7

The next days were agony, but not in the same way. Bishop agreed to take over the preparations, making all decisions in her stead and telling those who came to see her that she was unwell, and that they weren't allowed to meet with her.

She found that this was much worse. Sitting in her room, alone with racing thoughts that lingered and lingered. Her mind searched for an exit, an escape, anything that could be done to avoid what was coming.

The party was coming. In four days, in three days. In two days.

She found herself standing in the royal graveyard in the early morning. The birds were silent, and it was still very dark, but she hadn't been able to stand one more second alone in her bedroom.

She knelt down between her parents' graves.

On her left, a large intricate tombstone read,

Queen Victoria Rosemary Ashking

A Goddess among us

And on her right,

King Valerian Brae Ashking

May you reign in the Kingdom of the gods

She wished they'd added something about being a mother and father. But according to Bishop, the gravestones had been carved even before the assassination, and her mother and father had chosen the epitaphs themselves, from a list of suggestions Omar had written. She could not have changed them, even if she'd been able to.

It would have been a betrayal.

She laid her head against her mother's gravestone, the smooth stone freezing against her cheek.

She wondered how her stunning, graceful mother had felt during her coronation. Surely it had been an amazing ceremony, with decorations as beautiful as she was.

"What do I do, mama?" She whispered.

"Clench your fists," came a voice. "And grit your teeth."

Elodie remained kneeling in front of the graves, staring into the reflection on the smooth carved headstones. She felt as if the voice had been coming from inside her own head, emanating from within her ears instead of coming from someone's mouth.

A figure appeared in the reflection on the stone. It stepped from behind a thin fledgling apple tree, tall, made of white vapor and sheer cloth. Her hair flowed in a nonexistent wind, the snow-white curls waving like the branches of a great willow tree.

"Our name is an ancient one. Stained in blood and soaked in sweat." The woman continued.

"Mama?"

"You hold our bloodline in your faithful hands. The crown will rest comfortably on your head."

She got up and turned, and when she faced the apple tree, there was no one. Nothing moved. There was no wind, and no more sound, until a bird overhead let out a warning cry and took off into the sky, frightened by her sudden movement.

She went to the tree and peered around the thin trunk, as if there would be a place to hide behind it, but there was not.

There was no one around.

But she had heard her mother, and seen her. She had been here. And she had said that everything would be alright. The crown no longer seemed so heavy.

If anyone knew what to say, her mother did. She nodded slowly to herself.

Clench your fists. And grit your teeth.

I can do this. I will do this.

"For you, mother."

She laid a final farewell touch on the top of her mothers headstone and turned and left the graveyard, heading back towards the castle and her bedroom. Angry as she was at the current state of things, and as much as she still did not want to be Queen, she was a good girl. And she would listen to her mother, living or not.

The walk back to her bedroom felt like it took months. Eventually she pushed open the door and saw a shadow crossing the room. She stepped back quickly.

There was someone in her room. She looked back and forth down the hall, but no one was there. No guards, no servants. No one.

Clench your fists.

She peered through the crack in the door again, watching the shadow of the figure pace back and forth in the center of her bedroom. Their pace was agitated, moving quickly and with purpose, but going only in circles.

She stepped back again. There was someone in her bedroom, someone she had not been expecting. Bishop was supposed to send everyone away. There was supposed to be a guard posted here.

Suddenly, the door swung open, and Elodie put up her hands, but no attack came. She glanced into the doorway and there stood Amayella, her arms crossed, looking very irate.

"Oh. It's just you." Elodie grumbled.

"Who did you think it was?" Amayella asked, stepping to the side as Elodie came into the room, brushing past her.

Elodie glanced back at her. Amayella was too much like her. Long blonde hair, bright eyes, pale skin. The pair of them had always been little mirror images of the woman Elodie so desperately missed. Looking at her sister, she couldn't help but be angry, incredibly angry, but also bitterly cold and alone.

"What do you want, Amayella?" Elodie replied, ignoring her question. "I'm a little busy."

"With what, exactly? I've been in here waiting for nearly an hour."

Elodie groaned. "Will you please just get to the point of this interruption?"

"Fine, alright. Are you aware that, currently, there is no open investigation into what happened to Mama and Papa?"

"There isn't–?"

"No, there's not. I talked to the steward, I talked to the head of the guard, I even talked to Lane."

Elodie scrunched up her nose. "Ew. Lane."

Amayella smiled slightly. "I know. Me, too. Anyway, I talked to everyone I could think of. I assumed it might just be under lock and key, so maybe not a lot of the staff knows about it. But it even seems you aren't aware of anything."

"Well, I had sort of just assumed–" Elodie began, but then she stopped. For the last week and a half, she'd been wallowing in her own grief, unaware that her mother's killer was getting off without punishment.

She pursed her lips and turned to Amayella.

"What are you going to do?" Amayella asked.

"Don't worry. I'll fix it."

"What–"

Elodie turned and left, barging down the hall toward Bishop's office. From down the hall, she could hear the usual sounds from his study, loud voices joined together in charmed laughter and heated debate. She shoved open the door and stormed right up to his desk, slamming her hands down on the beautiful varnished wood. Instantly, all chatter stopped.

"Princess! You look much better–"

"Why is no one looking for that creature who took my mother and father from me?"

Bishop's mouth fell shut, and he became just as quiet as the others in the room.

From behind her, Lane spoke.

"I was wondering when this would happen," he muttered. Then he lifted his voice to interject. "I assigned a regiment to the case just this afternoon, your Highness. Amayella came and brought this same issue to our attention. I apologize that it took this long, it was just so unexpected and we had so many other things that we all needed to worry about."

Elodie whipped on him, and he was instantly awash in terribly hot fury.

"Are you joking?" She shouted. "Excuses? For this? I should have all of you killed! This is completely unacceptable."

"Now, Princess," Bishop began. His voice was even, and remarkably reasonable. She grit her teeth and glared daggers at him, but he continued to speak. "Don't be cross with Lane. It isn't his fault."

"I don't rightly give a damn whose fault it is!" She snapped at him. "I should throw you all in prison!"

Bishop stood up, and made a gentle waving motion at the others. As if suddenly released from a spell, they shot up from their seats and left to go into the hall.

He held out his hands to her. "You're going to exhaust yourself, my dear. Sit, calm down."

"I don't want to calm down, Bishop," she growled. "Who allowed this to happen? Was it you? Did you keep this from me?"

"Yes," he admitted. "I was asked the morning after if I wanted to launch an official investigation. I said I would speak with you about it, and then I discovered how fragile you were. I chose, at that time, not to speak about it."

She spluttered and turned her back to him, the indignance of it all bubbling in her stomach. She felt sick, dizzy and charged with anger.

"It's happening, now, Princess, there's no need to be worked up anymore. I'm sorry," Bishop said, his voice taking on that odd sternness that he was so good at weilding. "Just breathe."

But his words had no effect. She snarled, cast a vicious glare at him over her shoulder, and charged through the office door out into the hall. She searched the small gathering of dispersed advisors and found, among them, Lane.

It took two of the guards stationed down the hall to keep her away from him. She shrieked and shouted and demanded to be released, demanded he be punished, kicked and flailed her fists wildly. Above it all, she could barely hear Bishop barking orders at the bystanders.

"I'll kill you, you worthless sack of rusty armor! I'll have your entire family burned!"

"Get him out of here! Everybody go back to your rooms, now! Go!"

When, finally, the group had fully dispersed, Lane was escorted away, and it was only Bishop and Elodie and, suddenly, Amayella, alone in the hall. Bishop lifted her under her arms and hauled her back into the office. Amayella quietly shut the door behind them.

Bishop planted Elodie down on the sofa and stood above her. He frowned down at her, his arms crossed. She had struck him across the cheek in the struggle, and the welt was beginning to swell. Elodie seethed silently on the couch, glaring back up at him.

Amayella was the first to break the silence.

"So what was his explanation for the lack of an investigation? I assume it wasn't very good," she growled.

"No! No, it wasn't! Apparently the both of us were 'too fragile' for anyone to bring up the idea that we might want to know who and why and how our own parents were murdered!" Elodie shouted back at her, then turned to Bishop again. "Do you really expect me to believe that?!"

"Have I ever lied to you before?" Bishop asked, his voice measured.

"Yes," Amayella interjected. "Yes, he has."

Bishop looked over at her. "I wasn't talking to you."

"Well, that's too bad. I'm here," she snapped at him.

"And I don't believe you're welcome," he snapped back.

"I don't believe that's for you to decide, Bishop," replied Amayella.

"Would you both just shut up!" Elodie shouted, standing up. "Shut up! I'm– I'm so tired of this!" She pointed a slender finger at Amayella. "Get out! Just get out! I can't stand you!"

Amayella placed her hand against her chest and bared her teeth at her sister. "Me? What did I do? I'm the one who told you there was something wrong!"

Elodie, boiling with white-hot rage, grabbed an empty metal platter and swung it back, preparing to hurl it at the younger girl. Bishop, eyes wide, stepped in and grabbed her arms.

"Your Highness, that's enough!" He warned, taking the platter and setting it down on the desk. "Amayella, just go!"

Ama, her eyes wide with anger and fear, turned and ran out, calling behind her, "To Hell with the both of you! I hate you!"

As soon as the door had slammed shut again, Elodie turned on Bishop and lunged at him, too. He caught her by the wrists again and spun her, tucking her arms against her chest and bringing her in close.

"That's enough, Elodie! This is no way to behave," he warned again. "What would Victoria think of this?!"

At the mention of her name, Elodie melted, a mess of tears and exhaustion and desperation. She fell out of his arms and against the desk, wailing in despair.

"Can't I know?" She begged. "Can't I know why she's gone?"

"Of course you can," he offered, coming to her side and leaning down to her level. "What on Earth came over you?"

"How could you?" She growled, turning to look at him. "You kept this from me!"

"I only do what's best for you," he said, his voice softening significantly. "I'm truly sorry if I betrayed your trust. It just seemed, to me, that you weren't ready to think about such things."

"That isn't for you to decide!"

"Actually, darling, I believe it is," he assured her, reaching out to rest a hand on her cheek. With his thumb, he carefully wiped the tears from her cheeks. "You were in no state to make such decisions."

"But the choice to become Queen, that was something I was prepared to do?" She growled, grasping at his hand and pressing it against the desk to still it.

"There was no 'choice' in that, dear," he replied, and turned his hand over to hold hers in his palm. "There still isn't. I'm sorry this has been so difficult for you. The pain will end soon, I promise."

"How can I trust your words?" She spat.

"Have I ever told you anything but the truth?"

"You lied by omission."

"That isn't what I asked," he redirected gently. "I've told you anything that wasn't the truth. Think about it. Aren't I trustworthy?"

She frowned and bit her bottom lip, and curled her hand around his fingers. She wanted, so badly, for everything to simply go back to the way they were. Before all the talk of a party, of an investigation, before the murders. When everything had been so perfect that she hadn't even paused to enjoy it thoroughly.

She wanted, so badly, to collapse, and to wake up to find that everything for the past months had been nothing but a terrible nightmare. To wake up in her bed and run down the hall and find her parents sleeping peacefully in their beds. To shake her mother awake and beg to go for a walk in the garden. To hold her hand and watch her smell the roses again.

Bishop reached out and wiped away the newly fallen tears.

"Talk to me, dear," he murmured. "Is there something else that's really bothering you?"

She looked up at him.

Would he believe her? Would he know she was telling the truth if she told him what she'd seen in the reflection of her mother's headstone? What she'd heard, what she'd been told?

She shut her eyes, and softly shook her head.

"I'm just… tired," she breathed. "It's all too much, Bishop."

"I know," he says, and opens his arms. "I'm so sorry I hurt you. Can you ever forgive me?"

She fell into his arms and nodded, burying her face in his soft robes. Of course, she forgave him. He was all she had. Without Bishop, how would she survive?

She regretted the way she'd stormed in, the way she'd screamed and fought. She knew the answer to Bishop's question.

What would Victoria think?

She couldn't imagine her mother being anything but terribly disappointed in how she'd behaved. It had been such overwhelming news, she'd lost herself in the shock of it all. She'd have to apologize to Lane later. And perhaps to Amayella, as well. But maybe she ought to start now.

"I'm sorry, too," she muttered. "Are you alright? I didn't… I didn't mean to hit you."

He leaned back, and she raised a hand to carefully touch the bruised welt growing beside his eye. He offered her a gentle chuckle, and took her hand away.

"I'm alright," he assured her. "I've had much worse in my time, darling, I promise."

"Who hit you?!" She demanded.

"Girls, mostly," he answered, laughing. "Older than you, though."

"Why would they ever do that?"

He grinned. "Maybe I'll tell you when you're older."