The Queen's Mage

Chapter 113: The Courier Queen

Serali drank her tea.

The room settled around her, warm and appalling.

A knock came at the outer door.

Not Mara’s knock. Not Daravan’s. Not Lia’s brisk two taps. This one was softer, followed by no immediate announcement, which meant whoever stood outside had the authority to assume entrance would not be denied and the courtesy to wait anyway.

Serali’s pulse changed.

Mara emerged from the study, saw Serali’s face, and said nothing.

Traitor.

“Enter,” Serali called.

The door opened.

Allandra stood in the hall with a folded card in one hand.

The sight of her made the room warmer, which was unfortunately not metaphorical enough to be dismissed.

She wore a dark green morning coat fastened high at the throat, her hair braided but not crowned, one hand still resting on the doorframe as if she had paused there long enough to reconsider entering. The winter light from the corridor caught in her eyes, making the green almost unbearably bright.

Serali’s mind, which had been perfectly functional moments ago, immediately produced the memory of Allandra saying, It was never like this with Finnian.

Now the queen stood in her doorway with one of Everly’s cards.

The absurdity helped.

“More royal correspondence?” Serali asked.

Allandra’s mouth curved. “I have been reassigned.”

“From sovereign to courier?”

“Apparently.”

“Demotion or promotion?”

“That depends whether Everly is asked.”

Mara curtsied. “Majesty.”

“Mara.”

Allandra stepped inside and held out the card.

Serali did not stand. She took it because standing would have made this formal, and there was nothing formal about a queen hand-delivering children’s art because a four-year-old had decided state paper required royal custody.

The front of the card displayed a large black smudge with legs.

Serali opened it.

SERALI,

I SAW ANOTHER SPIDER. IT WAS NOT AS BIG AS DARAVAN.

MOTHER SAYS THAT IS GOOD.

DO YOU LIKE SPIDERS?

LOVE, EVERLY.

Beneath, in Allandra’s hand:

Please answer carefully. She has begun asking whether spiders can be invited to dinner.

Serali read it twice.

Then looked up.

“Can they?”

“No.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

“Some spiders are very polite.”

“All spiders are barred from dinner.”

“A harsh policy.”

“All creatures with more than four legs are currently barred from the table.”

Serali tilted her head. “Currently.”

Allandra sighed. “I should not have left room for amendment.”

“You have a legal office. Use it.”

“Mistress Verya has already refused to draft a spider policy.”

Mara made a small sound and turned toward the study too quickly.

Allandra looked at her. “You may laugh.”

Mara did not turn around. “I would never, Majesty.”

“You are lying.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

Serali glanced toward the study shelf, where the new card box now sat in treasonous splendor. “Mara has procured an archive.”

Allandra followed her gaze.

Her face changed.

Just slightly. Not queenly. Not even quite smiling. Softer, and therefore more dangerous.

Serali immediately regretted mentioning it.

“It is not sentimental,” she said.

“I did not say it was.”

“It is a storage solution.”

“Of course.”

“The cards were becoming disorderly.”

“Naturally.”

“Mara forced it on me.”

“Very ruthless of her.”

Mara, still in the study, said, “Yes, Majesty.”

Serali glared toward the shelves. “You are both unbearable.”

Allandra’s smile became clearer.

The bond stirred.

Serali felt it through the latch, softer now than it had been in the first weeks but still unmistakable: affection, amusement, a warmth that reached for her and stopped politely at the door.

A knock.

Serali hated how much she liked recognizing it.

She opened the latch a sliver.

Just enough.

Allandra’s warmth touched her, gentle as sunlight through glass.

Serali looked down at the new card because looking at Allandra was becoming an increasing hazard.

“I will need to answer this,” she said.

“Everly expects a response by luncheon.”

“Demanding correspondent.”

“She gets that from her mother.”

“I thought perhaps from the spider.”

Allandra laughed.

Not loudly. Not safely.

The sound went through Serali with ridiculous force.

Mara cleared her throat from the study. “I will fetch another tray.”

“Why?” Serali asked too quickly.

Mara’s expression was blank. “Because Her Majesty has not had breakfast.”

Allandra looked at Mara. “How do you know that?”

“You are holding a sealed council memo under the card and your left sleeve has ink on it. That usually means you began work before tea.”

Serali looked.

Allandra’s sleeve did, in fact, have ink on it.

Allandra looked down as well, then back at Mara. “You are wasted in domestic service.”

“No, Majesty. Domestic service is where all the evidence is.”

Serali pointed at Mara. “See? Dangerous.”

Allandra murmured, “Very.”

Mara curtsied with the dignity of a woman who had won something and left.

The door closed.

Serali looked at it.

Then at Allandra.

“Subtle,” she said.

“I did not arrange that.”

“Mara did.”

“Yes.”

“She has begun managing us.”

“I believe she began some time ago.”

“Should we be concerned?”

“Probably.”

Neither moved.

The suite seemed suddenly too intimate for daylight: the bedchamber door half-open, the robe around Serali’s shoulders, the hearth still warm, the card box in the study, Allandra standing beside the breakfast table with ink on her sleeve and a child’s spider drawing between them.

This was not a court office.

Not a cell.

Not even guest quarters.

It was Serali’s room.

And Allandra was in it.

That made breathing strangely complicated.

Allandra’s gaze moved around the room, not prying, but noticing. The extra lamps. The darker curtains Mara had replaced after Serali complained that winter light was too honest in the mornings. The stack of diagrams on the desk. The romances shelved badly beneath the histories. The hairpins in a dish near the bed. Everly’s box.

“You have made changes,” Allandra said.

Serali stiffened. “Mara has.”

“Ah.”

“Do not ah me.”

“I did not.”

“You thought it.”

Allandra’s eyes returned to her. “I was thinking it suits you.”

The words hit too directly.

Serali looked away.

The room did suit her now, which was the problem. Not because it had been made beautiful. It had already been beautiful when she arrived. But because its beauty had been interrupted. The perfect arrangement had been damaged by her habits: books left open, a shawl thrown over the wrong chair, a map pinned crooked because she preferred seeing the tear in the wall line from the desk, Everly’s cards collected like relics of a kinder religion, a dagger concealed under a cushion Mara had not found or had politely pretended not to find.

The suite had begun to learn her shape.

Allandra’s voice softened. “That was not meant as an accusation.”

“I know.”

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

A silence.

Then Serali added, grudgingly, “That makes it worse.”

Allandra’s expression shifted with understanding.

Of course it did.

“You did not expect it to become yours,” she said.

Serali looked at the window latch. “It is not mine.”

“No?”

“No. It is an official residence attached to an office I hold conditionally.”

“Verya would be proud.”

“I know.”

“And the latch?”

Serali blinked. “What?”

“You were looking at it as if it had betrayed you.”

Serali’s eyes narrowed. “It needs oil.”

Allandra looked toward the window.

Then back.

A smile threatened.

Serali pointed at her. “No.”

“I said nothing.”

“You are pleased.”

“A little.”

“It is a latch.”

“You noticed.”

“I notice things.”

“Yes,” Allandra said. “You do.”

The softness in her voice was unbearable.

Serali rose abruptly, because sitting on the edge of a bed while Allandra looked at her like that was an act of self-sabotage. She crossed to the study, card in hand, and opened the new box.

Allandra followed at a careful distance.

Serali placed the spider card atop the growing stack. The velvet made the paper look absurdly precious.

“This is disgusting,” Serali said.

“The box?”

“The entire concept of keeping things.”

Allandra stood beside the study doorway. “You kept things in Lyehira.”

“Useful things. Dangerous things. Things I could hide.”

“These are not useful?”

Serali looked down at the cards.

A frog not delivered.

A pear drawn instead of sent.

A spider smaller than Daravan.

A dragon. A shadow-bird. A peacock attacking Merrow.

“They are evidence,” she said.

“Of what?”

Serali closed the lid.

Her fingers rested on the sunburst clasp.

She could say: of Everly.

Too revealing.

She could say: of your child’s alarming persistence.

True, but not enough.

She could say: of the fact that I am no longer only surviving here, and I do not know whether that is a mercy or a mistake.

Absolutely not.

“Of administrative burden,” she said.

Allandra’s mouth curved. “Of course.”

Serali turned. “Your daughter has appointed you her royal courier. Does this not concern you?”

“All of Everly’s appointments concern me.”

“She is consolidating power.”

“Yes.”

“Today, cards. Tomorrow, taxation.”

“Do not tell Yvander.”

“I would never.”

“You absolutely would.”

The door opened then, saving Serali from whatever the room was becoming.

Mara entered with a second tray as if the entire scene had unfolded according to her design, which it almost certainly had. She set tea, bread, and fruit on the study table instead of the hearth table, an act of quiet aggression designed to make Allandra stay.

Serali looked at her.

Mara looked innocent.

Again.

“You are making choices,” Serali said.

“Yes.”

“Bold ones.”

“Yes.”

Allandra, treacherously, sat at the study table.

Mara poured tea for both of them.

Serali did not sit immediately. That would have been surrender.

Then she sat.

Strategically.

Allandra accepted a cup. “Thank you, Mara.”

“You are welcome, Majesty.” Mara glanced toward Serali. “I will bring oil for the window latch later.”

Serali froze.

Allandra smiled into her tea.

Mara left before Serali could dismiss her, which was further evidence that domestic service was a breeding ground for insurgency.

For several minutes, they ate quietly.

Not silently. The rain spoke against the windows. The fire moved in the hearth. Somewhere beyond the wall, a servant passed through the hidden corridor with a basket, footsteps soft and ordinary.

Ordinary.

Serali hated the word.

Loved it, perhaps.

No. Hated was safer.

Chapter 114: Want, Held Carefully

Allandra broke a piece of bread and said, “Everly asked whether you might attend dinner next week.”

Serali eyed her. “The spider dinner?”

“No spiders.”

“Then the negotiation has already failed.”

“She wants to plan the menu.”

“That seems dangerous.”

“It is. Lessa has veto power.”

“Wise.”

“She attempted three desserts last time.”

“Visionary.”

“Serali.”

“What? I respect ambition.”

Allandra looked down at her tea. “She calls you her friend.”

The word landed the same way it had on Everly’s invitation weeks ago.

Not easier.

Perhaps worse now.

Friend had grown roots.

Serali reached for her cup. “She is four. She calls frogs guests.”

“She is usually selective.”

“With frogs?”

“With people.”

Serali drank too quickly and burned her tongue.

The pain helped.

A little.

Allandra noticed.

Of course.

“Careful.”

Serali set the cup down. “Do not mother me.”

“I was not.”

“You were queening me.”

“That may be worse.”

“It is.”

Allandra’s smile faded, and for a moment the room held another silence. Heavier. Not bad. Just aware.

The privacy latch between them remained partly open. Serali had forgotten to close it entirely. Through it she felt Allandra’s restraint like warmth held behind glass.

Not pushing.

Waiting.

That was almost worse than wanting. Waiting gave Serali room to notice herself.

And herself was becoming increasingly difficult to categorize.

She wanted Allandra to stay.

There. Simple. Horrifying.

Not because of the heat alone. The heat was there, yes, an ember beneath the ribs that flared whenever Allandra’s sleeve brushed the table, whenever she laughed, whenever her mouth softened around Serali’s name. But this wanting was not only that. It was also the cup beside hers. The ink on Allandra’s sleeve. The way she had brought Everly’s ridiculous spider card as though it were a diplomatic packet. The way she sat in Serali’s study without making it feel smaller.

Serali did not know what to do with wanting that had domestic furniture in it.

Allandra’s gaze lifted.

Serali shut the latch so fast she nearly winced.

Allandra went still.

Damn it.

“That was abrupt,” the queen said quietly.

Serali looked at the card box. “I know.”

“Are you all right?”

“No.”

Allandra did not move closer.

Good.

Awful.

“I do not know how to be comfortable,” Serali said.

The words came out without permission.

Allandra set her cup down.

Serali kept her eyes on the box. “This room is too warm. The bed is too large. Mara knows where I keep things. Your daughter sends me cards. I know which chair I prefer. The window latch needs oil, and apparently that matters to me.”

Allandra said nothing.

“I have begun sleeping through bells,” Serali continued. “I have opinions about pears. I own a correspondence box.”

“It is a very nice box.”

Serali looked at her.

Allandra’s expression was perfectly solemn.

For one beat, Serali hated her.

Then she laughed.

It surprised them both.

The laugh broke something open and closed something else. It made the room easier to bear for three seconds, which was more than Serali had expected from the day.

Allandra smiled.

Not queen-smiled.

Actually smiled.

The heat answered under Serali’s skin.

She looked away.

Allandra’s smile softened into concern, but she still did not reach.

“Comfort can feel like danger,” Allandra said.

“Yes.”

“And wanting to keep it can feel worse.”

Serali’s throat tightened.

“Yes.”

Allandra looked at the rain-dark window. “When Everly was born, I spent the first month terrified because she was too small to be real. Then I spent the second terrified because I had begun to plan around her living.”

Serali looked at her.

Allandra’s face had gone quiet.

Not grief, exactly. Memory.

“Finnian used to say I treated happiness like an untrustworthy adviser,” she said.

“Was he wrong?”

“No.”

Serali’s mouth curved despite herself.

Allandra looked back at her. “You are allowed to get used to good things.”

“That sounds false.”

“It is not.”

“It sounds like something people say before the good thing is taken.”

Allandra’s expression did not soften.

Good.

Softness would have made it unbearable.

Instead, she said, “Yes.”

Serali blinked.

“Yes,” Allandra repeated. “Sometimes it is taken. Sometimes comfort ends. Sometimes rooms burn, or people die, or letters arrive, or kingdoms remember where you are.”

The words should have hurt.

They did.

But less than a lie.

Allandra continued, “Getting used to warmth does not make the cold your fault when it comes.”

Serali stared at her.

The rain tapped at the window.

Somewhere in the study, the new box held Everly’s cards in velvet-lined absurdity.

Serali looked down at her hands.

“I hate that,” she said.

“I know.”

“Do not sound like Lia.”

“I will try.”

“You are bad at it.”

“Yes.”

Silence returned, quieter this time.

Allandra finished her tea.

She should leave.

They both knew it. The morning had work waiting for her, and Serali had wall diagrams, and Mara would return soon enough to rearrange the entire palace through the medium of breakfast trays.

Allandra did not stand immediately.

Serali did not ask her to.

That, too, was a kind of choice.

At last, Allandra reached for the council memo near her elbow.

Serali reached for it too.

Their fingers touched.

Not by accident.

Not quite.

The Heat moved at once.

Serali’s breath caught.

Memory came with it: Allandra’s mouth against the inside of her wrist, green eyes gone dark in the low light, the careful pause before every touch. The weight of Allandra beside her afterward. The strange, impossible safety of waking with someone still there.

Her body remembered too quickly.

Of course it did.

Heat climbed beneath Serali’s skin, sharp with desire and embarrassment. She tried to close the latch on instinct, but the bond had already opened enough for warmth to cross.

Allandra would feel it.

That was intolerable.

Serali looked down, stubbornly focused on the edge of the paper, on their touching hands, on anything except the queen’s face.

Then she noticed something beneath her own mortification.

Allandra.

Not merely awareness.

Want.

Held carefully, almost painfully in check, but present. Bright beneath restraint. Answering Serali’s desire instead of merely receiving it.

Serali went still.

She had been so occupied with the horror of being felt that she had forgotten the bond worked both ways.

Allandra’s fingers remained against hers.

Only for another heartbeat.

Long enough.

Then Allandra withdrew first.

“Thank you,” she said.

Her voice was lower than before.

Serali stared at the council memo as if it had committed the offense.

“For what?”

Allandra’s mouth curved faintly. “The tea.”

“Mara brought the tea.”

“Then for permitting me to drink it.”

“That is not a real courtesy.”

“No?”

“No.”

Allandra stood.

The absence of her hand felt immediate.

Serali disliked that.

She remained seated. If she stood, she might follow Allandra to the door. Or ask her not to go. Or say something worse, such as the truth before she had properly insulted it into submission.

Allandra paused at the study threshold.

“Serali.”

She looked up.

The queen stood in the gray morning light, hair still slightly loose around her face, green eyes bright with something Serali could now identify far too easily.

Not pity.

Not obligation.

Want.

Serali’s face warmed again.

Allandra noticed.

Of course she did.

Her expression softened, but she did not reach through the bond. She left the warmth where it was, offered rather than pressed.

“I am glad the room is conspiring against you,” Allandra said.

Serali stared at her. “That is a terrible thing to say.”

“I know.”

“You are pleased by my suffering.”

“Only this kind.”

Serali looked away before her face could betray anything further.

Allandra left through the outer door, not the passage.

Proper.

Visible.

Safe.

Mara returned three minutes later and found Serali still sitting at the study table, staring at the closed door.

The maid looked at the second teacup.

Then at Serali.

Her gaze sharpened.

Serali pointed at her. “Do not.”

“I said nothing.”

“You prepared to.”

“I prepared to clear the tray.”

“With judgment.”

“With efficiency.”

“Same disease.”

Mara’s mouth threatened treason.

Serali picked up the poached pear from her plate and took a bite with unnecessary violence.

It was perfect.

Of course it was.

Mara moved toward the window. “Shall I open the curtains?”

Serali looked at the gray light pressing against the fabric.

Then at the room, warm enough to forgive and familiar enough to betray her.

“Yes.”

Mara opened them.

Winter morning entered slowly: rain, silver light, the pale blur of the garden beyond.

The latch clicked in the wind.

Serali sighed. “Bring the oil.”

Mara’s smile became audible. “Yes, Serali.”

“I hear that.”

“I said nothing.”

“You are very loud for a quiet person.”

Mara crossed to fetch the oil.

Serali remained at the table, eating the perfect pear, surrounded by too many books, too much warmth, and the lingering knowledge that Allandra’s desire had answered hers.

Not demanded.

Not taken.

Answered.

She had run from Lyehira with nothing she could not carry.

Now she owned enough to lose.

That should have frightened her more.

It did frighten her.

But when Mara brought the oil and Serali fixed the latch herself, the small metal tongue slid cleanly into place beneath her fingers, no longer clicking in the wind.

And some traitorous part of her was satisfied.