Page 83 of Heart of Snow
Belinda approached me carefully as if I might startle and take flight. She lifted my hand in hers, her thumb brushing against my scar. “Do not forget what we have done, the life we took. That thing you call self-respect is only pride, and you have no right to it, considering your sins. You should be humbled beyond the lowest beggar, even as I am humbled. Samuel is in prison.Dying.” Her voice cracked. “There are no other options, no other suitors lined up willing to speak for his freedom. There is only Prince Felipe, a man with greater power than you dared dream of. The man who has offered to save your brother. The time for thinking is done. Now is the moment to act and act selflessly.”
I sat with her words, hating that pieces of her logic were beyond argument. Samuel’s time was short. There was no one else I could turn to for help. But with no other options, was I really ready to trade myself like a dark-alley purchase for my brother’s life? Or maybe Belinda was right there too; the time for thinking was done. We’d spent so long thinking and planning and working and sacrificing that to balk now and see my brother die would be the acutest torture. Could my soul handle the weight of another death, or was this my last chance for redemption?
Belinda’s smile made me suddenly conscious that she’d been watching my face and was pleased with whatever she saw. “Ilsa, look through Lady Margaretha’s press and fetch me some of her best dresses. I should like a few options for what she might wear when she meets with the prince.”
Ilsa pinned me with a heavy stare, lifting her brow in disdain before dropping a quick bow to leave the room.
“Belinda, you are too hasty,” I insisted. “I’ve made no decision.”
“But you have. And Samuel thanks you for it.”
***
Friedrich
I slid into the open seat at the servants’ tables, scooping up a plateful of mushroom pasties and pork pie.
Ilsa watched me gather food. “I’m surprised to see you. The countess hasn’t sent you packin’?”
I paused with my hand over the breadbasket. “Why should she?”
“Well, I doubt she’d approve of you and Lady Margaretha starin’ starry-eyed at each other day and night.”
It took a few seconds for understanding to click into place. “Mistress Hatzfeld is here? In Brussels? Why?”
She picked up a piece of meat with her fingers. “Somethin’ to do with Lady Margaretha’s special new relationship with the prince, I’d imagine.”
“What do you mean?” I worried I knew too well what she meant and fought to push back the anger.
Rolling her eyes, she said, “You’re a smart man, Friedrich. I think you can puzzle it out.”
I didn’t believe Ilsa’s insinuations. I wouldn’t. But of its own accord, my gaze jumped to the dais, searching over the faces for Margaretha.
“She’s not there.” Ilsa smiled from across the table, popping the meat into her mouth with two delicate, dripping fingers. “She has other plans this evenin’.” I shot her a warning glare, but she continued. “We spent all afternoon pickin’ out just the right gown for the prince—”
I slammed my fist against the table, rattling the dishes. The conversations around us went silent as diners watched with excited eyes to see what would happen next, but I did my best to keep my voice to a low growl. “Your idle gossip does your mistress harm. Steady your wagging tongue.”
Ilsa’s face was too calm, too confident. “I’m her maidservant, Friedrich. Do you truly think my words only idle gossip?”
A stone dropped in my stomach, burying any appetite, and I pushed my plate away, swinging my legs over the bench and stalking toward the doors. But partway out of the hall, I changed my mind and went back to the table, putting my face right in front of Ilsa’s. She stopped chewing and stared at me with her mouth hanging half open.
I spoke low, so only she could hear. “You want to compete with the countess, but if you think your lies will somehow give you an advantage over her, you’re wrong. All you do is expose a deep ugliness inside that can never be covered by the beauty of your face.”
I left her behind with her eyes wide and her mouth still hanging open.
Pushing out of the Aula Magna, I took a deep breath of the biting morning air. Ilsa was wrong. Margaretha said she could handle the prince, and she’d been doing well enough from what I’d seen. She’d even rebuffed him right in front of me after he’d suggested she was his mistress. Why would that suddenly change?
Clomping through the courtyard, I could think of only one reason.
Hatzfeld.
That woman always had an inexplicable influence over Margaretha. If she was here in the palace, I was less sure of Margaretha’s resolve. And with Count Samuel being ill, how much convincing would it take before Margaretha justified drastic action? She’d already justified much in the last two years of her work in Brussels, shifting from an innocent, awkward flirt to one easily toying with men to meet her ends.
Black sludge slithered in my marrow, and I worried it might be true.
Margaretha might very well have succumbed to the prince.
Chapter 39
