That makes two of us.
“Thank you,” I tell him, sighing resignedly. “You can go now, Derrick.”
He takes off like a shot down the hallway. Frankly, I’d like to follow him. I’m not sure what Linus wants from me, but it must be serious. My father and I aren’t exactly on‘casual hang out’terms.
I’ve seen him only twice since the assassination attempt — once at the hospital and once the day he returned to the palace — and both times we were surrounded by a fleet of doctors, assistants, and armed guards, as well as his delightful wife.
Not exactly an ideal scenario for father-daughter bonding.
He’s been holed up in his private chambers in the South Wing ever since, not accepting visitors with the exception of his personal physician and, of course, Simms, who keeps him apprised of all royal affairs.
As for who is running the country in his stead… Octavia’s smug expression flashes in my mind and I scowl darkly. The thought of that woman making decisions that effect an entire nation is genuinely terrifying.
I’ve been waiting impatiently for Linus to reclaim the reins of power from his wife… but it’s been a month and, so far, he seems content to remain in his state of quiet isolation. I know I should be more understanding. The man was nearly killed, after all. He’s entitled to recovery time — I just can’t help wishing he didn’t require so verymuchof it.
As to why he wants to see me out of the blue, I have no earthly idea. Even before the assassination attempt, we weren’t what you’d callclose. Though, in my defense, it’s hard to be close to someone who abandons you at birth, then coerces you into taking on the role of Crown Princess by threatening to sell your childhood home unless you comply.
Good times.
My riding boots rap sharply on the marble floors as I walk from my suite through the hall, around a corner, and down a massive stone staircase. I hear Galizia fall into step behind me. My stalwart shadow.
“I’m just going to see Linus. You don’t need to follow me.”
She doesn’t respond.
“You should go take a break. Have a snack, grab a nap. Get down with your bad self, Galizia. I mean, it’s not like you can even come inside with me. Dear Old Dad requested aprivate audience, god only knows what about…”
“I’m fine waiting in the hall.”
“You know, when I hired you on as my personal guard, I didn’t mean you had to do iteverysecond ofeveryday. Seriously… don’t you ever take any time for yourself?” I ask, eyebrows arching.
“I take plenty.”
“When?”
“While you’re asleep.”
“And yet you somehowalsomanage to monitor my mail, work out, shower, scan the castle for threats, and handle your entire personal life in those few brief hours. How is that?”
“I’m efficient.”
“Uh huh. Sure. Be honest — you’re some sort of humanoid-robot-hybrid who doesn’t require sleep, aren’t you? You can tell me. I’m trustworthy.”
Predictably, Galizia does not deign to answer.
I sigh and keep walking.
As we pass through the Great Hall, I avoid looking at the massive throne that sits on the far side of the room on a raised platform, its ornate surface gilded with an obscene amount of gold. Moving beneath a massive archway, I turn toward the ancient part of the castle — the South Wing.
The stones here are older, their construction somewhat cruder. The floor beneath my feet has been worn smooth by thousands of feet over thousands of years. Narrow slotted windows, built to withstand medieval arrow fire, pepper the walls at uneven intervals. It’s not hard to imagine rounding a corner and bumping straight into a corset-wearing courtier from days of yore. Or yesteryear. Or whatever.
I’ve only been here once before, the day Linus came home, and I didn’t have much chance to look around with Simms on one side and Lady Morrell on the other. Curiosity stirs in my veins as I wind through hallway after hallway, admiring the ornate gas lamps that light my way, peeking subtly through open doors.
Fully aware of Galizia’s presence at my back, I try not to be too obvious about my snooping as I bypass the King’s private library, what appears to be a billiards room, and a parlor full of ancient weaponry. Eventually, I find myself standing in front of two heavy oak doors at the very end of the corridor. The doorknobs are shaped like lion heads, as is the ornate knocker embedded in the wood.
I lift a hand and rap the knocker against its plate. The door opens almost instantly, a white-gloved servant pulling it wide to grant me entrance into my father’s sanctum. I step over the threshold and take in the room. It’s a gorgeous study — floor to ceiling bookshelves, massive windows overlooking the wooded grounds, a huge desk dominating the space.
To my surprise, Linus isn’t sitting behind it. He’s seated in a maroon wingback chair by the roaring fireplace, an afghan thrown over his knees, a thick stack of papers on his lap.