Chapter 7 – The Prince's Private Audience
We left the music room together, the key still warm in Evelyn's palm.
The corridors were quiet; most students were at supper. Our footsteps echoed like distant drumbeats. Ink had dried in stiff black patches across my apron and sleeves, but neither of us suggested I change. Let the court see what their saintess had tried to do. Let them whisper.
Halfway down the west staircase, a liveried page darted from a side passage and dropped to one knee before Evelyn.
"Lady Evelyn de Clermont. His Highness Prince Cedric requests the honour of your presence for private tea in the Rose Salon. Immediately."
He held up the folded parchment sealed in crimson wax.
Evelyn took it without a word. The royal crest gleamed like fresh blood.
She broke the seal, read the single line, and let the parchment curl shut again.
"Tell His Highness I will attend," she said. Her voice was perfectly level, but I heard the tremor beneath it.
The page bowed and vanished.
Evelyn looked at me. The genuine smile from the music room was gone; in its place was the old ice mask, but now I knew what it cost her to wear it.
"He moves faster than I expected," she murmured.
"He is frightened," I answered. "Frightened men make mistakes."
She exhaled once, steadying herself. "One attendant is permitted. Will you come?"
I inclined my head. "I was never going to let you walk in there alone."
Something softened in her eyes (brief, fierce, grateful). Then the mask slid fully back into place.
We did not speak again until we stood outside the Rose Salon.
The doors were carved ivory, inlaid with gold roses. Two royal guards flanked them, halberds gleaming. They bowed to Evelyn and opened the doors without a word.
Inside, the room glowed like a jewel box: cream walls, pale gold filigree, moonlight pouring through tall windows onto a single table set for three. One teapot. Two cups. A third, plainer chair set back for a servant.
Cedric rose as we entered. He was dressed in pale blue velvet, golden hair catching the candlelight. The perfect prince from a children's tale.
"Evelyn." His smile was warm, intimate, poisonous. "Thank you for coming so promptly. And… your shadow." His gaze flicked to me, lingered on the ink stains, then dismissed me. "Please, sit."
Evelyn sat. I remained standing behind her chair, hands folded, the picture of deference.
Cedric himself poured the tea. The scent of nightshade drifted faint but unmistakable.
He slid the first cup toward Evelyn.
"I wished to speak privately," he began, voice gentle, "because I fear the events in the library have been tragically misunderstood. The dissolution of our engagement was never intended to wound you."
Evelyn lifted the cup but did not drink. "Was it not?"
"Of course not." He leaned forward, elbows on the table, earnest concern etched into every line of his face. "There are rumours, Evelyn. Dangerous ones. About your father's unfortunate accident. About your… emotional stability. I sought only to distance the crown from scandal before your enemies could weaponise it."
I watched Evelyn's gloved fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around the porcelain.
"How noble of you," she said softly. "To sacrifice our betrothal for my protection."
Cedric's smile warmed further. "Exactly. I have always had your best interests at heart. Even when you were too young to understand."
Evelyn set the cup down untouched. "Like the night in the tower? When you held my hand so tightly while my father fell? Was that for my best interests too?"
The air turned to glass.
Cedric's mask did not crack; it simply froze.
"That was a tragedy," he said, voice suddenly colder. "And you would do well not to resurrect old ghosts in public again. Some truths are better buried."
"Some murderers are better exposed," Evelyn replied.
Cedric's gaze slid to me. "Your maid grows bold. Perhaps she forgets her place."
I stepped forward half a pace, just enough that my shadow crossed his teacup.
"My place," I said pleasantly, "is wherever my lady requires me to be. Tonight it appears to be between you and the consequences you have spent six years trying to outrun."
Cedric's fingers twitched toward the silver bell at his elbow.
I continued, conversational. "I wouldn't ring that if I were you. The east corridor is being watched by friends of the late duke. One chime and every servant in the palace learns exactly whose magic pushed Duke Aldric from that tower. With dates. Witnesses. And the fascinating detail about the queen's private poison cabinet."
Cedric's hand stopped an inch from the bell.
Evelyn's eyes flicked to me (surprise, then something that looked suspiciously like pride).
Cedric leaned back slowly, forcing a laugh that did not reach his eyes.
"Blackmail from a maid. How inventive."
"Not blackmail," I corrected. "A reminder. Harm her again (with words, with poison, with exile), and the north remembers who murdered its duke. You need those borders quiet, Your Highness. You cannot fight a war on two fronts."
For a long moment the only sound was the soft tick of the ormolu clock on the mantel.
Then Cedric lifted his own cup and drank (a deliberate show of fearlessness).
"You have grown claws since last we spoke, Evelyn," he said quietly. "I wonder who sharpened them for you."
Evelyn rose. I moved instantly to her side.
"I sharpened them myself," she answered. "You simply gave me excellent stone to grind them on."
She turned toward the door.
At the threshold she paused, looked back.
"One last thing, Cedric. The next time you lace tea with nightshade, choose a better blend. This one is so obvious even a child would notice."
Cedric's face went the colour of old ash.
We walked out.
The corridor was empty. The guards had been dismissed (exactly as I had arranged earlier with a forged note).
Only when the ivory doors clicked shut did Evelyn's breath hitch. She swayed; I caught her around the waist before her knees buckled.
For a moment she simply leaned into me, trembling with the aftershock of six years' worth of rage finally spoken aloud.
"You bluffed about the northern spies," she whispered against my shoulder.
"Of course," I murmured into her hair. "But he doesn't know that."
She laughed (breathless, incredulous, alive) and pulled back just enough to meet my eyes.
Her hands rose to cup my face, thumbs brushing the ink stains on my cheeks like she could wipe the whole day away.
"I have never felt this powerful," she said, voice shaking with wonder. "Because for the first time I was not afraid of him."
I turned my head and pressed a kiss to the centre of her palm.
"Then my work here is only beginning."
Her next words were barely sound, meant for me alone.
"Stay with me tonight. Not as a maid. Just… stay."
The corridor was cold, the hour late, the palace full of enemies.
None of it mattered.
I rested my forehead against hers, breathing her in (frost-roses and fury and home).
"Always," I said.
And sealed the promise with the softest brush of my lips against the corner of her mouth (not yet a kiss, but the vow that one day soon it would be).
We walked back to her rooms hand in hand, ink-stained and unafraid, while somewhere behind us a prince stared at cold tea and realised the game had changed forever.