Max kept reading, then flipped the parchment over. “The letter is unfinished.”
“I think he was interrupted by the Chosen One and only had the time to hide the letter,” Sabine said.
Max read it again, searching for a clue to the location, but found none. “Where is it?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I was hoping he’d have something written in the book, but I haven’t found it yet. I’ll keep reading, though,” she said.
But she did not open the book. Instead, she stared at the map, soaking in every detail. It mattered not how awe-filled her eyes were or how lovingly she followed the lines of the map with the tip of her finger. He was on this quest, not primarily to help her, but to aid Justin and ultimately to find what he’d sought these many years. Atlantis was out there somewhere, beneath the surface, waiting to be discovered.
He cleared his throat. “This letter does not include you. Why would he notify only one guardian?”
“Perhaps he died before he had the chance.”
* * *
Spencer had just returned to town when he’d been summoned to meet the queen in the breakfast room. Her majesty had been an early riser ever since her husband had passed, and when she was ready to attend to business, she expected her advisors to be ready as well. Spencer tugged on the hem of his jacket to straighten it, then allowed himself to be led into the room.
The room was red nearly from floor to ceiling, with enormous velvet drapes framing the large wall of windows. With the matching scarlet upholstery on the furniture as well as the red rug, it looked like a room bathed in blood, hardly one for consuming food. But someone had told her majesty that the color stimulated the appetite, so she’d taken that to heart and instructed her decorators to make it so. Perhaps it was all the blood he’d seen lately that brought the visual to his mind.
“You wanted to see me,” he said as he bowed before her. He made no move to take a seat until she offered.
“Yes, sit.” She pointed to a chair adjacent to her. Her gray hair was wound in its usual long braid and wrapped into a wide bun that sat at the base of her neck. Winter was weighing on her, stiffening her joints and making her movements slower and more pronounced. England’s beloved queen was getting old.
He sat and said nothing as she ate three bites of quail eggs from the gold-rimmed plate before her. Additional food-filled platters and bowls sat on the sideboard behind them, but she offered him none.
She leaned forward and tapped her blunt fingernails on the heavily carved mahogany table. “I’m told that you recently met with an investigator from the Scotland Yard,” she said. When he nodded, she continued. “Have they made any headway in finding out who is killing all of my generals?”
“Unfortunately, no. They have no leads.” He crossed one leg over the other.
“Well, that stands to reason,” she said. “This is a cunning killer they are dealing with, smart enough to not leave evidence. I’m told he uses a different type of gun with every one. Then there was General Carrington, whom the savage beast used a knife on.” She chewed thoughtfully for several moments before she spoke again. “I heard whoever is doing this has left me some sort of message.”
“I beg your pardon?” he asked. She had called him a savage beast. He evened his breath and clasped the arms of the chair. One day they would all see what he was doing, and they would know it had nothing to do with savagery.
“The killer”—she waved her hand about, her fork dangling daintily from her hand—“he left me a note on one of the bodies.”
She believed his message was addressed to her. Clearly that was how the inspectors were interpreting it. Otherwise she would never have heard of it. Fools. Spencer had hoped they’d run the notes in the newspapers as he’d commanded them. But they were idiots and clearly could not follow instructions.
He knew the third guardian lived somewhere in London. His ring flickered too often for the guardian to not be near. The guardian could only hide for so long before he would ferret him out. Then he’d have all of the elixir, as the prophecy required. And immortality would be his.
“A message for you?” he asked.
She rattled on about speculation from the detectives.
Spencer had known this conversation would happen. At some point, he’d expected it. He hadn’t informed the queen of the inspector’s visit but that didn’t mean she would not be concerned or interested in the investigation. Discussing his own crimes without her knowing the truth exhilarated him. What would she do if she knew her favored advisor was single-handedly destroying her military forces? No doubt, have him beheaded.
He caught himself before he smiled. Careful not to show his glee, he forced his features into a frown.
“My apologies, your majesty, for not telling you of the visit sooner. I’m afraid I was called away at the last minute. My aunt is ill.” He feigned concern. “We don’t believe she has much more time.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Spencer,” the queen said, her voice lined with authentic sympathy.
“When the investigator came, he brought along someone,” he told her, “the Marquess of Lindberg. Are you familiar with him?” Spencer had done some investigation of the marquess but had not come up with much information. He’d already known the man was a member of London’s most exclusive club. Perhaps her majesty would give him some new details.
The queen paused over her breakfast. Then she set down her fork and smiled dreamily. “Maxwell Barrett. Yes, I am familiar. Quite the charmer, that one, with a wicked sense of humor.” She took a bite of buttered bread slathered liberally with jam. “I presume he came along to assist his friend in gaining an audience with me. I do wish I had known when they were here. It would have been entertaining to see him again.”
“You were resting. I didn’t want to rouse you. You’ve been under so much pressure lately,” Spencer explained.
A heavy line creased her already wrinkled brow. “I am the monarch of this country,” she said in her strongest voice of authority. “I do believe I can handle the pressure. I have thus far.”