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chapter 22
“Your Majesty, please, a decision…”
The Minister of Justice stammered, sweat beading on his tense forehead.
“Is it hot in here, Marquis Matthias?”
“It’s not that…”
Leopoldine tilted her head toward the royal guards. They politely escorted the Minister to the audience chamber’s balcony. The worst of the cold had passed, but winter was still winter. And like all others who came before the Queen, the Minister had been stripped of his own clothes and made to wear only the thin gown provided by the chamber clerks.
This was a rule established five years ago, after Prince Elliot’s attempt to assassinate the Queen within the palace. Only high-ranking nobles, members of the royal family, or those specially exempted by the Queen were spared this humiliation. Even ministers who visited regularly had to change clothes unless they held a dukedom.
“Cool yourself off out there.”
The Queen’s tone was cutting.
She received audiences from two noble ladies inquiring after her health, a merchant protesting a lost lawsuit against the government, and three tenant farmers complaining of a lord who raised taxes during a famine. Then, ready to leave, she was halted by her secretary’s discreet cough.
“Your Majesty, the Minister of Justice still awaits…”
“Ah, yes.”
Leopoldine resumed her seat. The guards brought the Minister back inside. Though easily twice her age, his face was blue from the cold. The Queen smiled brightly.
“What were we discussing again?”
“Th-the matter of the Earl of Dalmore…”
“The one my investigators recently arrested for collusion with the enemy?”
“It has already been more than two weeks, Your Majesty.”
The Minister trembled as he knelt.
“Before his trial, I beg you to consider transferring him to the High Court’s prison.”
That day Leopoldine wore black. Fitted silk, layered lace, and onyx sewn where embroidery might have been gave her both majesty and elegance.
The contrast with the Minister’s plain linen gown was stark. Though he was twice her size, before her he seemed like a broken nag, while she radiated imposing grandeur.
“He is imprisoned elsewhere at present?”
“Yes. But as a noble attached to the High Court, he should by law await trial there. Moreover, I hear his health has suffered grievously in the current facility…”
Leopoldine frowned.
“Marquis Matthias, where did you hear this?”
“Your Majesty, as Minister of Justice it is my duty to oversee that every subject is tried fairly and in accordance with the law… including oversight of your investigators.”
“So, you claim my investigators treated the accused unfairly?”
“Of course not!”
Now the Minister lay flat against the floor.
“I mean only that, if his health suffers in an irregular prison, it may reflect poorly on Your Majesty’s investigators.”
“And what is the state of his health?”
“They say he has been unable to eat for several days due to illness.”
“Has he seen a physician?”
“Forgive me—I took the liberty of arranging it.”
“His trial is at month’s end, yes?”
“Yes.”
Leopoldine tilted her head, silver hair spilling over her shoulder. With a small hand she brushed it back and mused.
“…If I do not comply with you, you and the High Court’s president will suspect my intentions, won’t you?”
“How could one as lowly as I dare harbor suspicion, Majesty? I only mean that proper procedure—”
“Enough of that tiresome phrase. I’m sick of it.”
Her tone, regal until now, turned to irritation. The Minister shrank further. But instead of condemning him, she stepped onto his back and crossed toward her private exit.
Suddenly she stopped.
“Minister, I grant your request. The Earl of Dalmore shall be moved to the High Court prison tonight. What happens thereafter is your responsibility.”
“Th-thank you, Your Majesty.”
The court secretary followed her. Without turning back, the Queen commanded:
“Tell the Captain of the Guard: dismiss the soldiers who oversaw that prisoner, for dereliction of duty.”
The secretary—once servant to her father, King Cecil—was like an obedient limb to her. He bowed deeply to her retreating back.
“As you command, Your Majesty.”
“Nothing ever goes my way!”
As soon as Leopoldine entered her chambers, she hurled the nearest object. A vase shattered against the wall. Still unsatisfied, she crushed the roses and shards beneath her heel.
“Due process? Fairness?”
She overturned a small table, scattering books and pens. Seizing a volume, she flung it into the roaring fireplace. Smoke rose thick. Inhaling it, she erupted into terrible, body-shaking coughs.
“Someone! Anyone!”
Two maids, cowed against the wall, rushed to her side.
“Your Majesty! Are you all right?”
One supported her while the other opened a window. Even amid violent coughing fits, she scolded them.
“Windows… make it worse!”
“F-forgive us!”
They carried her to bed. Only after drinking water and trembling for some time did she regain calm. Since childhood her lungs and nerves had been fragile; whenever her health faltered, she lashed out at those around her.
“Enough. Leave me.”
“…Yes, Your Majesty.”
The maid lit another lamp before withdrawing, knowing the Queen hated darkness.
Alone, Leopoldine tore at her gown’s buttons and yanked open its hooks. The corset, cruelly tight despite her slim waist, came off with difficulty and she flung it aside.
She had long known the effect of her small frame and harsh temperament. A woman half the size of a soldier, yet able to make the noblest knight kneel—such an image was symbolic power.
It was not destruction of things that pleased her, but watching servants flinch when she did so. She was their Queen; they dared not react otherwise. Even when her father Cecil went mad, stripping naked and soiling himself in public, they only trembled and watched.
So why…!
So why could she not confine a single traitor as she pleased? He was no innocent but accused of collusion with the enemy. Her investigators had found proof. By her sovereign right she had ordered him kept where only she could visit.
Yet the nobles, led by the Minister of Justice, dared to oppose her. They claimed it was unlawful, that the man’s health had suffered without her knowledge.
Had she known, she would have set physicians to attend him night and day. She would have imprisoned the negligent guards, torn out their nails, and forced them to eat them. She still could—but that would only cause another outcry.
Like the things she destroyed, she cared little for common soldiers’ fates. But she was clever enough to know needless cruelty could backfire. In just six years she had risen from a weak foundation to her current power precisely because she wielded her cunning, daring, cruelty, intuition—and even others’ prejudice toward her beauty—at the right moments.
So now, again, she must do so. What she wanted was Earl Keith Dalmore.
They forget nothing, those fools.
She knew their protests had little to do with law itself. The nobles still remembered five years ago, when she had made an example: Defy me, and I will kill even royalty.
Thus she had exterminated her uncle Elliot’s family. She had no choice, for her own life was at stake.
Yet… perhaps she had acted too hastily.
She had trusted her army’s strength and neglected public opinion. Maybe she should have spared the children, stripping them of rank instead of lives. But children were a future threat. Even a frail girl like herself had risen to the throne no one expected.
Uncle Elliot had been ambitious. Even when everyone believed King Conrad and his only son would reign, Elliot educated his own son Philierd alongside the crown prince. Ostensibly to give the lonely prince a companion—but who knew his true designs?
Leopoldine could not allow Elliot’s line to threaten her own. Removing them gave her the title of “merciless queen,” which proved advantageous. Since then, she had not made a single mistake.
So this time, too, she would succeed.
It was not she who named Keith Dalmore a traitor, but her “Eyes of the Queen.” She had merely ordered them to find a convincing reason why he refused her offer of a secretary post. They returned with treason charges within days.
“I am innocent, Your Majesty. You cannot accuse me of what I did not do.”
His eyes then—wary, resolute. Cold, like carved stone. Eyes that never looked upon her sixteen-year-old self.
How desperately she had wished those eyes would rest on her longer, even with resentment. How she had longed to hear that voice once call her Leopoldine.
But she was Queen. She could betray her interest, but not appear desperate. Nor did she wish him to appear desperate for her favor.
That is why I chose you, Keith Dalmore.
She raised her hand, gazing at her bare fingers. Pale, delicate—yet hands unflinching in blood and filth. Someday, these fingers would wear the ring placed by the man who would bear the kingdom of Algonquin with her.
And she knew too well how cruel princes could be: her uncles Conrad and Elliot, her father Cecil, even her own brother Leopold. Perhaps the throne made them so. And she, once a frail girl, had joined their number.
…So please me now.
Her silver eyes gleamed with a smile. Marriage, politics, the grand design to place all Algonquin at her feet—those could wait. For now, she would follow her heart, seeking diversion with the most handsome youth she had ever seen.
For I am your Queen.
I am your Queen.
And you are mine alone.
The words melted sweetly, like sugar on the tongue—gone in an instant, yet impossible not to crave.
Like a child who has never tasted candy, she savored it greedily and swallowed.
