"And now I may dismiss my heroine to the sleepless couch, which is the true heroine's portion; to a pillow strewn with thorns and wet with tears. And lucky may she think herself, if she gets another good night's rest in the next three months. "

--From Northanger Abbey,

By Jane Austen

JOVANA WOKE UP to an empty bed and a heart full of pain and thought of her mother's words: The person you can trust least of all is the one you love the most. The sheets wrapping around her body, scratchy and woollen as they were, felt as cold as ice. The roaring fire in the fireplace across from her bed might as well have been a pile of ashes for all the warmth she felt without his body next to hers. Did she love Carlyle?

"Your Majesty." A knock sounded at the door. "'Tis His Highness, the Lord Regent. He has some news for you."

It was Ilyas Durand. She bolted straight up in bed, her hair tumbling over her shoulders. With a sharp inhale, Jovana swung her legs over the edge of the bed and dashed to the wardrobe. There was no time for love, not now. "Tell him I need an hour to be dressed and ready to receive him."

With a smirk before waiting for Ilyas's doubtlessly antagonistic response, she rifled through the racks of dresses until the maid replied. "Your Majesty, he says he's only forty minutes and would like to request that you only take half an hour."

"Thirty-five minutes would be preferable," she haggled, fishing out a wine-red, almost violet, woollen gown and tugging it on over her white silk slip. She yanked a brush through her hair, wincing as its bristles snagged on the tangles in her hair.

A bereaved sigh that signalled victory seeped under the door and infiltrated her chamber. "He agrees, Your Majesty."

Jovana hummed to herself, buttoning the collar of the gown before going to splash rose-scented water on her face. "Very well."

Within twenty minutes she was dressed, anticipation and dread mingled, settling in her bones. Making him wait another ten minutes did not seem appealing, but she picked up her book, A History of Mordanian Rulers, and began leafing through it, keeping an eye on the clock.  It fell open on her lap to a familiar page, the red ribbon bookmark like a splash of blood against the page. The twelfth Mordanian queen and fortieth Mordanian ruler, Adaira Dusang, first of her name, after the death of her husband, Michel Dusang. The scent of old books and ink wafted up from the pages as she read the ink on the newest pages, which was darker than that on the others.

Adaira Dusang's issue includes Jovana Dusang, the current queen, whose regent is Ilyas Durand. Jovana Dusang was betrothed to Alastair Durand, Ilyas's firstborn son, in a match meant to strengthen ties within Mordania. Some have speculated in the years since, considering Alastair's disappearance and the death of his younger sister, Mireille, that Ilyâs Durand strategically formed the betrothal as a way to bring himself back into the good graces of the queen, Adaira. Especially since he has been made de facto ruler of Mordania, there are those who wonder what he did to gain such power...

She stared down at what she had just read. How could Ilyas allow such a book to be in print that called into question the legitimacy of his regency, let alone in the library? Never mind that she agreed strongly with many of the opinions it expressed... She frowned, staring down at it again. The ink was written in a different hand from the other pages. Less elaborate, less scrolling calligraphy, more slanted and harsh. A masculine hand.

Had someone altered this book? Whose handwriting was that? She had hoped to gain some clarity but all that had been given her from this brief interlude was more confusion. Getting up, she smoothed out her dress and went to the door, wishing her expression and emotions could be just as easily made orderly.

"Lord Regent," she said, stepping out into the hallway and closing the door behind her. She would never allow him access to her private chambers. She had precious little control and privacy as it was. "What news have you brought me on this fine morning?"

"One of the members of your guard has been thrown into the dungeon for atrocities and indignities against the crown." She studied Ilyas's cruel face, his neatly shaven jaw, the faint bruises ringing his throat. Were they shaped like fingerprints? Who would be so bold as to attack him? Her heart rose and sank in her chest in rapid vacillations.

"Hugo Marchand?" She asked. Though the man was her spy, he also made her uneasy in ways she could not articulate. "Is that the guard?"

He shook his head, his face solemn yet not remorseful in the least as he spoke. "Your majesty, the man I speak of is Carlyle Lambert... or as we knew him once, my son, Alastair Durand."

Alastair?

Alastair?

She had not thought of him in years. Yet she thought of him every day. Somehow, he had become threaded through her skin and bones, woven through her body like another set of nerves. She did not think of him until it hurt--and it always hurt. Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. "Surely, you must be mistaken."

He shook his head. "My son has been alive, this whole time. All these years... Fifteen years. You could have been married by now. Why he did not return to me sooner, I do not know."

Perhaps because you beat him with a belt, she wanted to say, remembering the times they had played together as children when he would tug his shirt down to hide the bruising there, vivid bluish-black marks against pale skin. "Will you not tell me his crimes? What has he done that is so horrid?"

"Aside from bedding you?" he said. "He lied about his identity."

It was against the law for anyone to lay a hand on a Mordanian royal unless they were of a certain rank. As a mere soldier, Lambert would have been executed. As her betrothed and a lord, he would have not. No wonder he had never raised any questions, had been so cavalier. The man had been a stranger, yet not a stranger. A liar, yet more familiar to her than anyone she had ever known. No wonder he had known how to pronounce her name. No wonder...

Who was he?

A soldier, a lord.

Her lover, her enemy.

Her destruction, her salvation.

He had bitten her neck with such savagery, that night, she could still feel the mark there, if she reached up and touched it. His mouth digging in with such force...  Almost as if he hated her. And he had hated her, back in the day. How much of it had been a scheme? How much of it had been some wicked plan? Why had he left? Why had he left her? Questions ran through her like one of the many streams that flooded Mordanian mountains in the springtime. Overflowing with curiosity and anxiety in equal part, she spoke again. "It is not against the law to lie about one's identity."

"It is when one works in service to the royal family. Otherwise, how will one be apprised of threats to their person?" Of course, he meant himself. She doubted he would care if she died.

"He is your son," she edged out the words, staring at a crack in the stone of the wall behind his head.

Ilyas's blue eyes were cold as the falling snow outside. "He has always been nothing more than a disappointment to me."