Worlds of Ink and Shadow (25 page)

“Into your place, Charles! Into your place! We've rehearsed this a dozen times!” It was the Viscount Castlereagh, also in peer's robes. Above his ermine collar, his ashen face glistened with sweat.

“Why, Castlereagh, you look terrible. Is all well?” She knew that it was not. Castlereagh and his troubles were instrumental to her plan.

The viscount turned away, shaking his head furiously. “It's nothing,” he insisted.

Trumpets sounded and the Duke and Duchess of Zamorna entered together. Mary Henrietta wore a dress of pure white velvet embroidered with diamonds, and Zamorna was in the uniform of a Verdopolitan general, with gold medals on his chest and a long sword at his side. Slowly they passed, walking down the aisle toward a raised dais at the front of the church. Six maids of honor and six handsome noblemen carried the trains of their crimson mantles. Mina Laury was among them. This wasn't quite appropriate, as she was only a servant, but it seemed fitting. Charlotte waited patiently among the many peers and knights and clergy members who would follow slowly behind them.

“More,” Charlotte whispered. “He deserves more.” This was her hero's final scene. Her Zamorna was about to die. From
the galleries above their heads, choirs of children appeared and began to sing, tossing white rose petals down on the assembly.

“Still more,” Charlotte whispered.

The twisted columns around her stretched as the great cathedral grew larger and more magnificent. Gilded paintings of saints and angels appeared on the ceiling. A second gallery of singing children appeared above the first. The crowd responded with exclamations of wonder.

“Did you see that?” said a bishop standing next to her.

“Surely the Genii are among us today,” said someone else.

“I pray not,” the viscount muttered. “There are enough here already to witness my shame.”

The never-to-be king and queen took the changes to their world as a matter of course as they glided serenely down the aisle. Charlotte wondered how Branwell planned to have Rogue enter and ruin the scene. Was the villain hiding somewhere already? Would he swing down upon them like a pirate on a rope?

An old archbishop with a crosier and golden robes was next in line to follow after the couple, and then it was Charlotte's turn to join the procession. She traveled the length of the red carpet at a snail's pace. When she reached the dais, Zamorna and Mary Henrietta were already seated on their two golden thrones, their trains artfully arranged on the steps in front of them. Above them, a stained-glass window threw down shafts of colored light, making the diamonds on Mary Henrietta's gown glitter and Zamorna's medals glint and shine.

On either side of the dais sat the peers of Verdopolis who had not been in the procession—the counts and dukes and viscounts who were Charlotte's favorite characters. Zenobia, the Red Countess, was frowning in the front row of the right side. Her death would be by poison, Charlotte had already decided.

Branwell and Emily were sitting next to the countess, and Charlotte moved discreetly to stand beside their chairs. The wizened archbishop shuffled forward to a spot in front of the dais and faced the crowd. In a loud voice he declaimed, “I hereby present unto you the undoubted sovereigns of Angria. Are you willing to do them homage?”

This was the first part of the ancient coronation ceremony, the recognition, when the people would acknowledge Zamorna and Mary Henrietta's right to rule. As was the tradition, the assembled crowd enthusiastically shouted their approval of the king and queen.

“Honestly?” the archbishop said. “These two? You are willing to do
them
homage?”

A murmur rose from the crowd. Zamorna sat forward in his throne.

“What is he doing?” Charlotte whispered over Emily's head to her brother. Branwell said nothing, but she noticed he was muttering to himself.

The archbishop hobbled over to a group of young page boys who held the crown jewels on velvet pillows. He picked up the Angrian scepter and faced the crowd again. “I simply wish you
to be quite certain,” he said, straightening up. His voice seemed more youthful now.

“What is the meaning of this?” sputtered the Earl of Scadding, standing from among the peers. “They have been recognized by us all.”

The archbishop raised the scepter, at the top of which was a ruby as big as a man's fist. “Then you're all a bunch of jackanapes!” He brought the scepter down with a crack upon the floor. The crowd gasped. The ruby came loose, and the archbishop picked it up. He polished it on his robes like an apple, then slipped it into the folds of his clothes.

“Ladies and gentlemen, there will be no coronation today!” He pulled off his miter and his white hair came with it, revealing dark curls underneath.

“Rogue!” Zamorna cried.

“Father!” said Mary Henrietta, clutching her breast.

“Husband!” cried the Countess Zenobia in the seat next to Branwell.

Rogue tore off his false white beard and shed his robes, revealing his usual black attire and a large cutlass at his waist. Branwell flashed a smile at Charlotte, who nodded in approval. They were working well together, she thought, like the old days. She could hardly tell which parts of the scene were hers and which were his, and Emily, who was nervously clenching and unclenching her fists, seemed to be, if not contributing, at least successfully keeping herself from causing chaos.

Charlotte turned her attention back to what was happening on the dais. Her own part was coming up—Mary Henrietta's death scene—and she wanted the dialogue to be perfect.

“Guards!” Zamorna shouted. “Take him! And evacuate the building!”

“I think not,” Rogue said. With that, every clergyman in the room tore off his robes as well, revealing Rogue's accomplices, dastardly highwaymen all, their knives and cutlasses gleaming. “No one leaves the church until this business is done.”

Charlotte was surprised to see S'Death among the miscreants—he was a little old for armed mischief—but Branwell must have had some business for him later. The old man took a seat among the spectators with a dagger across his knees, watching the events unfold like a man at a play.

“You give me no choice,” Zamorna said, ripping the velvet mantle from his shoulders and standing to his feet. “I should have known you would not grant me the perfect happiness of this day. Your obsession with me would not allow it.”

“I?” Rogue said with a sneer. “Obsessed with you? You are married to my daughter and sleeping with my wife. Who is obsessed with whom, I ask? You'll be courting my old mother next!”

“Devil!” Zamorna shouted. He drew his sword.

“
Please stop, both of you
,” Charlotte murmured under her breath.

“Please stop, both of you!” cried Mary Henrietta, falling to her knees and holding out her arms beseechingly to them both.

“
Can't you see that if you proceed in this deadly course . . .
”

“Can't you see that if you proceed in this deadly course, I will lose either a husband or a father this day?”

She was so lovely, Charlotte thought, so ethereal—but Charlotte couldn't lose her nerve now. “
Take pity, gentlemen.
”

“Take pity, gentlemen!” Mary Henrietta clutched at Zamorna's leg. “To lose either of you would break my heart in twain.”

Zamorna broke from her grasp and leapt down the steps. He and Rogue circled each other in front of the dais, both their swords drawn. Again and again their weapons clashed, sparks flying. At first the bulkier Rogue seemed to have the advantage, but Zamorna's blows were quicker, and he moved with great agility over the dais steps. Soon his sword shot out, drawing first blood. Rogue cried out and clutched his arm.

“Oh!” Mary Henrietta moaned, wringing her hands at the scene below her.

Zamorna pressed his advantage and aimed a killing blow.

“Husband, I beg you!” Mary Henrietta cried.

She flew down the steps and hurled herself in front of her father. Beside Charlotte, Emily's dress went dead white. Branwell winced.
Stop, stop, stop
, Charlotte wanted to say, but all she could do was grip the back of Emily's chair as Zamorna's sword, meant for Rogue, pierced Mary Henrietta's breast.

“No!” Zamorna cried. His sword clattered to the floor.

Mina, who had been standing at the side of the dais, rushed to
her mistress, kneeling at her side. “We must take her to a doctor. Quickly!”

Zamorna knelt as well, gathering Mary Henrietta into his arms. “Oh, my dear, speak to me.”

How dare she? How dare she make my death ethereal and touching? Death is an ugly thing.
The words rang in Charlotte's memory, but she pushed them aside.

“Stop it,” Rogue said to Zamorna, his expression black. “Stop pretending to be shocked by this turn of events. Gods, if I had known . . . Oh, you fiend. This was your plan all along.”

“What?” Zamorna said, looking up, his face spattered with blood. “You say that I meant to harm her? My wife?”

“Only a villain like yourself could harbor such a thought,” Mina said, tears flooding her eyes. “She was hurt trying to save you!”

“Of course he meant for this to happen. He's orchestrated everything, down to the color of the blood against her gown. Oh, you do look tragic, Zamorna, with my dying daughter in your arms. What a sense of pageantry you have.”

“You're mad,” Zamorna spat.

Mina, assisted by some of the noblemen and ladies who had been trainbearers, took the unconscious Mary Henrietta from Zamorna's arms and carried her away, though Charlotte knew that no one could save her now. Zamorna let out a fierce howl as he watched them go.

“For pity's sake, stop this playacting!” Rogue said. “I cannot bear
it.” He turned to the crowds of spectators, who sat in frightened silence. “You sheep who sit there in your silks and satins, you call me a scoundrel—a murderer—but by the gods, do you not see how this . . . this Bluebeard dispatches his wives and lovers when he grows bored with them? Does it not chill you to the core?”

“I?” Zamorna asked. “A murderer? My previous wife died of a wasting disease. You claim I caused that as well?”

Rogue continued to direct his comments to the crowd, though he pointed at Zamorna. “Oh, his women may die of illness or accident, but
he
is the architect.” Rogue turned to face him. “You will fool me no longer, Zamorna of the Genii.”

For a moment all Zamorna could do was stare at Rogue with wide eyes. Then, still on his knees, he began to laugh. It was choked, half-mad laughter that twisted Charlotte's heart. “You believe I am one of the Genii?” he said. “You believe I know why these things happen? Why anything in Verdopolis happens?” He laughed again, so hard that tears sprang to his eyes. “I am nothing but a bobbing cork on a tide of events. I have no sail, Rogue. No rudder.” He caught his breath and wiped his face, leaving a streak of blood. “If it's true the Genii caused this . . . then they are very cruel indeed.”

The truth in his words rang clear like the peal of a bell. Charlotte felt that Rogue must have heard it, and indeed, he frowned and turned in a circle where he stood, squinting at the peers and spectators. His eyes stopped at Emily, who sat staring at him in her white dress like a frightened little dove.

“One of you, do something!” Emily hissed. “Distract him. He suspects that Zamorna speaks the truth.”

Charlotte nodded. “
My love. Do not grieve . . .
,” she began.

The Countess Zenobia now leapt from her chair next to Branwell and flew to Zamorna's side. “My love. Do not grieve,” she said. “We can be together now. I will divorce my brutish husband, and we shall be happy.” She tried to stroke his cheek.

“Do not paw me, woman!” the duke said.

The countess gave a cry and stepped back. “Zamorna! What is this? I see all affection extinguished from your eyes.”

Zamorna gazed into the distance. “I realize now . . .” He stopped and bit his lip. Branwell and Emily looked over at Charlotte.

“
I realize now that it is my own wife I love
,” Charlotte murmured.

“I realize now . . . ,” Zamorna began again. A realization seemed to dawn as he spoke. “I realize now that I have never loved anyone.”

The countess blanched, staggered, and fell swooning to the floor. No one in the crowd had the sense to help her, and so the poor woman lay unaided in a heap in front of the dais.

“‘I realize now that I have never loved anyone,'” Rogue mimicked, his voice full of scorn. “And yet we all know you'll be writing poetry to the chambermaid in an hour.”

Zamorna's face turned to stone. “Enough talk. You will die this day, Rogue.” He stood.

“Hold, Zamorna. Hold,” Rogue said. “I am not your enemy.”

Zamorna picked up his sword and held it aloft. “I beg to differ.”

“Wait!” Rogue put down his own sword and held up his hands. “I begin to smell his plan. This is a death scene, and not just for Mary Henrietta.”

“Pick up that weapon!”

“Listen to me very carefully,” Rogue said, “for our very lives depend upon it. I have met three of the Genii. At least two are with us in this cathedral.” The peers and spectators began to murmur at this, and even Zamorna glanced quickly around. “I thought you were the fourth, the eldest one, but now I see that I was wrong.”

Zamorna seemed to hesitate, and Rogue pressed his advantage. “The others . . . perhaps they are his pawns, I don't know, but the fourth means to make us kill each other. I'm certain of it. Think, man! Who's ever heard of this Angria place? And why should you be king of it? All this, it's just a stage for us to die on!”

Zamorna lowered his sword.
The plot is getting away from us
, Charlotte thought. This was just like the party at Wellesley House—but she could not let that happen again. “
Do not blame the gods, as it is I who am to blame
,” she murmured.