Page 62 of Disillusioned
Her friends—at least, those she’d begun to trust as friends—had betrayed her. The witches couldn’t possibly have been under Garin’s entrancement too; though, the faraway smidgen of logic she’d retained reasoned, they would be idiotic to go against the vampire’s demands with how determined he was to get her to leave.
Yanna hovered over the tub, scrutinizing her counterpart’s work. “Isabel, that isenough.” She slapped Isabel’s cloth away from Lilac’s face. “Nothing on your eyelashes, either? No rouge?”
“No,” Lilac bit out.
Yanna—and by extension, a very curious Isabel—had brusquely cut off any attempt to interrogate Lilac as they’d flanked her, Giles, and thewitches. From the carriage through the bailey, into the courtyard, and past the Grand Hall door they journeyed, where they met a small crowd: her father and his council, her mother, several guards, John, and their family cartographer, Riou, who glanced up and did a double take from their kingdom map.
Seeing two witches nervously bowing beside their puffy-faced, tear-streaked daughter at the courtyard entry aided greatly in distracting anyone from questioning her further than necessary. Her parents immediately ambushed her, her father pulling her into a bear-like hug as her mother stood at a near distance. Marguerite’s eyes were rimmed in tears while she informed her coldly about the murmurings of a loud carriage crash heard from Paimpont in broad daylight, with no marks or debris to be found.
There were also reports of a wandering lone horse that had been spotted without a rider who would take off every time someone approached. She could at least truthfully claim to not know anything about that.
Not thinking clearly, she first intended to tell her parents she’d been safe at The Fenfoss Inn. The thought of Garin instantly brought angry tears to her eyes again, and all that came out were broken words and a sob. Lorietta quickly interjected by introducing herself as the owner of a nearby tavern and Adelaide, one of the witches from town, both of whom Giles and Lilac had graciously saved in their travels when their horse escaped from them. It was then that Giles chimed in as if rehearsed, informing everyone that he would be dropping them back off in their town before returning that evening. They left with haste, leaving an open-mouthed Henri and Marguerite to stare at their daughter as she weeped into her dress, the tear stains magically disappearing.
Through her sobs, she began to mumble that the clothier from The Hemlock Haberdashery would have to fit her at the castle—when a stifled gasp from Marguerite stopped her.
Her mother marched over, took one close look at her, and decided there was something unsettling about her appearance; after demanding everyone else from the room, Henri said it was her hair, that maybe she had dyed it with ink and minerals. Marguerite suggested, looking faint, that she thought Lilac might be with child.
Lilac was so taken aback by the suggestion, she silently stopped cursing Garin and instead thanked him for his inability to father children, offering to urinate upon barley with them acting as witnesses—to which Henri had responded by actually fainting.
At this point, her determination to immediately fulfill Garin’s demands was suddenly replaced by a slow burning horror that ate at her from the inside out. Feeling ill, Lilac quickly excused herself and dashed down the corridor, up the foyer stairs to her tower, Yanna and Isabel huffing behind her.
She’d swung her door open, gripped her vanity, took one look at herself, and saw what everyone else had seen—understood what Garin had meant when he was snarling at theguài. Lilac went to the tub and grabbed one of the cloths placed on its rim, then grabbed the fresh pitcher of water that had been placed upon her bedside table. Eliciting a small, sad cry from one of her handmaidens, she dumped half the pitcher onto the cloth and began scrubbing her cheeks upon returning to the mirror.
The only progress she’d made was ensuring her already beet red face was even more inflamed. Panic rising in her chest, she chucked the pitcher across the room; half hoping she’d shatter it against the wall with her unusual strength, Lilac was simultaneously relieved and irked when it flew only halfway across the room and broke into two large pieces upon the floor.
Her glamor on her skin and hair had indeed not worn off, and it did not do so even when she tipped back the rest of the pitcher water into her mouth—even as she snatched one of the croissants Hedwig delivered shortly after her outburst. She wasstuck, the subtle but profound effect from Adelaide’s tonic not yet faded.
Tearfully, she ordered Yanna and Isabel out and spent that first night in bed praying, begging for sleep to come. It never did, wakefulness causing her to toss and turn with what started as a tightness in her chest that grew into a most uncomfortable sensation of unease throughout her body—the unbearable feeling that nothing was right in the world, and the dreadful knowing that it would not be improved by any amount of sleep she chased.
Then, she attempted to pushhimfrom her mind, facing the fool’s task of shielding herself from his influence head on. She imagined announcingher official intention to rule without a spouse, as she supposed she should have done at her ascension. She imagined throwing herself into another public scandal so large, it would dissuade even the most desperate of nobles and kings.
It didn’t take long for her skin to start to crawl. She sat up in fright at one point because she thought she’d seen a shadow move in the corner of her room. The dread began to set in, then—a slow, seeping horror accompanied by thoughts ofhim. His ruddied mouth and hands.
In the silence, it seemed impossible to rid her mind of Garin, not when desperation and turmoil so often found one in the night.
At some point before dawn, Lilac dragged herself from bed, her back cold with sweat, and pulled on her robe. She left her room, only to be startled by none other than Yanna, who sat leaning against the wall outside her door. Roused from sleep, the usually colder, judgmental handmaiden said she sent Isabel to bed, but couldn’t bring herself to leave while hearing Lilac’s sobs echo throughout the second floor.
She escorted Lilac to the library, where Riou’s map had been placed for the night, and reluctantly went to fetch the cartographer, John, and both of her father’s councilmen at the queen’s behest. By the time the group arrived, looking disheveled and concerned, Lilac had already tidied the corner desk she’d recently claimed as her temporary office while drafting the Accords and ball invitations with her poor handwriting. She grabbed her notes on Daemons and stuck them beneath the tomes and manuscripts she’d previously acquired from her room and the library shelves. Then, she ordered her newcomers to be seated along the table that divided the eastern half of the library as she surveyed the map.
From then until dawn, Lilac launched herself and her small, confused team into a set of administrative tasks. Riou spent the better part of their meeting assessing the map and explaining the markings to her; there had been one other smoke signal sighting just north of La Guerche yesterday, but by the time the guards had arrived, the camp was cleared. Lilac ordered fifty men to the area—half to scout and the rest to stand by in camps around and north of the border town. They would monitor it for several days, make their presence known, and then return.
When Riou suggested this might be seen as escalation, she poundedher fist upon the map and demanded it so, turning to John, who watched Lilac with a mixture of fear and admiration above his quill.
With John’s help, she then began to draft the beginnings of a decree announcing the requirement of all able-bodied men between the ages of eighteen and fifty to register with their respective duchies, effective immediately and without any mention of pending war.
Lilac would abide by Garin’s commands—she had no choice, especially if it was going to affect her ability to rest—but she was thrilled to learn, even in her sleep-deprived state, that this did not seem to affect her ability to take other related matters into her own hands.
She would set up defenses, even if her father’s men were hesitant to, even if advised against it. She would try, because everyone—rich, poor, human, and Daemon—deserved a queen who did.
Also, because it seemed Garin had agreed with the general consensus of her country’s military being unstable and unorganized. She would prove him wrong, even as she found and took a husband.
In hindsight, the thought of marrying a stranger should have made her as angry as it had mere hours ago when she was chucking candelabras at Garin’s head—but the horrifying thought of standing at the altar with a powerful stranger began to entertain her if it meant devastating Garin.
By the time sunlight streamed through the tall window, Isabel joined them, bringing with her a plate of baked goods and sliced apricots from Hedwig’s pantry.
Too heated to eat, Lilac found herself in the middle of her second argument with Riou—and this time, Henri’s council. She’d demanded John draft a letter to Henry VIII, seeking possible aid in the event of a war, believing he would accept as their former ally and protector in war.
This immediately drew sounds of protest from all of them, the councilmen citing very sternly that the King of England would too gladly launch into a full-fledged war with France again. They had the resources and the men, they’d said—which was her point. But, according to them, without a marriage or betrothal in place, even their longstanding friendship would not secure a solid enough relationship to be worth a war in her stead; England could then decide at any time they decided to retreat at the price of the Breton crown.
