died an hour ago, giving birth to your sister. I have named your sister Rose.”
There was a ringing in Nicholas’s ears … a weakness in his legs.…
No, not Mother. She cannot be dead.
“That is all,” his father said, picking up his quill and returning his attention to
the pile of papers on the desk. “Go now.”
Burning panic shot into Nicholas’s belly and overwhelmed him with its vigor. He took
a step forward, closer to the desk, and pounded his fists upon it. “Where is she?”
His father’s eyes lifted, and he glared at Nicholas impatiently. “She is with the
angels.”
“No!” Nicholas stared at his father with furious rage, then strove to bring his shock
under control and speak in a calmer voice. “I mean … Can I see her?”
“No, you cannot. They have already removed her body.”
Nicholas backed away from the desk. He felt dizzy and light-headed. He began to hyperventilate.
“But I need to see her.”
He needed to touch her hand, to feel her comforting arms around him, to bask one last
time in the warmth of her embrace.
“She is gone now, boy. You won’t ever see her again.”
* * *
Later Nicholas learned that Randolph had been permitted inside the birthing chamber
to see their mother shortly before she passed. Though she was weak, she had held Randolph
in her arms and kissed him on the head. “You will be a good king,” she had whispered
to him. As far as Nicholas knew, they were her last words.
There had been no such words for him.
He found himself wondering what his father would have
likely.
Monsieur Bellefontaine approached and stood beside him. “It was your mother who carved
this,” he said, as if reminiscing. “I also have an engraved ring to show you, and
dozens of letters if you wish to read them. Lord d’Entremont saved everything from
the year they spent together.”
A knot formed in Nicholas’s stomach, for he had been clinging to the possibility that
all this was a lie … or some sort of malicious scheme to smear his late father’s reputation
and topple the Sebastian monarchy from the throne of Petersbourg.
Nicholas, Randolph, and Rose had lived most of their lives under the threat of an
overthrow. Their father, the king, had died from one such plot little more than a
year ago, poisoned by enemies who hoped to seize his crown.
But this —a box of love letters, jewelry, names carved into trees—this was something else entirely,
and all his instincts and intuitive powers told him that his mother had truly been
here, and there were secrets that his father had never revealed.
As a child, he never felt as privileged, cherished, or loved as his older brother,
Randolph, or even Rose, who had been spoiled rotten and doted upon by their father.
Nicholas had always assumed it was because he was not the heir to the throne, but
merely the spare, but there was so much more to it than that. Perhaps he should have
known. Why hadn’t he? Had he consciously chosen not to look more deeply into the roots
of things?
He had always assumed it was his fault that his father despised him—because he was
badly behaved. Irresponsible. Wild. Perhaps he had simply been too young to see through
the layers.…
* * *
“Boy, come in here.”
Nicholas approached his father, who was seated at the giant desk in the Privy Council
Chamber. He had never been summoned to this room before. Randolph had been, many times,
but not Nicholas.
He was distracted briefly by the oversized portrait of his father that hung on the
wall behind him. In it, his father sat on the throne like a proud and mighty conqueror
on his coronation day. He was draped in heavy fur robes, and he gripped a golden scepter
in his fist.
“Your mother is dead,” his father said.
Wrenched out of his reverie, Nicholas sucked in a breath. His widening gaze met his
father’s.
“She died an hour ago, giving birth to your sister. I have named your sister Rose.”
There was a ringing in Nicholas’s ears … a weakness in his legs.…
No, not Mother. She cannot be dead.
“That is all,” his father said, picking up his quill and returning his attention to
the pile of papers on the desk. “Go now.”
Burning panic shot into Nicholas’s belly and overwhelmed him with its vigor. He took
a step forward, closer to the desk, and pounded his fists upon it. “Where is she?”
His father’s eyes lifted, and he glared at Nicholas impatiently. “She is with the
angels.”
“No!” Nicholas stared at his father with furious rage, then strove to bring his shock
under control and speak in a calmer voice. “I mean … Can I see her?”
“No, you cannot. They have already removed her body.”
Nicholas backed away from the desk. He felt dizzy and light-headed. He began to hyperventilate.
“But I need to see her.”
He needed to touch her hand, to feel her comforting arms around him, to bask one last
time in the warmth of her embrace.
“She is gone now, boy. You won’t ever see her again.”
* * *
Later Nicholas learned that Randolph had been permitted inside the birthing chamber
to see their mother shortly before she passed. Though she was weak, she had held Randolph
in her arms and kissed him on the head. “You will be a good king,” she had whispered
to him. As far as Nicholas knew, they were her last words.
There had been no such words for him.
He found himself wondering what his father would have
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