Twilight of a Queen (4 page)

It turned out he was the one who had been played for a fool, Xavier thought ruefully. He dropped the coins back
into the purse and turned to find his men regarding him expectantly.

“I reckon we must cut our losses and head for Calais, back to the
Miribelle.”
He held up the purse. “With some sharp bartering, this should at least get us enough provisions to set sail.”

Pietro looked relieved and Jambe nodded in grim satisfaction.

“About time,” he growled. “But then what?”

“Then we return to plying our trade.” Xavier produced a small flask of brandy. Flourishing it aloft, he said, “Gentlemen, here’s to piracy.”

Uncorking it, he took a swig before handing it off to Jambe, who grinned and said, “To the
Miribelle
and to some fat Spanish vessel laden with gold, straying into her path.”

After taking a gulp, Jambe wiped his lips on his sleeve and passed the flask to Pietro. The Cimmarone drank and added after his own quiet fashion, “And here’s to a smooth sea and a strong wind.”

Yes, Xavier thought as he took another drink himself, the brandy burning his throat. A strong wind to take him back to Brazil, to the Caribbean islands, to the ends of the earth.

Anywhere, as long as it blew him far away from France and the Faire Isle.

“T
HE GIRL IS THE BOOK
.”

Meg whimpered in her sleep, her soft brown hair tumbled across the pillow as she thrashed from side to side, desperate to stop the boy from betraying her to the Dark Queen.

Meg clutched at Alexander Naismith’s sleeve. “Sander, why are you doing this to me? I thought you were my friend. I loved you.”

Sander stared at her coldly. “I was prepared to worship you, my Silver Rose. With your magic, we could have been rich, powerful, but you would have none of it. My devotion to you has been the death of me.”

Shaking her off, Sander turned back to the Dark
Queen. “Megaera memorized the contents of the
Book of Shadows.
She recalls every word, every page.”

“No, I don’t. I remember nothing,” Meg cried. “No matter what Sander is telling you, my name is not Megaera. It is Margaret Elizabeth Wolfe.”

The queen smiled. “Ah, my dear, I know this boy speaks truth on one point. You are Megaera, the Silver Rose.”

“The rest is true as well,” Sander insisted. “That book is stored inside of her.”

“I have nothing inside me. Nothing.”

“I fear there is only one way to be sure of that, child.” The Dark Queen stalked closer, her voluminous black skirts engulfing Meg. She reached for the golden scissors attached to the fob at her waist. “We shall just have to cut you open and see.”

“NO!”

Meg sat bolt upright in bed, panting, her nightgown soaked in sweat. Moonlight filtered through the branches of the tree outside her window and raked dark claws of shadow across the wall as though Catherine de Medici’s grasp stretched all the way to Faire Isle.

Meg shivered, fighting the urge to pull the covers over her head. It was only a dream, she reassured herself, another of her stupid nightmares. She hoped she had not cried out in her sleep, rousing anyone else in the household at Belle Haven.

She peered over the side of the bed toward the figure stretched out on the pallet before the hearth. Agatha Butterydoor did not stir. The elderly servant was half-deaf, her deep slumber punctuated by soft snores.

Meg listened for any sounds coming from beyond her
room. As the seconds ticked by and she heard nothing, she tried to relax.

She had disturbed no one with her cries. That meant that no one would rush to comfort her either. But she should no longer need that, Meg told herself fiercely. Having just turned thirteen, she was a woman grown.

She curled on her side, cuddling her pillow, seeking to reason the dream away. Alexander Naismith was dead. The treacherous young actor could betray her to no one. He had perished in the same fire that had destroyed the
Book of Shadows
.

The book was gone forever or so everyone else believed. Meg wished she did not know better. The retentive memory that had once been her pride had become her curse. She rubbed her temples.

The
Book of Shadows
was now lodged in Meg’s head. It was as if she could feel those ancient brittle pages pressing against the inside of her skull. If the Dark Queen ever found out—

But there was no way the woman ever could. The queen was old. She was ill. She no longer had much power or influence over anyone, not even her own son, the king.

Ariane Deauville assured Meg that the Dark Queen was no longer a threat to her. Meg so desperately wanted to believe Ariane. The Lady of Faire Isle was exceedingly wise, but she had not experienced what Meg had, seen the things that Meg had seen. Those frightening visions that insisted a confrontation between Meg and the Dark Queen was inevitable.

Meg trembled and groped beneath the coverlet for the object she kept hidden there. She stole another nervous
glance in Aggie’s direction to make sure the woman was still asleep before Meg drew the small glass orb out from beneath the covers.

Even in the night-shadowed darkness of the bedchamber, the crystal sparkled with its dark temptation. So many times Meg had resolved to rid herself of the scrying glass, consult its strange power no more.

But if she had been able to light a candle without wakening Aggie, Meg would have succumbed to the crystal, delving deep into the glass’s depths even though the images she found there could only result in more nightmares.

Meg tucked the scrying glass back within the folds of her blankets. She wanted to close her eyes, drift back to sleep, but she was too fearful of her nightmare rising up to claim her again.

After tossing and turning for several minutes, Meg swung out of bed and stumbled, stubbing her toe against a wooden stool. Wincing at the pain, she suppressed her outcry.

It was disconcerting how clumsy she seemed to have become this past year, her body changing so much, sometimes it no longer felt like her own. Her arms and legs had become awkward, alien things, her budding breasts a source of both wonder and embarrassment.

Meg limped to the window and eased open the casement, welcoming the fan of crisp autumn air against her flushed cheeks. Below her, the moonlight sketched a scene of bucolic serenity, the frost-struck gardens, the solid comforting shapes of the stables and barn, the distant outline of the apple orchard.

Belle Haven was a snug manor nestled in the heart of
an island. What could be more secure than that? Meg was supposed to be safe here.

She sighed and rested her head against the casement. The initial waft of cool air that had felt so soothing penetrated her thin nightgown, raising gooseflesh on her arms. Meg started to close the window when she caught a glimpse of movement below.

Someone else was obviously having a bad night. A woman clad in a gray cloak wandered the garden, moonlight limning her pale skin and light blond hair.

No, not a woman, only a ghost of one. Lady Jane Danvers was so quiet, so self-effacing, and there was a sorrow in her eyes that haunted Meg.

Meg tensed as she watched Jane vanish down the garden path. Suddenly the night shadows no longer seemed quite so peaceful or the rustling of the trees so friendly. Jane shouldn’t be out there, wandering alone. But then Jane did not know what Meg had seen in her last vision, because Meg had never warned her.

With a wary glance at Aggie, Meg tiptoed about the bedchamber, scrambling into her boots and fumbling for her cloak.

JANE DANVERS DRIFTED DOWN THE GARDEN PATH, TWIGS AND
dead leaves crunching beneath her feet. She could almost hear the echoes of her old nurse’s voice scolding her.

“Mind your shoes, Mistress Jane. Don’t stray from the path.”

Despite how exhausted she was, Jane’s lips tipped in a
sad smile. Sarah’s advice had always been sound, full of a simple wisdom. Don’t stray from the path … perhaps if she had heeded Sarah’s warning, she would not be in her present predicament.

Exiled. Penniless. Alone.

The chill of the autumn morning penetrated beneath her cloak, causing Jane to shiver. The bed she had recently quitted had been warm, but it still held no inducement for her to return to the house. She was unable to sleep, her head far too full of unwanted thoughts, as crowded as an overstuffed wardrobe chest. What a pity that troubling reflections and memories could not be as easily discarded as worn-out garments.

If she had experienced such an uneasy night in her house in London, she would have lit a fire in her antechamber and tried to lose herself in a book. Or retreated down to the great kitchen and allowed the old cook to fuss over her, prepare her a soothing cup of mulled wine.

But Belle Haven was not Jane’s home no matter how often Ariane Deauville begged her to consider it so. Not wishing to be any more of a burden to Ariane’s household than she already was, Jane preferred to keep her restlessness to herself.

She roved farther down the path until she found the bench tucked behind the massive oak tree, well out of view of the house. Brushing aside a scattering of damp leaves, Jane settled upon the bench, wincing at the feel of cold, hard stone beneath her.

She wrapped her cloak tightly around her, consoling herself that it could only be another hour before dawn, the
beginning of a new day in which to arrive at some sensible plan for her future.

Her future … Not that she expected much from that. By the age of thirty-two, most women were settled in life, with a hearth, husband, and family. She was childless, twice-widowed, and what family she had remaining were most reluctant to claim her.

As Jane shifted on the bench, seeking a more comfortable position, she heard the crackle of the letter she had thrust into her cloak pocket. She wondered why she had not just tossed the missive into the fire. It had been humiliating enough to write to her cousin Abigail begging to be allowed to join the Benton household in Paris without the sting of Abigail’s repeated refusals.

At least this time, Abigail had been honest enough to offer an explanation.

Jane experienced a rare spark of anger as she thought of the contents of the letter, Abigail’s last remark particularly rankling. Jane would never have spent the last year on Faire Isle if she had had anywhere else to go.

She ought to write back to Abigail, protesting her innocence. She had never plotted to assassinate the queen, and as for the charge of witchcraft, Jane would have been the last woman in the world to dabble in sorcery. Not after an obsession with alchemy was what had destroyed her younger brother.

As for Abigail’s beloved George, the man had not found Jane inconvenient in the past when he had needed to borrow money from her to settle his gaming debts.

But that was a bitter thought and Jane did her best to suppress it. She could not entirely blame her cousins for shrinking from her. Only a year ago, Jane herself would have been leery of anyone coming from this island of witches.

Not witches, Jane reminded herself. Daughters of the earth, that is what Ariane and the other women who inhabited Faire Isle preferred to be called. After dwelling among them, Jane had discovered much to admire, especially in Ariane. The Lady of Faire Isle was learned and astonishingly skilled in the healing arts.

But Jane was wary of the Lady’s pagan beliefs and her
ability to penetrate one’s thoughts was far from natural. No matter how kind Ariane was to her, Jane feared she would never be comfortable remaining on Faire Isle.

Life as a Catholic in England had its own perils and uncertainties, but at least there, Jane’s role had been clearly defined. Widow of a prominent London merchant, mistress of a great household, devoted sister. Now that all that had been torn away from her, she was no longer certain who she was meant to be, where her duties lay.

“I am a stranger in a strange land,” she thought, recalling the passage Ariane’s niece had read aloud from her Huguenot Bible yesterday eve.