The Mistress of Horses quarreled with an astronomer over the shape of stars in the sky.
What you see as a fine lady dancing, Horse said, I view as a stampeding herd.
—COLLECTED FOLKTALES
Lizvette’s only movement came from the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. She didn’t move so much as an eyelid to blink. She sat rigid in the chair, hands clasped neatly in her lap.
Jack, on the other hand, was all motion, pacing the floor of the sitting room in the Niralls’ residence suite. “Where is she?” Gravel coated his throat.
“On a bus with the other refugees.”
He dropped his head into his hand. “Why?”
“It was the best place for her.”
Jack spun to look at her. “And that was your decision?” His supposedly healed wound throbbed angrily, as though the grief and pain were trying to claw their way out through his chest. He wrenched open the door and ordered the Guardsman outside to radio the refugee caravan and pull Jasminda off the bus.
“And was it you who destroyed her dress?” He resumed his pacing.
Her head shot up, eyes wide. “Her dress?”
“Her gown, ripped and burned and left in front of my office today.”
Lizvette blinked slowly and took a deep breath. “That wasn’t me.”
“Do you know who it was?”
She notched her chin up higher and stared straight ahead.
Jack made an exasperated sound and crouched before her, careful to maintain his distance. “Tell me.”
A single tear trailed down her cheek. Her jaw quivered. “I think it was Father,” she whispered.
“Nirall?” Jack reared back on his heels, almost falling. He braced himself with a hand on the floor and shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
Her hands were squeezed together so hard, the tips of her fingernails had lost all color. She shook her head and another tear escaped her eye. Those were more tears than Jack had ever seen her shed in her entire life. She had always been a stoic child, never screaming or crying, not even when injured. Everything kept bottled up inside, even now.
Her whole body vibrated as if the strength it took her to remain composed had run out and pure chaos reigned underneath her placid exterior. She was at war with herself. Jack could see it plainly. Her distress stole a measure of rancor from his anger.
“Vette, we have known each other all our lives. You must tell me.”
Her jaw quivered, but she nodded, darting a glance at the closed door. “He wanted me to be the princess. I suppose it would make up somewhat for me being born a girl. Alariq was kind, but he never held my heart.”
She looked at him pointedly, and his stomach sank in understanding. He opened his mouth, unsure of what to say, but she continued. “When Alariq died, Father didn’t miss a beat. He was determined to be the grandfather of the next Prince Regent, no matter what it took. Jasminda was an obstacle, but one that worked in his favor. If you would not choose me of your own free will, then he would give you a push.”
“What kind of push?”
“Feeding information to the press. Giving them fodder for the fire. Presenting me as the solution.”
“And you went along with this, Vette? Why?”
She swallowed and brushed away the wetness from her cheeks. “I never wanted to hurt you, and I certainly never wanted to see her harmed. But Jack, you are the Prince Regent of Elsira. You must marry well. Your wife is not just for you; she will be the princess of the land. Did you really think there was a future with her? It’s for the best that she leave now with the others.”
Jack shot to his feet as the ache in his chest seemed to spread to his whole body. His hands pulled at the short ends of his hair, searching for a release from his frustration. “Lizvette, there is no future for me without her.”
“So she should have stayed here, hidden away for the rest of time so you could sneak into her chambers? And then what? What about when you need an heir? She’s to be content being your mistress while you sire the next prince with someone else?”
“You had no right! Not to decide her fate. Did she get on that bus willingly?”
Lizvette turned her face to the fire. “I gave explicit instructions that she was not to be harmed.”
Jack leaned against his desk, imagining Jasminda fighting tooth and nail against whatever hired thugs Lizvette had acquired.
“Did you think of what it must have been like for her?” Lizvette looked down to her folded hands. “If, one day, someone ever loves me, I would hope they would scream it from the rooftops.” Her smile was brittle.
Jack fell onto the couch and slumped down. Lizvette was right. In a perfect world, he would have shouted his love for Jasminda from every window in the palace … but the world was far from perfect.
A knock sounded at the door, and a Guardsman entered.
“Your Grace, radio communication with the refugee caravan is down due to the thunderstorm. We’re unable to contact them.”
“Then send a telegram to the Eastern Base and keep trying the caravan. I want to make sure she doesn’t step one foot inside Lagrimar.”
“Yes, sir.” The Guardsman spun on his heel, readying to leave.
“Wait.” Weariness lay over Jack like a blanket. He looked at Lizvette and sighed. “Take her to the Guard’s offices for questioning. The charge is kidnapping. And arrest Minister Nirall, as well.”
Lizvette stood and brushed her dress off, her sad eyes relaying an apology. Jack’s head fell to his hands as the weight of the crown grew even heavier.