Chapter 15: Princess Monique Tourmaline

Scene 68

The three of them sat in silence, their chairs drawn close to the side of Somerville’s bed. The magistrate herself sat up, quietly staring down at her empty plate, self-consciously holding her robe while she organised her thoughts.

The moment the group had returned to Lady Margaret’s, a guard had reported: Somerville had finally woken up and wanted to talk. Not right away — the doctor insisted that they give her some time to eat, to drink, to recover as much as she could. Lizabet decided she’d stay out of it, but it gave Val and Zofia time to get clothed.

That tight red dress, those boots and gloves; they were a kind of tight that she could never forget she was wearing, a vivid contrast with how exposed her skin had been at Darlinalia. Her tiara was back on her head, a perpetual reminder of the weight of her duties.

But she liked to imagine that she was still wearing her collar, under the dress’ turtle neck. It was ... comforting.

Finally, Somerville took a deep breath and began to speak. “It all started twelve years ago. Slavery had already been outlawed for years. The King had just made his decree, changing Queen Tisha’s old castle into a library. We were taking stock of what we had. Princess Monique, and all of us working for her.”

Zofia tensed, but Sir Jorge frowned in confusion. “What does this have to do with the Owls?”

Somerville gave him a brief, hard look, then continued. “I found some old journals. From some slaver, two hundred years ago. Schematics for an old kind of ... enchanted collar. Reflections on her experiences. The princess grew obsessed with them.”

Sir Jorge’s eyes went wide, seeing where she was going. “You can’t be serious.”

Somerville didn’t respond to him; she didn’t even look up. “I thought it was just idle curiosity, or some ... hypothetical fascination with the past. But then she found an artisan and had one of those collars made.”

Sir Jorge burst off his chair, his whole body tight with agitation. “Tread carefully, Magistrate. What you’re saying is treason—”

“Stop.” Zofia was surprised by how level her voice was, how firm and certain. “Let her finish.”

Sir Jorge stared at her, shocked and offended that she wasn’t as shocked and offended as he was. But she was his princess. So he held his tongue on anything further.

Somerville eyed her for a moment, suspicious, but resumed. “She chose someone she wanted, a manservant of hers, and she ... got a collar on him. Just for a night, then she let him go.” She took a deep breath. “The next one, she kept. Over time, she found like-minded people, others who wanted slavery back. And ... you can guess at the rest.”

Sir Jorge scowled at her. “If any of that is true, why haven’t I heard of any of it?”

“Because I helped cover it up.” She hung her head. “The first time, out of loyalty. Out of a hope that it was just one indiscretion, and we could all just leave it in the past.”

Zofia grimaced. She doubted that manservant would so easily ‘leave it in the past’.

Somerville continued. “And after that ... I was an accomplice. Her Highness had proof of how I’d covered for her, and she held that over my head to make sure I kept on doing it. Not to mention other threats.” She stroked a finger over her bandages. “But I’ve had enough. I don’t care what happens to me anymore.”

Zofia considered the magistrate, carefully keeping her expression cool as she thought. She was complicit. Without her act of misguided loyalty, the Owls might never have formed. Zofia would be within her rights to punish her for the same crimes.

But she saw the look on Somerville’s face. She was trying to appear dignified and nothing more, but Zofia read her eyes. Layers of shame, mixed with a thin dash of anxious hope. The desire for redemption. She thought of her master Valerie, and squeezed her hand; she thought of Lizabet. And she thought of what she’d promised them.

“I will not reward your aid with an arrest, Magistrate.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she was sure of them. The smile that Valerie gave her made her heart flutter; and the hope that flooded Somerville’s eyes made Zofia feel more like a princess than she had in days. The obvious disapproval in Sir Jorge’s eyes didn’t slow her down.

Zofia dropped her gaze pointedly to the bandages crossing the woman’s chest. “You have already been punished quite severely, and that for starting to do what was right.” She looked at Somerville’s face. “The rest of your penance will be to continue. We need someone who will actually prosecute the Owls.”

There were actual tears brimming at the corners of Somerville’s eyes. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

Sir Jorge’s expression turned increasingly sour as he put the facts together. “You already knew.”

“I saw her, Sir Jorge.” Let alone all the things she’d done. “There is no doubt. My aunt leads the Owls.”

“You knew,” Sir Jorge repeated. “And you kept it from me.”

Zofia felt a flash of guilt, a familiar reflex-response to the old knight’s disapproval. But she still met his eyes. “Yes. This is a delicate situation, Sir Jorge. You can’t just—”

He scoffed. “Delicate indeed. It’s simple.” He turned to the doorway. “If she’s a criminal, she needs to be arrested.”

She rushed to get in his way. “No. You cannot just storm in and try to drag her away. I forbid it.”

He glared at her. “Nobody can forbid my duty, Highness, not even you. I enforce the law, even over—” He scowled at the thought and stepped forward, fully intending to barrel through her.

Of course he wouldn’t listen to reason or authority. That didn’t leave Zofia much alternative.

She punched him in the jaw.

Or, she tried to. He ducked back so her swing hit only air, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her off-balance. While she regained her footing, Somerville screamed at the sudden violence, but Valerie joined the fray. Sir Jorge sidestepped her without even looking and retaliated with a sharp elbow to the gut.

As he left the suite, he met the bordello’s guards, summoned by Somerville’s scream. “Stop him!” Val shouted.

They tried, they really did. But he ducked, dodged, or redirected every attack, stepping closer to the stairs with each one.

Until he was gone, the guards had only a few bruises for their efforts, and...

“He never even drew his sword,” Val observed while holding her stomach. They’d been obstacles to his duty, but they weren’t the target he was after. So he hadn’t spilled their blood; he hadn’t needed to. “You know, it could make our lives a whole lot easier if—”

“We can’t assume he’ll win.” Her aunt had all the resources of a princess and of the Owls, and she must have anticipated dealing with Sir Jorge sooner or later. “We just have to hope he doesn’t ruin everything. That girl needs us.”

Somerville, still shaken by watching the fight, looked up. “Wait. You mean...”

“Cynthia Exeter.” Zofia nodded. “Even if we could sic Sir Jorge on the Queen, even if we don’t need Exeter to prosecute, we cannot leave that girl.” She was Zofia’s subject, her responsi—

Val kissed her, suddenly and hotly. Though it surprised her, recent practice had honed her instincts, and she pressed back into it for a too-brief, breathless moment.

Afterwards, she caught Somerville staring at her with a different kind of shock, and she blushed vividly. At least the magistrate hadn’t seen her wearing a collar.

Val smiled fondly at her. “You really are what nobility should be.”

Zofia blushed harder. She cleared her throat to push on. “Come. We need to catch Lizabet up on what happened, and we need to get to work.”

Once Cynthia Exeter was safe, they could make their move. Before the day was done, this crusade would be over. For better or worse.

Scene 69

The second night of Darlinalia was done, but the Queen couldn’t rest yet. Princess Monique had appearances to keep up this morning, deniability to keep plausible. She brewed herself a quick wake-up potion. As she walked up the stairs, the first sip started blowing away her tiredness.

She almost spat it out when she opened the door and saw the state of the office.

Furniture overturned, ink spilled, papers scattered, and Pita unconscious and bound in the stocks.

She woke her pet thief with a sharp smack that made her jerk forward and gasp even before she was actually conscious. While Pita still blinked the sleep from her eyes, the Queen grabbed her by her silver hair and forced her to look into her eyes. “What. Happened?”

Once Pita saw the fury in those gemstone eyes, she was wide awake. “It was Valerie.” That alchemist she’d warned the Queen about. “She used a disguise to get in — serving girl. She ... she overpowered me, and...” She yawned, already drooping again.

Then the Queen noticed the splash of sticky red across her face, the heady scent rising from her skin, and she jerked swiftly away. In seconds, Pita was asleep again. This Valerie knew how to handle Winkle’s Breath without knocking herself out. Impressive.

So maybe the Queen would pick her brain once she was done punishing her for this insolence.

She calmed herself by taking a fuller inventory. The money and tiara in the floor safe were untouched. Her desk was still locked, the key ring still where she’d left it. Her portrait...

Both her respect and her anger flared when she found the hole melted through her wall safe. Every single document was gone.

Deep breaths. She had copies; she had backups. She hadn’t lost any of her leverage. The danger was what this Valerie could do with what she’d learned.

She channelled her frustration into carefully cleaning Pita’s face of the sleep potion, then forcing the wake-up potion into her mouth. The thief coughed as she woke, now perfectly alert.

This time, the Queen held her by the collar, finger hooked through the ring. “Fix this.” She held the thief’s blue-eyed gaze. “If you don’t catch that Valerie for me, then we’re done.” She pulled at the ring. “I’ll take this collar back and cast you out. You’ll have no place with the Owls.”

Pita paled.

The Queen drove it home, leaning closer until her eyes filled Pita’s vision. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Majesty.” She hung her head. If a slave like her couldn’t be with the Owls, couldn’t wear a collar and serve, there’d be no place for her anywhere.

Scene 70 (mostly non-sexual violence)

The Queen didn’t brew another wake-up potion; she had enough tension and jitters already, though she wouldn’t show them.