Fear that he had discarded something valuable too publicly to retrieve it.
“Claire,” he said, softer now. “Darling. Let’s not make a spectacle.”
The old me might have folded at that word. Darling. He used to say it when rent was late and he needed me brave. He had said it when I sold my mother-of-pearl hair comb—the only gift I had ever bought myself—to pay for his certification course. He had said it when he promised everything he built would be ours.
Tonight, darling sounded like a hand reaching for a purse it had dropped.
“You made the spectacle,” I said.
His face tightened.
Lydia stepped forward, her silk dress shimmering like black water. “Preston, let her go. This is embarrassing.”
It was the wrong thing to say.
The king’s gaze shifted to her. “And you are?”
Lydia lifted her chin. “Lydia Ashcroft.”
“Daughter of Conrad Ashcroft?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Then embarrassment is a family inheritance.”
Her face drained.
Conrad moved at once. “Your Majesty, I must object to this tone.”
King Alistair did not raise his voice. “Object carefully.”
The warning in those two words was ancient, royal, and unmistakable.
Conrad fell silent.
A woman in a navy suit entered through the open ballroom doors carrying a leather case. She approached the king, bowed slightly, then turned to me.
“Your Majesty,” she said, “the preliminary team is ready.”
The king nodded. “Dr. Veyra, this is Claire Whitmore.”
The woman’s eyes softened when she looked at me. “I’m the royal family’s genetic archivist. We can begin verification with a cheek swab tonight, if you consent. Full confirmation will take longer, but certain markers may be assessed quickly against preserved samples from Queen Maribel.”
Preserved samples from a dead queen.
My mother.
Maybe.
The room swayed again, and I gripped the back of my chair.
