Page 94 of The Queens and the Kings
The Ladylord signed it as Alma, which had to be significant. Henrik ran his thumb over her name, but stared at Selma’s.
Selma.
His mother.
He barely considered the acknowledgement of the Ladylord’s own capriciousness. She held Selma hostage to test whether Henrik would really show up, let her have some equal amounts of power. He didn’t like it, but he’d have to accept it.
Because . . . Selma.
A purring version of Britt’s sleepy voice spoke near his side. “What are you reading this early?”
Henrik handed it to her, a ball in his stomach. Britt accepted, yawning, rubbing her eyes with her other hand as she read.
She stopped.
Her gaze lifted to his in wide-eyed wonder. “She found her,” Britt whispered. “Alma found Selma, and Selma wants to meet you. She’s waiting, Henrik. Waiting! Your mother.” Beaming, she gripped his arm. “Your biggest dream is about to come true! It . . .”
She trailed away. Puzzled, she asked, “Aren’t you happy?”
Henrik ignored her question.
“Come with me?”
Britt kept her smile firm, her gaze steady, and her grip tight. Wordless, they ascended the cobblestone roads of Klipporno together. When she took his hand, he didn’t protest. Their fingers threaded together as if made to weave. He kept a hold of her as they navigated alleys and thin roadways. His scowl, ready to ignite water, kept hoodlums at bay.
Pedr’s ship poised near the edge of the bay, creeping away from the middle with the subtlety of a fox leaving a hen house. As they approached the Ladylord’s personal residence, guards stepped aside without command. Interesting.
They hadn’t been there last time. Henrik ignored them and the assumption of a security risk they created. His steely eyes locked ahead with visceral determination.
He could do this.
Wantedthis.
For years, he more than longed for Selma and for answers, which meant that he now wanted to vomit. Britt stopped near a flowery bush speckled with amethyst. The smell of wisteria filled the air. He gazed over his shoulder, eyebrow tilted in silent question. What was she doing?
Chin elevated, she asked, “How are you?”
Henrik frowned. “What?”
“Howareyou, Henrik?”
“Fine.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“You’re about to meet Selma.”
“I’m aware, thank you.”
After making a raspberry-like sound in her throat and a contemplative pause, she said, “I’m here for you. If you need it, I will make up a story so you can stay all night. Or I will whisk you out of there in less than a minute. You’re a capable man, but this situation would be terrifying for anyone. Let me know how I can help you manage it.”
“I don’t know what I’ll need.”
She smiled. “I assumed.”
He ran a hand through his hair, realized the nervous gesture halfway through, and dropped it. “Thank you. It is easier with you here,” he admitted. “If I need help, I’ll look at you. I . . . I don’t know how else to plan except for that.”
