"I demand to know what he told you in your ear." Jacqueline attempted a whisper as the prince stomped off, but she might as well have shouted for the court members casting glances in her direction. "Did he threaten you?"
Emma hid her hands behind her back. Soft against her skin, the petals prompted a memory, whispered a warning. "No, My Lady."
Jacqueline's mouth narrowed into a stern line. "Tell me what he said."
"He is concerned for Wendy."
While that wasn't true of this precise moment, it was a safe response. A standard one, given Baelfire's predisposition toward worry with regards to all things Wendy. Apparently seven sisters weren't enough for him, as somewhere in the last thirteen years, he'd taken on another.
"Concerned! What concern is my daughter to him? If he cared anything for Wendy—" Jacqueline shook her head. "I am not to hear of you speaking with the prince again."
"I—"
She gripped Emma by both arms. "Your mother chose death over a lifetime of ridicule for the scandal you've brought upon your family. And it's a safe assumption that your father at this very instant is lamenting the day a wretch like you was born to him. You are in my charge now and I will be obeyed, or you will find yourself in a situation befitting your misdeeds. Is that understood?"
An argument formed on Emma's tongue, but she dared not speak it. Not trusting her voice for the familiar sting in her eyes, she nodded. Jacqueline released her hold and linked their arms, just as she'd done outside the king's study when fetching Emma from her morning session—another condition of her pardon that did little to quell the rumors of her guilt.
"Any moment now, the prince's engagement will be taken before the Council for approval. They've no cause to contest, of course—their blessing is merely a formality." Jacqueline sounded nervous, reciting these facts as though to quiet her own mind. It was Emma's understanding that in Glowerhaven, the only person with the power to overrule a proposed candidate for marriage was the king, and he'd been the one to arrange the match between Baelfire and the visiting princess. Jacqueline's thoughts seemed to follow Emma's; she said, "I have long awaited this day," and every trace of anxiety melted from her, even as she took up an impatient pace. "Although…if he's anything like his father," Jacqueline spoke through a bright smile as she waved to Baelfire's eldest sister, Persephone—who had only daggers for Emma—standing just outside the west gate, flanked on one side by her mother-in-law, Rosaline, and on the other by Councilman Triton's daughter, Ariel, "no vow in the world will keep him faithful."
Emma's stomach twisted with nerves that drove her aunt's voice to obscurity as Persephone Jones continued to glare, ignoring her company of ladies to do so.
Emma wasn't a fool, though she'd been known to imitate one. She had no misconceptions about her placement at King Brennan's court. Or the reason her father, despite his assurance that he never would, had abandoned her. Guilt versus innocence was not the problem—she'd incited public outrage. Had made herself into fodder for the gossips to feed on, and had turned her once proud family into something ridiculous.
"The King's Council—" Emma began, if for no other reason than to distract herself from the unannounced arrival of Liam's mother to the palace.
It was to be expected, she supposed, that Persephone would come for Baelfire's engagement. He was her brother, after all. Half-brother, technically, but still blood. Still just as richly cherished as if they'd had both parents in common. Once the king recognized Baelfire in the presence of the Council and the court, once he'd named Baelfire his true son and heir, it was treason to address him as anything less. But Emma had heard the rumors about him, not nearly as malicious as the rumors about her, but still unkind. Still punishable by more than a day's stay in the stocks. Half-blood was a popular moniker. As was bastard prince.
"Is gathering as we speak," Jacqueline said. "But you are not to breathe a word to anyone." She flashed another smile at passersby only to adopt a grimace at their turned backs. "There are hostile ears everywhere." She looked pointedly at a group of young men studying the architecture of the west gate, admiring its intricate design and distinctly mortal aesthetic. They fell silent until Emma and her aunt had moved out of earshot. "As you know, Arthur is still unaccounted for. If his seat is left vacant much longer, the king will be forced to name a replacement." They entered the high-vaulted foyer of the palace's west wing and Emma breathed deeply as the heat of a hateful stare began to subside—only a few short corridors and an unreasonably steep flight of stairs and they'd be safely back in Lethe Tower. "Some believe he switched allegiances and the king's men took care of him."
Emma said nothing on the subject of the king's personal guard and prayed her eyes didn't betray her. At present, her only concern was her latest letter reaching Misthaven before his body was found.
"Now," said Jacqueline, "you'll need to dress…modestly for the assembly." Her gaze drifted from the collar of Emma's dress to the hems of its skirts. The cut wasn't indecent, but the garment was too tightly fitted for Jacqueline's tastes—an opinion she'd not shied away from sharing whenever there was an opening. "It wouldn't hurt to leave some things to the imagination…" was her usual follow-up. "I'll not have you causing this family further embarrassment. Gods know we've suffered quite enough of your exploits."
No matter Emma's efforts to persuade herself otherwise, the assembly was not an event she delighted in attending. Indeed, dread was a term better suited to what plagued her. Being forced to stand by while Baelfire promised himself to another woman…
She could think of a thousand things she'd rather be doing. Among them: walking barefoot across a carpet of nails.
Had it only been six weeks since he'd made the same offer to Emma that he would, in twelve hours' time make to a princess who hadn't been reckless enough to be stripped of her title? Since they'd been happy? Five weeks since Baelfire had unearthed Emma's most damning secret?
You will survive this. She took a deep breath as this assertion rang hollow and her aunt's grip turned to iron around her arm. You have to survive this.
If she could get a brief respite from Jacqueline's ever-watchful eye, perhaps the mere act of dressing herself to face the final dissolution of everything she and Baelfire had meant to each other wouldn't feel like such a feat. But as they came upon Lethe Tower and as they crossed the threshold to find her uncle entertaining a strange man in the main quarter, Emma's hopes of solitude were dashed.
James and his guest looked up from a somber exchange and quickly stood to greet Jacqueline, who then presented her niece.
Lethe Tower was located in a part of the palace so lacking in splendor as to be one step up from the dungeons. Not simply isolated but a victim of disrepair, it yielded an atmosphere that was, at its best, disagreeable. Where the whole of the palace was sweeping staircases and high ceilings and grand tapestries, carved woodwork, stained glass windows, the quarters Emma's guardians presently called home were markedly humble—unpainted walls that showed every crevice in their construction, narrow corridors, bedchambers like prison cells.
James' guest was a stark contrast to these surroundings, every bit out of place in his fine attire. He wore casual trousers for comfortable travel and a modest waistcoat, well-made and tailored to fit, but not a piece to be found at any official court function. A jacket of equal quality was draped over the chair he'd just vacated—evidence he'd been there long enough to be bothered by the added layer. But despite the ensemble's informality, there was no question that it cost more than an honest worker's full month's wages. And it spoke to the man's breeding as eloquently as his other attributes—perfect posture, impeccable manners, and a highborn accent from a region Emma wasn't familiar with. He wasn't from the capital, that much she could say for sure.
As he offered his hand to her, as he held her own to his lips, brushing them softly against the portion of skin that still bore the prince's imprint, when Emma took in his appearance up close—hair a shade above black, eyes as blue as the flower still tucked tightly against her other palm, every chiseled feature reminiscent of the Royal Family—she sensed that this man was not as strange as she'd first assumed.
Something—their joined hands, his close proximity, the shadow of death that suddenly clouded Emma's vision of him—triggered the force inside she'd worked hard to tame, to control, and she struggled to remain rooted to the main quarter as the man said, "Killian Jones. Captain of the King's Royal Navy, at your service."
Emma broke contact and the world sharpened around her. She'd dropped the Captain's hand as though she'd been burned by it, but forced composure when catching her aunt's reproving eye. "It is an honor to meet you, Captain," she said through a tight smile. "Liam spoke of you often."
In the short weeks that Emma had known him, Liam had spoken of his brother once. And only then to say that he had one.
"In that case, I do apologize."
A chill ran across Emma's skin as the Captain smiled. He had his brother's eyes. His kind face. Jacqueline laughed at his remark, but James couldn't be bothered to so much as smirk. Banter was beneath him—a member of the King's Blood should've known better.
The Captain's skin bore signs of an early tan, which prompted Emma to wonder if the months leading up to Year's End were more temperate where he was from than in the capital, where she'd come to loathe their bitter chill. He had a pleasant smile, but then so had his brother and it'd been erased easily enough. The resemblance only grew from there—broad shoulders and strong arms and a face so striking it could've been sculpted from stone. But Killian's wasn't without its scars. One, a faint curved line, made more noticeable by his sun-kissed skin, stretched from the middle of his right cheek to just shy of his nose. A childhood injury, perhaps? Or had he narrowly escaped a more serious maiming as an adult? A shadow of dark stubble along his jaw gave the impression he hadn't expected to speak with anyone other than James when he'd arrived.
What business did he have with Emma's uncle? Was this another test, thought up by the king to torture her? And why was it that when she looked at Killian Jones, she saw the life fading from his brother's eyes? Why, when he spoke, did she hear the hiss at his brother's lips, accusing her of someone else's crime?
Had Killian Jones come to exact revenge upon her House?
The skin at Emma's throat burned at the thought; the collar of her dress chafed, constricted like a noose—
Her expression must've betrayed her panic because her aunt and uncle and their guest regarded her as though she would fall faint. And perhaps she would—was it the ground beneath her or her own legs that trembled?
To break the tension, or simply because the Tower's only redeeming quality was its view of the garden, Jacqueline suggested they adjourn to the terrace. "Fresh air is better suited to conversation, don't you find?"
She didn't wait for an answer before ordering one of the servants—a young girl named Grace—to bring them tea. Then she took Emma's arm and led the way outside. Refreshments were served just as each of them was seated and Jacqueline had begun to prattle on about the unseasonable cold and how she hoped it would soon clear.
"It is a pity your visit should coincide with such an unforgiving spring," she said to Killian Jones, whom she'd ushered into the seat nearest her niece.
The wind died suddenly, leaving a palpable silence in its wake, and the Captain's eyes locked briefly on Emma's. Never one to allow for a lull in conversation, Jacqueline lapsed into an anecdote sure to entertain the Captain, if no one else.
It wasn't a conscious choice to stop listening, but Emma's thoughts, ever intent to torment her, drifted to the night she'd been fetched from her chambers and dragged to a part of the palace she'd never seen before. A corner, surely, that even during the day was untouched by light. A night when Baelfire had demanded an explanation she couldn't give.
"Tell me you didn't kill him."
Emma said nothing.
"Tell me you didn't—" Baelfire swore under his breathe, raked his hand through his hair. When his eyes met Emma's, she didn't know if it was the darkness or his own disgust that made them so unkind. "Do you know why I stopped sending for you, even before your wedding?" Emma took a step back as Baelfire advanced; the wall scraped the shoulders of her nightdress when he closed in, lowering his voice, "I know what you are." He studied her face, the allegation in his gaze like a physical pain. A fire scorching its way across her skin. "I saw what you did to Arthur."
Emma stifled a gasp. She couldn't remember a time when words had failed her so completely. When she'd had nothing to say in her own defense. Even if she tried to explain, he wouldn't believe her. No one would. The truth was more terrible than any lie she would ever tell.
"What did you give my father in exchange for pardoning you? That he would let a slayer of the King's Blood roam free about the palace…" Baelfire scoffed, realization lighting his eyes as he looked her over. "If it's anything like what you gave me, I wonder he wasted his time."
As the first tear fell, Baelfire watched it paint a path to Emma's parted lips and lingered a moment before he turned away.
Keeping up his end of the conversation, the Captain inquired after Jacqueline's family. The quiet that followed caught Emma's ear. She paid only partial attention as James spoke on his wife's behalf, as he grasped Jacqueline's hand in a simulation of affection while informing his guest of the recent tragedy. The Captain, unlike the prince, unlike so many others, didn't relay his deepest sympathies. Didn't offer empty platitudes. He turned to Emma and said that, though the pain would never truly disappear, it would lessen over time. She would endure. He spoke from experience.
Emma blinked back tears that formed without warning. She refused to afford present parties an audience with her grief when the person she needed most couldn't stomach the sight of her—that morning was the longest he'd spoken with her since he'd confessed to knowing what she was. What she'd done. At the same time, her chest grew tight with guilt and fear and—
Exactly how much did Killian Jones know about the night her husband died?
Jacqueline dried her cheeks in as ladylike a fashion as possible and asked the Captain about the provinces he'd passed on his journey—were there any festivals this time of year?
"A few." He grinned as a glimmer of mischief flashed in his eyes. "But I could hardly count myself a gentleman were I to divulge their nature among civilized company."
Jacqueline laughed. "How delightful."
Emma assumed Jacqueline meant the Captain's wit and not the subject it would've been too unseemly to discuss, but she wasn't the only one left uncertain—James gave his wife a quizzical look, which Jacqueline ignored.
"Do forgive me if I sound impertinent," she said, leaning forward to better engage the Captain, "but I don't believe I've heard of you before today—I was confident I knew all the king's grandsons."
Another grin, but this time there was something humorless about it. Almost pointed. But that could've been Emma projecting her own irritation onto the Captain. There were days she was convinced she couldn't have been the only soul in Glowerhaven who didn't find her aunt the least bit charming. And other days when she felt ungracious simply for harboring so hostile a thought. This was not one of the shame-filled days.
"I'm sure your memory is above reproach." Emma nearly let a laugh of her own slip out at the sarcasm that colored the Captain's words, which, thankfully, Jacqueline did not detect. "Until very recently I was known by another name." He looked over the terrace wall, taking in its view for the first time. "For most of my life, my mother failed to persuade my father of the fact that I was not, as he'd alleged, the product of infidelity. I was therefore given a surname to suit my assumed illegitimacy." He didn't move much beyond raising a hand to run along the base of his neck, but Emma would've bet the whole of her father's war chest that Killian Jones wished he was anywhere else in the worlds. "So I cannot fault you, Lady Jacqueline, for having no prior knowledge of me—my father, gods rest his soul, would be pleased to hear it."
A strangled sound left Jacqueline's throat; red colored her cheeks, and she latched on to her teacup for the discomfort of having insulted their guest—or, more likely, for the embarrassment of having broached so undignified a topic. "What brings you to our fair capital so early in the season? I'm sure the assembly can hold no great interest for you," she stated, rather clumsily, to cover up.
Killian Jones smiled. "Should I take no great interest in the engagement of my young uncle?"
"Oh, of course—I didn't mean to imply…" James grasped Jacqueline's hand in the vain hope that she would stop talking.
The Captain's smile didn't vanish, merely grew subtle. An afterthought at the edge of his mouth. "You are not wrong, Lady Jacqueline. Though it brings me tremendous joy to see Baelfire finally settled, my reasons for coming to the capital are not solely celebratory."
Emma fought the urge to bolt from her seat when the Captain's gaze landed on her. His body shifted to accommodate the new focus of his attention and his hands seemed to go back and forth in favor of seeking hers, deciding ultimately to rest, somewhat stiffly, in his own lap.
"There is a custom in my family, wherein it is incumbent upon me, as Liam's successor, to look after his estate." Killian Jones laughed in a self-conscious manner uncommon to members of his line, whose duties often saw them publically addressing their subjects. Against her better judgment, and perhaps due in part to what he'd just revealed about himself, Emma found this trait endearing. Until he said, "You are a part of that estate."
She gaped at him as a strange foreboding took hold.
"I've come to the capital to secure the approval of your guardians."
"Approval?" Emma looked to James, whose face creased under the strain of a satisfied smile.
"I've asked your uncle's consent to marry you."
