The Consort, Chapter 15
Author's Note: Okay, everybody calm down! Deep breaths! We're not even halfway through this story, and we've yet to reach the NC17 rating I gave it, so draw your own conclusions.
Hang in there.
DG was cold.
Why am I sitting on the floor?
Azkadellia and Ambrose appeared before her, crouching at her side. “DG, can you get up?”
She looked at them. “Give me a hand,” she said, holding hers out. They grasped her and helped her to her feet. She nodded. “Thanks.” She brushed herself off. “Ambrose, have General Showalter come to my office right away. In the meantime continue the cleanup and the investigation. Take Jeb to the hospital floor and have him checked over. I bet there are reporters all over the Square, right?”
Ambrose nodded. “Like a swarm of locusts. Quite a crowd of citizens, too.”
“We need to prepare a statement.”
“Would you like me to…”
“No, I’ll do it. And, uh…keep it quiet about the General. I don’t want that getting out quite yet.” She hesitated. “I’ll make a national address later, live broadcast. Arrange it.” She started off towards her office but Ambrose stopped her.
“Are you sure you’re up to that? We can always…”
“I need to do it. We just made it through a coup attempt, Ambrose. The people need to be reassured that everything is under control.”
Azkadellia put a hand on her arm. “That’s not what he meant, DG.”
She sighed. “They ought to hear bad news from me.”
Her sister stepped closer. “You’re in shock, DG. Give yourself some time.”
DG met her eyes. “You think I don’t know that, Az? My husband’s dead. But I can’t give myself any time. I don’t get to think about myself, or how the hell I’ll ever…” She choked that off, fast. “I don’t get to think about myself. Not now.” She pushed past them and headed for her office.
It was blessedly quiet inside after she shut the door. She leaned against it for a moment, then went to her desk and sat down. This immediately brought her face to face with Cain’s desk. It was neat, as usual, with only a few papers out of place that he’d likely just forgotten to put away. She could close her eyes and still recite what he kept on his desktop. Two framed photos: one of Adora and Jeb, one of herself. Pens and pencils in a joke coffee mug that said “No Cain, No Gain” which had been a gift from Danny Armagnac. An old brass deskplate from his former office that said “Gen. W.H. Cain, K.P.Z.”
She got up, went over to his desk and picked up the deskplate.
”You ought to get a new deskplate.”
“What’s wrong with that one?”
“It’s not accurate. You’re supposed to have an HRH in front of your name.”
He flapped a hand. “It doesn’t matter.”
“If you’re gonna have one, at least get it right.”
“You don’t have one at all. Not like anybody doesn’t know who you are.” He tipped back in his seat. “I’m going to get you one that just says ‘Her Majesty.’”
“How about one that says ‘The Bitch Is In?’” She smirked at him, hoping to tease out one of his too-rare grins.
He snorted. “That one might be better on Ambrose’s desk.”
She chuckled. “Do you know the expression ‘passing the buck?’”
“I’m in the military. It’s practically our religion.”
“Back home, one of our Presidents had a sign on his desk that said ‘The buck stops here.’”
Cain grinned, then laughed. There’s my grin, she thought. “That’s perfect. I’m having one made for the office door.”
She put the plate back down and glanced at the framed photos.
Hers was gone.
The frame was still there, but it was empty. Her photo was gone from it.
DG sat down slowly in his chair. He took my photo with him. She felt it start to rise from her belly, that thing she feared the most because she knew it could overwhelm her if she gave it an inch. The awareness, the grief, the real gut-felt knowledge that Cain was dead, and she had never told him she loved him, or heard him say it to her, and now she never would, and…
She was saved by a knock on the door. DG jumped up and ran back around to her own desk, composing herself as best she could given that she was still wearing jeans and a t-shirt. I’m still the Queen, dammit.
“Come in.”
The door opened and General Showalter, Commander-in-Chief of the Ozian Home Forces, entered. “You sent for me, Your Majesty?”
“Sit down.” He did, and she followed suit. “Call a meeting of the Defense council. We need a strategy to respond to this invasion attempt.”
“I’m already formulating several plans, Your Majesty.” He shifted in his chair. “Ma’am…I’m so very sorry about General Cain.”
She folded her hands on her desk. “Thank you.”
“He was a fine man. I admired him a great deal.”
“Me, too,” she whispered. She raised her eyes to the General’s face. “There’s something else we have to do.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Can you send a squad to collect our dead from that Scout camp?”
“I’ve already dispatched them, ma’am.”
She smiled. “Good. Dismissed.” He stood up to leave. “Oh, and General? No matter what he says, or how angry he gets or how much he screams and yells, Captain Cain isn’t going anywhere.”
“Understood.”
“Feel free to blame me.”
The General hesitated. “Ma’am, he is an able officer, and…”
“I understand that, General.” She met his eyes again. “I let my husband go off and be killed. I refuse to allow the same thing to happen to his son.”
Showalter nodded, saluted and left the room. Ambrose passed him on the way in.
“Yes, Ambrose?”
“We, uh…tested the blood on Nejo’s sword.” He sat down in front of her desk. “It’s Cain’s.”
She nodded. “Anything else?”
“What do you want me to do with it?”
“With what?”
“The sword.”
She could only stare at him. What was he asking her? “What are you talking about?”
“Well, I don’t know…I just thought…”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what you do with it! Clean it off and re-use it! Chop up vegetables with it! Melt it down into slag for all I care!”
Ambrose let the matter drop. He frowned. “I’d have thought your father would be with you, DG…why…” He blinked and trailed off, then shook his head and stood up with a sigh. “We can do that national address whenever you’re ready.”
She got up. “I’m ready now.”
He goggled at her. “DG, you haven’t had time to prepare a statement, or…”
“Or what?”
“You’re kind of…disheveled.”
“You think I care what I look like? Will anyone else?”
“If the point of this address is to reassure people that you’re in control, you ought to look like you are.”
“You’re saying I don’t?”
He put a hand on her shoulder and led her over to the mirror, turning her to face her own reflection. DG almost didn’t recognize herself. Her hair was still bed-rumpled and frizzy, hanging around her head in blowsy tangles. Her face was milk-white and she could see the veins beneath the surface. She had dark circles under her eyes and smudges of dirt and blood on her skin. “You look like a woman who’s just lost the man she loved, isn’t dealing with it and can’t think of anything except the next thing that has to be done,” Glitch said, quietly.
She blinked at herself. “I’ll go clean up. Thirty minutes.”
Azkadellia was coming out of her bedroom, dressed and neatened, as Ambrose was coming down the hall. “How is she?” she asked.
Ambrose just shook his head, making a little twirly motion with his fingers near his ear. “She’s…not all there.”
“She’s just in shock.”
“She’s put it in a little box and locked it up and she’s not looking at it, at all.”
“That’s what she needs to do right now. She can’t deal with the invasion and the country and Cain’s death all at once.”
Ambrose stared at his shoes for a moment, then sat down heavily on a nearby bench. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”
Az sat down at his side and took his hand. “I know.”
“I’m just as worried about DG as you are, but…Cain was my friend, too.” He sighed. “I don’t know how we’re all going to get along without him around to keep us out of trouble.”
“I can’t think about myself now,” Az said. “I just have to focus on her. Can you imagine? Just as they figure things out…this has to happen.” She sighed. “Where is Father, anyway? Hasn’t anyone tried to…Ambrose, what’s wrong? You have a look.”
Ambrose was silent for a long moment. “We have another problem. It’s such a loathsome problem I hate to even mention it.”
“What?”
“You know how this whole kingdom loves Cain…loved,” he amended, sadly.
“Yes.”
“If she turns to stone and goes around blank-faced while the country is mourning…”
Az sighed. “They won’t forgive her for that.”
“I don’t want to go looking for problems, but…”
“No matter what happens, I’ll follow her lead,” she said. “She’s my sister.”
“Let’s see how this national address goes before we start worrying.”
“Agreed.” She squeezed his hand and got up. “You realize that’s not even the worst part.”
“I know. She’s still heirless. And now a widow.”
“Which means at some point we’re going to have to hunt up another husband for her.” Azkadellia paused, shaking her head. “And words can’t describe how much I hate the fact that I just said that.”
DG didn’t want to look perfect. She wanted to look like she’d had a hell of a morning. It didn’t feel right to put on makeup and fine clothes and do her hair to go on the air and inform the kingdom what had happened, to her and to them all. So she just bathed, put on clean clothes, braided her hair and dabbed on a little foundation to cover the bruises and scratches. That would have to do.
She walked to the small studio they kept for addresses like these. It contained a much more ornate desk than the one that sat in her office; just a showpiece, really. It had the Great Seal of the O.Z. hanging behind it on a banner and curtains draped all about.
“We’ve announced that you’ll be addressing the nation at two o’clock,” Ambrose said as she entered. “That gives you about fifteen minutes.” He looked her up and down. “You look…better. How are you feeling?”
“Like the next person to ask me that is getting my pen jammed through their eye.”
“O…kay.” He harrumphed. “Want me to look at your speech?”
“No. Anyway, you can’t. I didn’t write it down.”
“DG…”
“I know, Glitch. It’s a sensitive time, politically delicate, blah blah. I won’t say anything inflammatory.”
“The last thing we need is citizens running into Flornistan with torches and pitchforks.”
“I don’t know. That sounds pretty good to me.”
Ambrose was watching her like a hawk. I know you mean well, Glitch. I know you’re worried. I can smell it on you, and Az, and Raw, and everyone else. Please, just don’t make me tell you to stay the hell away from me, because I am hanging on by a very thin thread and if any of you are too nice to me, or ask me too many questions, I might lose hold of it and go someplace I can’t come back from by clicking my heels together. “DG, I just don’t know…” He stopped and looked away, and DG saw him blinking back tears. That brought her back into herself a little.
They’ve all lost him too, you know.
“I just don’t know what to say to you,” he finished, hoarsely.
DG looked at her friend’s face, then stepped forward and hugged him. His arms went around her at once and she felt him shudder. “You don’t have to say anything,” she whispered in his ear. “Just be you. Be my friend. And try not to worry.”
He pulled back, nodding. “I don’t know if I can manage that last one.”
“I’m going to sit down. Let me know when it’s time.” He nodded, and let her be.
DG sat on a nearby chair and waited, watching the technicians fiddle with the equipment, thinking of what she planned to say. She had to keep it vague, she couldn’t make any kind of a call to action, she had to reassure everyone that things were okay.
Things are not okay. Things are on the dark side of the moon from okay. Things will never be okay again.
Maybe not for you, but the kingdom will be all right.
I’m a widow. I’ve been widowed.
DG pinched the bridge of her nose, shutting her eyes tight.
I don’t know if I can do all this without him.
“DG? We’re ready.”
She stood up and went to the desk. She sat behind it, keeping her back straight, and arranged herself. The camera was pointed directly at her. The clock on the wall was counting down, and soon she’d have to look into that camera, into the eyes of her subjects, and say the words out loud.
Dillon Masterson, Royal Palace Guard, had been relieved of duty for the day after having been pronounced uninjured during the coup. He’d been told in no uncertain terms to go home and relax, but he was restless.
When he left the Spire and came into Gale Square just after noontime, he was surprised to find himself in the middle of a crowd. A very large crowd. People were standing, sitting, congregating, talking, all of them looking up at the Palace, at the tennis-court-sized viewscreens in the square. He was beset upon the minute he emerged by people asking him if he worked inside, if everything was all right, if the Queen was all right, and what about the Princess Royal, and the General, and what happened, and when would they know?
He’d had no answers, but before he could even make it out of the square, it was announced over the broadcasts that the Queen would be addressing the kingdom at two o’clock.
Well, so much for going home.
He’d parked himself in a nearby pub, which quickly filled up with people waiting to see the Queen’s address. He sat at the bar and ordered pint after pint. “Don’t these people have viewscreens at home?” he grumped to the bartender.
“Sure. Just…something like this, people tend to want to get together.” The bartender eyed him. “You okay, pal?”
“Oh, yeah. I only utterly failed at my job today.”
The bartender didn’t reply, because it was two o’clock, and the screens inside the pub were turned up. An eerie hush fell over the patrons. Dillon glanced outside…the streets were deserted, except for the clusters of people watching exterior viewscreens. He knew if he were in Gale Square, it would be elbow-to-elbow.
The royal seal came up on the screen, then the daily newsreader’s face. “Citizens of the Zone, we bring you a special address from Her Majesty, Dorothea VIII.”
The image switched to the familiar “office” that they used for addresses like these. There were a few murmurs when the Queen came into view. “She looks awful,” he heard a woman mutter.
“My fellow citizens,” she began, “I’m relieved to be speaking to you now, on what’s been a very difficult day. I’m sorry that we haven’t been more forthcoming with you, especially since it’s been obvious that something’s happened. I hope you’ll understand once you know more.
Very early this morning, a group of expatriate Longcoats attempted to seize control of the Spire. We believe that their intention was to force the installation of a puppet ruler, ousting myself and the House of Gale from the throne. I am glad to report that this attempt was unsuccessful. The Palace Guard acted with heroism and bravery, and were able to free myself and my sister from captivity. All of the Longcoats have been taken into custody, and the situation is under control.”
Relieved mutterings from around the pub. Dillon felt like shooting himself. Yeah. We were so heroic and brave that she and her sister had to do all the work and save themselves while we sat there watching.
“What all of you should take away from my remarks is that nothing’s changed. Everything is all right. Life will go on as…as normal.” She seemed to choke a bit on those last few words. “But now, I’m sorry to say that I have some bad news to share with you.” She visibly steeled herself and took a few deep breaths. You could have heard a pin drop in the pub. “It’s my sad duty to inform you that General Cain is dead.”
A gasp went up from the crowd, and Dillon heard a few sobs. The Queen paused before proceeding, no doubt to allow for reactions.
“He was killed by Longcoats while attempting to rescue his son, who had been taken captive.” The Queen’s hands were tightly clasped together on the desktop, but everyone could see them shaking. “General Cain was a great leader. I know that so many of you had respect and affection for him, and he never failed to make an impression on everyone he met.”
She paused, looking down at her hands, her jaw clenching. People were crying all over the pub, some quietly, some with more enthusiasm.
When the Queen spoke again, her tone of reassurance and confidence had gone. She sounded hoarse, and not at all herself. “I know there’ll be a lot said about Cain in the days and weeks to come,” she said. “Some of it by friends, some of it by people who never knew him at all. Not all of it will be complimentary.” Her voice dropped even lower. “To all of you, the General was a figure. A symbol, maybe. To me, he was just my husband.” She sniffed, shaking her head. “I say ‘just’ my husband, like that was a small thing. It wasn’t. He was the most important person in my life. I don’t really know what to say about him, about the Cain that I knew and lived with, except that…he was the best man I ever knew, or ever expect to know. He was the yardstick I used to measure everyone else, and few made the grade.” She choked up a little and looked away from the camera, put two fingers to her mouth and composed herself before continuing. “I will miss him for as long as I live.”
The tears of the onlookers were intenstifying. Dillon heard a woman behind him say “Oh, that poor woman.”
“We will all have grieving to do in the days to come. But we should also remember that the O.Z. is stronger than any one man, or any one ruler, and we’ve proven that today. Thank you, and good day.”
The transmission ended. The murmurs in the pub rose in pitch and volume as people turned to each other in disbelief, in shock, in sadness, in relief.
Dillon could only stare at his beer, seeing in it the reflection of his own inaction.
You will so get fired if you do what you’re contemplating.
You know what? I don’t care.
He slapped a few coins down on the bar and went outside to find a reporter.
When DG came out of the meeting of the Defense Council, Azkadellia was waiting for her. She held out her hand. “Come on. I have two things you ought to see.”
“All right.” Az led her to the family sitting room. The viewscreen was on…DG frowned. “Is that…”
“It’s Dillon. One of your guards.”
“What the hell is he doing on TV?”
“Let’s listen.” Az turned the sound on. Dillon was being interviewed by the anchors of one of the evening news broadcasts.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m here with Dillon Masterson, a member of the Spire Palace Guard. As you know, the guard is normally prohibited from speaking with the press, but Mr. Masterson has come to us. Sir, you told me before we aired that certain elements of the Queen’s address earlier today were…not accurate.”
“No, ma’am. And I was there with her.”
“What wasn’t right about it?”
“Well…the Queen said that the palace guard come in and saved the day. That isn’t really the case, ma’am. The Longcoats, they’d blocked off one whole floor, and most of the guard couldn’t even get to where we were, me’n seven other guards what work on the residential floor. Four of us was with Her Majesty, four was with the Princess. Them Longcoats took our weapons and we couldn’t do nothing.”
“How did you escape?”
“Was the Queen, ma’am. And the Princess Royal. They done some magic that knocked out all the Longcoats. Took a lot outta the Princess, she couldn’t hardly do nothing after, and the Queen had to get to the door before they got their senses back. She hadta fight off one with her bare hands.”
The anchorwoman looked stunned. “You’re saying that the Queen and her sister fought off thirty Longcoats by themselves?”
“That’s what I’m sayin, ma’am. And it shamed me awful to hear her today giving us all that credit when we done nothing, and it was all her and the Princess.”
“Why wouldn’t she say so?”
Dillon shifted in his chair. “I don’t guess she thinks it’s seemly to take any a the credit for herself, or the Princess. Folks might not believe it, might think she was just talkin herself up. I’m here to tell you that’s how it went down, and I know all us guards wouldn’t wanna be taking the credit when all we done was clean up the mess after they’d done the work.” He blinked, his hands wringing. “And I know I’m putting her in a spot, ma’am. I want to ask everybody just to leave her alone about this. I’m telling it cause it oughta be told, not because I want everybody coming after her asking about it. She’s trying to mourn the General now, so…let’s all just let her be for awhile.”
The anchorwoman nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Masterson.” She turned to the camera. “Well, there you have it, folks. I think Mr. Masterson’s suggestion that we let the Queen grieve in peace is well taken.”
Azkadellia muted the broadcast as they moved on to coverage of the day’s invasion attempt. “So much for not accepting glory for ourselves.”
“Well, we tried.” DG shook her head. “That Dillon. Too honorable for his own damn good.” She sighed. “He clearly spent too much time with Cain.” She turned to her sister. “What’s the other thing you wanted me to see?”
Az took her hand and led her to the balcony. Night had fallen, and even though it was rarely fully dark in Central City with all the lights in the streets and buildings, it seemed even less dark than usual. “Az, what’s that glow?”
“You’ll see.” She pulled DG onto the balcony so she could look down.
DG stared, the breath leaving her body. “Holy crap,” she whispered.
The Spire sat in the center of Gale Square, which was four city blocks wide on each side, streets and avenues radiating outwards from it. The entire Square, as far as DG could see, was full of people. They spilled into the streets, clogging them with this spontaneous mass of humanity.
They all had candles. It was a small constellation come down to the ground. She could hear music, and snatches of singing, and the great oceanic murmur of what had to have been thousands of people. “Az…where’d they all come from?”
“From all over, DG.”
She stared down at them, transfixed. She was twenty stories up; they couldn’t see her from this distance.
“I’m going down,” she finally said.
Az smiled. “We’ll come with you.”
The captain of the palace guard didn’t like the idea at all, but DG didn’t much care. “We’re going outside,” she said, flanked by Ambrose, Azkadellia and Raw. “Like it or not. I don’t want an escort or a protection detail. I’m just going.”
He had no choice but to give in, so DG put on a jacket and took the lift down to the ground floor. She tried to remember if she’d ever actually entered or exited the palace by the front door. She usually used the private entrance.
The guard opened the door for her and she stepped out into the courtyard. The Spire was surrounded by an ironwork fence, so everyone could clearly see her as she emerged. An immediate hush fell over the crowd. Everyone watched as the Queen walked through the courtyard to the main gate. The guards opened it for her and she stepped into the Square. The Tin Men had put up barricades to prevent the people from pressing up against the fence, and there was about twenty feet of space between…if you could call it space, because at the moment, it was completely covered with flowers, candles, and tokens people had left. The Spire had become a shrine.
DG walked along in a daze, staring at the mementos that had been left. She saw dozens of copies of that now-infamous picture. Some people had reproduced it with their own hands, in paint, in pencil, in crayon. She saw the drawings of children. Pictures of Cain cut from newspapers and magazines, messages written in bold, unabashed letters. We will miss you. You were brave and true. Our Hero. You went too soon. Unrestrained expressions, the sort she was supposed to deem beneath her as a royal.
She envied her people. They could do this. They could do what she could not, they could scream and cry and make grand demonstrations of grief and just wallow in it, letting it take them over for as long as it needed to.
She crouched and picked up a placard that looked like a teenager had made it. It was very…glittery. That picture, the glossy color version that had appeared in a magazine after the original Register newsprint. The girl had written beneath it “Fairy tales are supposed to have happy endings.”
Who said it was a fairy tale? It was just my life.
They saw it that way. That picture only proved it.
She put the placard back and turned to look at the people, all of them watching her, their faces lit from beneath by their candles. She was dimly aware of many flashbulbs going off, had been going off since she stepped outside the Spire, but for once it didn’t bother her. They could take all the pictures they liked of this. The more, the better.
“We’re so sorry, Your Majesty,” someone said. A murmur ran through the crowd, heads nodding, sad faces, a few tear-streaked ones.
She smiled weakly. “Thank you,” she said. She came closer, wanting to see their faces, look in their eyes. Someone reached out a hand, and she clasped it for a moment. “Thank you,” she repeated.
“I’m sorry,” said the man whose hand she held.
She let go of him and moved down the barricade, meeting eyes, moving on by, touching hands, hearing their quiet condolences, seeing their tears. Azkadellia and Ambrose were at her side now.
She stopped in front of a woman in her fifties, kind-faced and curly-haired. She reminded DG a little bit of Emily, whom she had been wishing for all day. “Your Majesty,” the woman said.
“Can I see?” DG said, motioning to the thing that had caught her eye. The woman held up a painting, and the nearby mourners moved their candles closer so DG could see.
She stared at it for a moment, speechless. “It’s beautiful,” she finally said.
It showed herself and Cain, but it wasn’t modeled on a photo, as most paintings she’d seen of them were. They were sitting on a blanket in a wide, grassy meadow. It looked like they were having a picnic, something they’d never actually done. She was sitting in front of him, his arm around her waist, both of them smiling at each other, sunlit and happy, in casual springtime clothes. The likenesses were eerie. DG looked at the depiction of herself in the painting, and it was more than the face she saw in the mirror. This image of her was not how she looked, but how she imagined herself. It was the DG inside of her, brought onto this canvas.
“Did you paint this?” she asked the woman.
“Yes, ma’am. I was going to display it in my shop for your anniversary celebration, but…well, I thought I’d bring it here.” DG touched the image of Cain. Somehow, this woman had captured the private Cain. Not the stoic, severe version he’d shown to the public but the steadfast, kindhearted and sometimes mischievous man she’d known. The man she’d fallen in love with. “I hope I’ve done the General justice, ma’am.”
DG smiled. “More than that. This…this is my Cain here. I don’t know how you did it. No one saw him but me.” She looked up at the woman’s face. “What’s your name?”
“Mrs. Thelma Winterset, ma’am.”
“You’re very talented, Mrs. Winterset.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. It was a joy to paint.”
“I wish I could step through it and be there.” She started to hand the painting back.
“No, it’s for you, ma’am. You keep it.”
“Oh, I…” She started to say she couldn’t accept it, but the truth was that she wanted it. Badly. “Thank you.”
“I lost my own dear husband last year,” Mrs. Winterset said, her voice roughening a little. “Cancer. I know how it is.”
DG was still staring at the painting. “Did he know you loved him? Before he died?” She met Mrs. Winterset’s eyes.
“Yes, he did.”
She nodded, turning to hand the painting to Azkadellia. “Then you were both lucky.”
A tear rolled down Mrs. Winterset’s face. “You’re so young for such a loss, ma’am. I’m so sad for you. And you’re…you’re just…” She trailed off, flushing.
“I’m just what?”
“You’re so small,” Mrs. Winterset exclaimed, with a tiny sob. “It’s different from seeing you on the broadcasts. I just want to wrap you up in my arms.”
DG stared at her for a moment, then stepped forward and hugged her. She felt a wave of surprise run through the onlookers. This was probably a first in the annals of the House of Gale, the Queen hugging a total stranger, but she couldn’t help herself. Mrs. Winterset hugged her back at once, and it felt just as DG had known it would. Like these arms were used to hugging emotional young women, and soothing away the hurt, and she knew that the little “shh” noises the woman was making had been made into the ears of her own daughters, perhaps her granddaughters too, and that the hand stroking DG’s hair had smoothed away owwies, untangled unruly locks and healed broken hearts before hers.
She felt her levees and bulwarks weakening, and she could see it in her mind’s eye. Letting it come, letting it all come right here, right now, sobbing in the arms of a woman she’d known for three minutes, awash in the pain she was putting aside.
But that couldn’t happen. Not now. So she stepped back, drawing even, slow breaths. “Thank you for the painting,” she said, glad to hear how steady her voice sounded. “It’s beautiful.”
DG started to move down the line, but Mrs. Winterset grasped her hand. “It’s not true, you know,” she murmured. “That we never saw your Cain.”
“It’s not?”
“We saw. We saw it in the way you looked at him.”