Chapter 28
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***
Arthur's voice was extremely soft.
"I respect your will. But you've killed too many people, even children who had nothing to do with your independence. I wonder what your excuse is for that."
It was natural for Wales to want independence. But no amount of explanation could justify the slitting of an innocent child's throat.
Arthur strained his arm muscles as if to crush the head.
An agonized scream howled like a fierce storm. As he watched the bulging veins on the man’s neck pulsated, he remembered the night of the blizzard.
"We didn't do that. We didn't do that...... We don't. Argh!"
The aide shoved a photo of a man in front of the man's eyes.
Arthur asked in a low voice.
"Do you recognize him?"
Gray eyes and auburn hair. A slightly upturned nose.
"I, I don't know.................. really, I don't-."
Arthur grabbed the man by the hair, jerked him back as far as he could, and slammed him hard against the steel top. The sound of a cracking skull pounded through the torture chamber.
Tilting his head at an angle, Arthur looked into the man's struggling pupils.
"Evil! Oh, I don't know........ believe........... believe me..."
The eyes were a far cry from the ones that had denied the Duke of Deimos a moment before, eyes so genuine that it was safe to assume he didn't know the man in the picture, gripped by fear.
If it wasn't a perfect performance, it came down to one thing.
The Duke of Deimos had set up a false flag to deflect the blame for the day's tragedy onto the Welsh Republican Army.
The limp man was soon unconscious.
Arthur pulled off his blood-stained leather gloves. He slipped on the ballroom gloves his aide handed him and paused to think.
"Let him go. Whoever's behind this is going somewhere."
Arthur's eyes were as cold and deep as the ocean on a winter night as he buttoned the gloves at the wrist.
When he stepped out of the building, the darkness was thick and the snow was drifting. A fierce gust of wind whipped across his cheeks. He felt sick to his stomach, like he could smell blood on his skin. This was not a good sign.
Reaching for a cigarette to drown out the discomfort, Arthur looked at the pocket watch.
It was time for Christmas Eve to begin.
***
The Christmas tree in the center of the ballroom was huge and ornate.
The golden star ornament hanging from the top sparkled hopefully in the bright light of the chandelier.
“You'll shine even higher, Christine. Like that star.”
The last Christmas in Greenwood Park she saw with her mom. Anna pointed to the bright star and whispered dreamily in her daughter's ear.
Mother.
The nostalgic words danced on the tip of her tongue before disappearing.
“I heard that the royal family is deciding on His Highness’s marriage partner. Is there anyone His Highness is interested in?”
Christine's face froze cold at the words of the smooth-skinned, plump woman.
Marriage partner?
These days, social circles were all about the future Crown Princess, but it was a world away from Christine.
Until just a few days ago.
"I am personally acquainted with Princess Ariana Stuart, and I would love to see her become the Crown Princess of Bern. She is so sweet, I'm sure you all will fall in love with her."
The smooth-skinned, plump lady continued, accepting a fresh glass of wine from the passby servant.
"Princess Ariana has all the hallmarks of the Maximilian royal family: platinum hair and blue eyes. She’d be a perfect match for His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Arthur-."
"Speaking of which, His Highness is running late, and the weather is awful."
Cecilia, her dark hair framing her face, turned her head toward the window, interrupting Rosaline's drunken ramblings.
"I must go out for a moment to see if His Highness is coming, so enjoy yourselves, Miss Peildon."
Cecilia turned, folding her fan as the air turned chilly.
"Oh, I'll come with you, Miss Deimos."
Rosaline, who was turning around in a hurry while pouring a glass of wine, bumped into Cecilia, who suddenly stopped when she saw the Crown Prince appearing at the entrance. The wine that had been sloshing around spilled onto Christine's chest, who was standing next to her.
"Ah!.................."
The smooth-skinned, plump lady let out a shriek that bordered a scream. It coincided with the servant's shout announcing the Crown Prince's entrance.
All the eyes of the guests turned toward the entrance of the great hall.
Arthur's stride across the wide hall came to a screeching halt.
Red blood.
Arthur felt his body temperature rise instantly.
A trickle of blood running down the white nape of the neck of the woman in a blue dress.
A puddle of blood on a field of white snow.
He could almost smell the foul odor of blood. His throat constricted and his breathing quickened as he felt as if his body still reeked of the bloody stench of the torture chamber.
Arthur tightened his fisted hands. He could feel the bones and veins bursting up the back of his hand beneath the taut ballroom gloves.
"Are you just coming now?"
There was no sound, as if he was cut off from reality. Arthur held on to the tenuous threads of reason that were threatening to tear apart.
His gaze, searching his surroundings intently, settled on the face of the Duke of Deimos. He stared at him for what seemed like an eternity, and then their eyes met.
The Duke smiled a ceremonial smile and bowed politely. He could see Princess Charlotte coming this way.
He must not lose his composure.
When he turned his head again, the woman was gone.
***
"His Highness Ehiri's memorial service is almost upon us."
Arthur glanced across at Duke Deimos, who spoke with a somber expression. His ankle seized up just as he needed a tranquilizer.
"If only Belov had been a little more nimble, His Grace Ehiri....... I’m sorry, Your Highness."
"It is not the Duke's place to apologize, is it?"
Arthur's jaw set, the corners of his mouth twitched.
If Belov had been more agile, Arthur might not be here either.
He looked out the window at the Duke of Deimos's back, snowflakes whipping in the strong wind.
The night was like this.
The goblet in Arthur's hand was precarious.
"I want to sing at the memorial service."
Cecilia put her arm around him without hesitation. Arthur stood still, his eyes fixed on the familiar face of his cousin. At the same time, the image of the red wine-covered woman from earlier came back to him.
“It looks glamorous on the outside, but so does the world I'm in. I'm afraid to drink water, even if I'm thirsty. I wonder if someone had drugged it. I need to rehearse, but my scriptbook disappears. Lights fall from the ceiling. I'm constantly suspicious and wary of someone.”
It's her.
Vibrant green eyes sparkled, the exact opposite hue of the woman who stood there, bewildered and helpless.
"Do it."
Arthur's pupils hardened as he raised his gaze in obedience. His eyes locked with the man at the edge of his vision through the crowd of heads.
Gray eyes and auburn hair. A slightly upturned nose.
Against the pounding of his heart, Arthur's eyes slowly closed and opened to stare directly at the mysterious man. The man with the long lips began to move through the crowd.
Arthur's foot dropped reflexively.
It could be a trap.
Arthur thought as he watched the man with grey eyes, auburn hair and a slightly white nose disappear down the brightly lit hallway into the sunroom.
But it was worth checking out.
Without a moment's hesitation, Arthur followed the man through the glass doors and stepped inside, where the humid air and the peculiar smell of expensive roses and rare tropical plants wafted in the dim light.
He walked deeper inside, his footsteps echoing in the darkness. He had just passed a small fountain when he followed the echoing footsteps into the darkness, past iron tables and garden chairs. A gust of wind blew the glass windows open.
The flickering lights went out all at once, and a blizzard of snow rushed inside.
Bam. Crunch. The hinges cried out with a rusty sound.
Arthur's steps skidded to a halt.
“Brother.... I'm so scared.”
He heard footsteps, low and slow.
Arthur slowly turned his head.
Gray eyes and auburn hair. A slightly white nose. A tattoo of a snake curling around a dagger.
"Who's the Crown Prince? You?”
The trigger was pulled, and the strings of nerves, stretched thin and taut by the bullet, snapped.
"Or him?”
***
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