The Queen's Mage

Chapter 74: Only if Yes

Everly climbed into the chair opposite Serali with considerable effort, then landed with a small thump. She picked up a biscuit, examined it, and handed it over.

“This one has the most sugar.”

Serali took it carefully. “Thank you.”

Everly beamed.

Then, with no transition at all, she said, “I’m sorry we locked you.”

The biscuit paused halfway to Serali’s mouth.

Allandra went very still.

Mara looked down.

Everly’s face was solemn and open.

Serali should have had a clever answer. She had several stored away for apologies. Some cruel. Some funny. Some designed to make the apologizer regret entering conversational range.

None of them fit a four-year-old with sugar on her sleeve and grief in her eyes.

“You didn’t lock me,” Serali said.

Everly frowned. “I live here.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“I am princess.”

“That is also not the same thing.”

Everly thought about this. “It feels same-ish.”

Serali looked at Allandra.

Allandra’s expression was difficult to read. Pain, perhaps. Pride. Shame. Love. All of it kept under such tight control that Serali could see only the pressure of it.

“No,” Serali said, looking back at Everly. “It isn’t. But I accept your apology.”

Everly brightened so suddenly it was like watching a lamp catch.

“Good.”

Serali took a bite of the biscuit.

It was, unfortunately, excellent.

Everly watched anxiously. “Is it good?”

“No.”

Everly’s face fell.

Serali swallowed. “It is terrible. I may have to eat another to understand how terrible.”

Everly’s expression cleared into delight. “That means good.”

“Does it?”

“Yes. Uncle Hagen says things like that when he wants more wine.”

Allandra put one hand over her eyes.

Serali nearly inhaled the biscuit.

“Does he?”

Everly nodded. “He says, ‘Dreadful vintage, pour again.’”

Allandra did not move her hand. “My brother has many gifts. Self-knowledge is not among them.”

Serali laughed.

It escaped before she could cage it. A real laugh, quick and bright and nearly painful.

Everly stared at her with satisfaction, as if she had personally engineered the sound.

Perhaps she had.

Then Everly reached into the small pocket sewn into her dress and removed a folded paper, already creased and slightly sticky. “I made another card.”

Serali stared at it.

Of course.

This palace was apparently attacking her with stationery.

“What kind of card?”

“A good-luck card. Mama said you have to do magic for grown-ups tomorrow.”

Then Everly bounced once in the chair. “Open it.”

Serali opened it.

Inside was a drawing of a dark stick figure holding what appeared to be black lightning. Around her stood several taller figures with large round eyes and very alarmed mouths. One had a beard. One had goggles. One had hair represented by aggressive yellow spikes.

Across the top, in uneven green letters, Everly had written:

DO GOOD MAGIC

Below that, after what looked like considerable struggle:

DO NOT BLOW UP MARIELLE’S ROOM

At the bottom, smaller:

UNLESS SHE SAYS YES

Serali stared.

Then she looked at Allandra.

Allandra’s mouth was pressed into a very thin line.

“Unless she says yes,” Serali said.

Everly leaned forward. “Do you like it?”

“I do.” Serali touched the stick figure with black lightning. “Is this me?”

“Yes.”

“I look dangerous.”

“You are doing magic.”

“Fair.”

“That one is Mama. She is worried.”

“I see.”

“That one is Daravan. He is also worried but in his beard.”

Serali’s laugh came easier this time.

“That is accurate.”

Serali folded the card carefully and placed it beside the first two on the desk. They had been propped there for days. She had not meant to leave them visible. She simply had not moved them.

Allandra’s eyes touched it briefly.

Serali pretended not to notice.

Everly looked toward the scattered papers. “Are those laws?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Do you like laws?”

“No.”

“Mama likes laws.”

Allandra said, “I like useful laws.”

“She yells at bad ones.”

Allandra sighed, “I do not yell, I speak firmly.”

“That is queen yelling,” Everly said.

Serali nodded gravely. “Ah.”

“I am surrounded,” Allandra said.

“You are queen,” Serali said. “You should be used to it.”

Allandra’s gaze moved to her.

The words had come too easily. Too familiar. Too close to something that belonged in another kind of room.

Everly, mercifully or catastrophically, filled the silence.

“Can you do magic now?”

“No,” Allandra said.

Serali lifted a brow.

Everly deflated. “Why?”

“Because Serali is recovering.”

“I can do a little,” Serali said before she could decide whether she should.

Allandra looked at her sharply.

Serali looked back.

The challenge arrived naturally. Not aggressive. Not quite. Something warmer and more dangerous.

Allandra’s voice was careful. “Only if you wish.”

“I know.”

The answer changed Allandra’s face in a way Serali did not want to examine.

Serali turned to Everly instead. “Nothing impressive.”

Everly clasped her hands together.

Serali held out one hand, palm up.

The room shifted.

Allandra sat forward by half an inch, then stopped herself. Mara went still.

Serali almost stopped.

Then Everly leaned closer, eyes wide not with fear but absolute attention.

So Serali breathed in.

A thread of shadow appeared above her palm. Thin. Wavering. She twisted it once, then again, until a small dark shape formed.

Not a bird. More the idea of a bird drawn by someone who had seen one at an inconvenient distance.

It hovered for three breaths.

Then dissolved.

Everly gasped. “Again.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because my magic is lazy.”

Everly looked offended on Serali’s behalf. “Rude magic.”

“Very.”

Allandra’s expression was unreadable.

Serali did not look at her long.

“Was that Night magic?” Everly asked.

“All magic performed by Night Fae is not Night magic,” Allandra said.

Serali glanced at her.

Allandra looked back.

Not defensive. Not correcting Everly for propriety. Correcting the world, perhaps. Gently, for once.

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Serali’s chest tightened.

“Shadow work,” Serali said. “A little.”

“I liked it.”

“You have low standards.”

Everly nodded. “I am four.”

Serali laughed again.

She was laughing too much in this room.

That seemed unsafe.

For several minutes, they ate in a surprisingly comfortable silence. Then Everly looked down at the jam on her sleeve and announced, “That was already there.”

“It has spread,” Mara said gently.

Jam, apparently, was expansionist.

Allandra took a cloth from the tray and held out one hand. Everly leaned toward her without thinking, letting her mother wipe the smear from her sleeve, then her fingers, then the corner of her mouth.

Serali looked away.

Too late.

The smallness of the gesture had already found her.

A mother wiping jam from her child’s hand. A child accepting it without flinching. No fear. No calculation. No lesson hidden under tenderness.

Just care, performed carelessly because it had never had to justify itself.

Everly noticed anyway. “Did you have jam when you were little?”

Allandra’s hand stilled.

Serali could have lied.

Easily.

“I had honey,” Serali said.

Everly’s eyes widened. “Better. With bread?”

“Yes.”

“Did your mother make it?”

The room became too still.

Allandra opened her mouth.

Serali looked at her, and Allandra closed it.

Good.

“Sometimes,” Serali said. “Or my sister stole it from the pantry.”

Everly brightened. “I steal things.”

“I believe that.”

“Mama,” Everly said, triumphant, “Serali steals too.”

Allandra’s brows lifted. “That was not what I heard.”

Serali, traitor to herself, smiled. “I did steal bread.”

Everly looked vindicated. “See?”

Allandra looked at Serali.

That look again.

Warm. Sad. Too knowing.

Serali’s smile faded.

Everly asked, more softly, “Do you miss your sister?”

The question landed quietly.

No politics. No bloodline. No father.

Just sister.

Serali set her biscuit down. “Yes.”

Everly looked at her own hands. “I miss Father.”

Allandra went very still.

Serali’s gaze moved to her before she could stop it.

The queen’s face had closed into something controlled and familiar, but her hand rested on Everly’s sleeve, fingers lightly curled in the fabric.

Everly looked down. “People say I was little, but I still miss him.”

Serali looked at the child.

Four years old. Sticky-fingered. Terrifying. Grieving with the blunt honesty of someone not yet taught to make sorrow useful.

“I believe you,” Serali said.

Everly looked up.

“Grown-ups say that,” she whispered. “That I was little.”

“They are probably trying to help.”

“They are bad at it.”

Serali’s mouth twitched, though her chest hurt. “Yes. They often are.”

Everly nodded, satisfied with this alliance.

At last, Allandra said, “Everly.”

Everly looked up. “Already?”

“Yes.”

“But I was being gentle.”

“You were.”

“And mostly polite.”

“Mostly.”

Serali said, “You asked if Night Fae sleep upside down.”

Everly looked at her. “But I asked politely.”

“That is true.”

Allandra rose. “We will count that as progress.”

Everly slid off her chair, then walked to the desk, picked up the good-luck card, and adjusted it so it stood beside the others.

“There,” she said. “Now they are friends.”

The cards leaned crookedly against the lamp: the dragon and the shadow-bird, the apology and the warning not to blow up Marielle’s room.

Serali stared at them.

“They are paper,” she said.

Everly looked pitying. “Paper can still be friends.”

Serali had no answer.

Everly turned and gave a small, formal curtsy. It was only half successful. “Goodbye, Serali.”

Serali stood.

Not because protocol required it.

Because something in her did.

“Goodbye, Everly.”

Everly hesitated, then looked at Allandra. “Can I hug her?”

The room stopped breathing.

Serali felt Allandra’s gaze turn to her.

Not answering.

Asking.

Everly looked too.

Mara looked down, giving privacy where none really existed.

Serali’s first instinct was no.

No hands. No child. No softness she had not prepared for.

Then Everly added, “Only if yes.”

Only if yes.

The phrase, in that small solemn voice, undid something.

Serali swallowed. “One arm. Briefly.”

Everly accepted the terms as if they were a treaty.

She approached slowly, with a child’s exaggerated attempt at care. When she reached Serali, she put one arm around Serali’s waist and squeezed, quick and fierce.

Serali froze.

The hug lasted perhaps two seconds.

Everly stepped back at once. “Briefly.”

“Yes,” Serali said, voice not entirely steady. “That was brief.”

“You are pointy.”

Serali blinked.

Allandra made a strangled sound.

Everly continued, “You should eat more biscuits.”

Serali stared at her.

Then she laughed so hard she had to sit down.

Everly looked delighted. Allandra looked helpless. Mara looked as if she might cry into the teapot.

“Out,” Allandra said, though her voice had gone warm around the edges. “Before you offer more medical opinions.”

Everly took her mother’s hand, then looked back from the doorway.

“Do good magic,” she said.

“I’ll try.”

Everly nodded, satisfied, and allowed herself to be led out.

Mara followed with the tray, pausing only long enough to give Serali a look far too soft.

Then the door closed.

No lock.

Serali sat alone in the room, three cards propped beside the lamp, the taste of jam and spice on her tongue, the ghost of a one-armed hug still burning at her waist.

For a long time, she did not move.

Then she reached for the good-luck card and studied the shadow-bird Everly had drawn above the words.

DO GOOD MAGIC.

Serali pressed her lips together.

“Bossy little thing,” she whispered.

Chapter 75: Do Good Magic

Serali woke before dawn and spent several minutes considering whether she could fake a fever.

Not convincingly. Lia had the deeply inconvenient habit of knowing what bodies did when they were actually ill. Serali could make herself pale easily enough; fear had already done most of the work. She could shiver if required. She might even manage a cough if she were willing to commit to the performance.

But Lia would touch her wrist, look into her eyes, ask three unbearable questions, and announce that Serali was not dying, only attempting cowardice with inadequate technique.

Worse, Lia might be kind about it.

So Serali got out of bed.

The room was still dim, lamps burning low from the night before. The hearth held only embers. Outside the window, Myrae lay in layered shadow against a paling sky, the sea beyond it a dark, flat gleam. The city had not quite woken. For once, it felt less like the world was waiting to judge her and more like it had forgotten she existed.

That was pleasant.

It would not last.

On the writing desk, three cards leaned against the lamp.

SORRY YOU ARE HURT AND LOCKED.

DO GOOD MAGIC.

I AM BETTER NOW.

Serali stared at them.

The crooked dragon glared back.

“I am not taking advice from a four-year-old,” she told it.

The dragon, being paper, possessed the wisdom not to answer.

A knock sounded at the door.

Serali closed her eyes. “If that is the oath clerk, I have left the country.”

Mara’s voice came through the door. “It is not the oath clerk.”

“That is exactly what an oath clerk would say if trained in deception.”

The door opened, and Mara stepped inside with a folded gown over one arm. Behind her, the older guard took his position in the hall.

No lock followed.

Serali still listened for it.

Mara saw.

She did not comment.

Good woman.

“I brought something for you to wear,” Mara said.

Serali eyed the gown. “For the execution?”

“The demonstration.”

“That is not a denial.”

“It is a very pretty gown.”

“Many execution gowns are.”

Mara laid it across the bed.

Dark blue, nearly black in the folds. Soft wool, fine enough to move easily but structured enough not to look like sleepwear. Long sleeves. Fitted bodice. A skirt divided subtly for walking. No jeweled collar. No embroidered sunbursts. No plunging neckline designed to prove she was ornamental, available, or both.

At the cuffs, someone had stitched a narrow border of silver thread.

Not bright.

Almost like moonlight.

“Is this meant to make me look harmless?” Serali asked.

Mara considered the gown with admirable seriousness. “No.”

“Useful?”

“Perhaps.”

“Expensive?”

“A little.”

“Like I belong here?”

Mara’s hands stilled.

That had not been the question Serali intended to ask.

Mara looked at her, then at the gown. “No,” she said quietly. “Like they will have to look at you properly.”

Serali’s throat tightened.

She looked away first.

“That sounds rehearsed.”

“It isn’t.”

“Pity.”

“I could try again.”

“Don’t.”

Serali took the gown behind the screen and changed without help. Her fingers were clumsy at the fastenings. Not from weakness, she told herself. Not from fear. From irritation at early mornings, formal clothing, and people she had not yet met deciding whether she deserved to stand upright.

When she stepped out, Mara looked up.

Her expression softened.

Serali immediately scowled. “No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You looked sentimental.”

“I looked approving.”

“Worse.”

Mara moved behind her, not too close. “May I fix the lacing?”

Serali hesitated.

The word still caught sometimes.

May.

She nodded.

Mara’s fingers worked quickly and carefully. She did not tug too hard. Did not trap Serali’s breath. Did not touch her hair without warning. When she finished, she stepped away at once.

“There.”

Serali turned toward the small looking glass near the wardrobe.

For a moment, she did not understand what she saw.

The woman in the mirror looked thin, yes. Too pale, with shadows beneath violet eyes and faint marks still visible at both wrists. Her hair was loose because Serali had refused pins, falling dark around her shoulders. The gown made her seem taller. Sharper. Not court-soft. Not servant-bent. Not royal.

Something else.

Someone else.

No.

Someone.

The realization was intolerable.

Serali stepped away from the glass.

Mara pretended to adjust the empty tray.

Excellent woman.

Another knock came before either of them had to speak.

Lia entered without waiting for invitation, carrying her case and wearing the expression of a woman prepared to be disagreed with by people who should know better.

“Good,” Lia said. “You’re dressed.”

“I considered going in the nightshift.”

“I would have supported you on medical grounds if the gown constricted your breathing.”

Serali blinked. “Would you?”

“No. But I would have enjoyed watching Lady Verya react.”

Mara made a small choking sound.

Serali looked between them. “Everyone in this palace is more dangerous than advertised.”

“Yes,” Lia said. “Now sit.”

Serali sat.

Lia examined her wrists first. The red bands had faded to angry pink, still tender but no longer open. She pressed two fingers to Serali’s pulse, then turned her hand over to check the faint shadow residue beneath her nails.

“You practiced after I told you to stop.”

“No.”

Lia looked at her.

Serali looked back.

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“A little.”

“How much is a little?”

“For a powerful mage? Almost nothing.”

“For a recovering one?”

Serali glanced toward Mara, seeking assistance.

Mara had become fascinated by the fire tongs.

Coward.

“Some,” Serali said.

Lia sighed. “If you faint during the demonstration, I will be very annoyed.”

“Not concerned?”

“Concerned too, but mostly annoyed. I dislike preventable drama.”

“Then you are in the wrong palace.”

“Frequently.”

Lia moved to Serali’s ankle next, where the iron bangle had left a rust-colored ring in the skin. Her touch was gentler there.

“Any numbness?”

“No.”

“Pain?”

“No.”

“Truth?”

Serali exhaled. “It aches.”

“Sharp?”

“Dull.”

“Magic?”

Serali flexed her toes against the rug. “Strange.”

Lia looked up.

Serali hated having to explain. She looked toward the window instead. Dawn had begun to lay a pale line across the glass.

“It feels like a room after someone moves the furniture,” she said. “I know where everything should be, but I keep reaching wrong.”

Lia nodded slowly. “That is useful.”

“It feels stupid.”

“Useful often does.”

Serali looked at her. “Do you enjoy answering like that?”

“Yes.”

“At least you admit it.”

Lia wrapped a light strip of cloth around the ankle, more protective than necessary, then stood and took a small vial from her case. “Drink this.”

Serali eyed it. “What is it?”

“Water, honey, crushed salt, and three herbs for steadiness.”

“Sedative?”

“No.”

“Truth serum?”

“No.”

“Poison?”

“If I wanted to poison you, I would not do it in front of Mara. She would look disappointed.”

Mara, very softly, said, “I would.”

Serali looked at both of them.

Then she took the vial and drank.

It tasted mostly of honey and salt, with a bitter green note at the end.

“Disgusting.”

“You’re welcome,” Lia replied.

Serali wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “What happens if I fail?”

The question changed the room.

Mara stopped pretending not to listen.

Lia set the empty vial back into her case. “Then we learn what failed.”

Serali laughed once. “That is not how courts work.”

“No,” Lia said. “It is how healing works.”

“I am not being healed in front of them.”

“No. You are being tested by people who do not understand healing, magic, fear, or the cost of standing upright while others discuss whether you are useful.”

Serali stared.

Lia closed her case.

“But I will understand,” she said. “So will Her Majesty. So will Daravan, though he will look tragic about it. And Marielle will understand the mechanics, which is less comforting but probably useful.”

Serali’s throat felt tight.

“That was almost encouraging.”

“I am improving.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“I am old enough not to get used to anything.”

Another knock.

This one was different.

Not softer. Not louder.

Just hers.

Serali hated that she knew.

Mara moved to answer, but Allandra opened the door before she reached it, then stopped at the threshold as if belatedly remembering that doors were meant to be negotiated now.

Her eyes found Serali.

For one breath, the room went quiet in the way it always did when Allandra looked at her too directly.

The queen wore formal court clothes today: a fitted coat of deep green over pale gold, hair braided back with a narrow band at the crown. Not the training-ground trousers. Not the disordered evening coat. Queen again. Mantle again.

But her gaze moved over Serali with something no court could file into law.

The gown. The loose hair. The uncovered wrists.

Serali felt herself warm and hated everyone involved.

Allandra’s voice, when it came, was steady. “Are you ready?”

“No.”

Allandra’s mouth curved faintly. “Good.”

Serali blinked. “Good?”

“If you had said yes, I would have worried Lia had drugged you.”

“I would never,” Lia said.

Allandra looked at her.

Lia amended, “Not without cause.”

Serali almost laughed.

The fact that she could, even now, seemed impossible.

Daravan appeared behind Allandra, fully armored but without a helm, looking as if he had slept three hours and resented each one for ending.

He looked at Serali.

Then at the cards on the desk.

Wisely, he said nothing.

“Royal Mage,” he said instead.

“Provisional.”

“Of course.”

“You look terrible.”

“Thank you.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I.”

Allandra glanced at him. “Daravan.”

He straightened. “The chamber is ready. Lady Verya, Lady Marielle, and the clerk are present. Lord Merrow attempted to enter and was redirected.”

Serali’s brows rose. “Redirected?”

Daravan’s face remained solemn. “He remembered an urgent appointment elsewhere.”

“Did he?”

“After I reminded him.”

Allandra closed her eyes briefly.

Serali found herself smiling.

Only a little.

It faded when she looked toward the hall.

Ready or not, the room had reached the edge of itself. There would be no more stalling. No more clauses. No more private revisions or small threads of shadow above her palm. Somewhere ahead, Lady Verya waited to determine whether law could tolerate her. Lady Marielle waited to see whether she could be useful without destroying masonry. Daravan waited to intervene if she lost control. Lia waited to prove she had not.

Allandra waited too.

Serali did not know what for.

Perhaps that was the problem.

Allandra stepped aside from the doorway, leaving it open.

Not ordering.

Serali rose.

The gown moved around her legs, unfamiliar but not restrictive. Her ankle ached. Her wrists pulsed. Magic sat beneath her skin, restless and uncertain.

Serali crossed the room.

At the threshold, she stopped beside Allandra.

Not touching.

Close enough that the bond noticed.

Allandra did not look at her mouth.

Good.

Serali might have murdered her.

Instead, the queen said quietly, “If at any point you need to stop, say so.”

Serali kept her eyes forward. “Will they let me?”

“I will.”

That was not the same thing.

It was, however, not nothing.

Serali nodded once.

Then she stepped into the hall.

The guards fell in behind them. Mara remained at the door, hands folded, trying to look like a proper maid and failing because worry had become visible around the edges.

Serali glanced back.

Mara straightened. “Do good magic.”

Serali narrowed her eyes. “Has the child been giving orders to the entire palace?”

“Yes,” Daravan said.

“No one seems concerned.”

“We are all very concerned.”

Allandra’s mouth twitched.

Serali shook her head and started down the corridor.

The palace was waking now. Servants moved at the far end of the hall. A page carrying letters stopped, stared, and remembered himself so violently that he nearly dropped the bundle. Two maids dipped curtsies. A footman opened a door and froze with one hand on the latch.

They all looked.

Of course they looked.

Serali lifted her chin.

Let them.

The title was not hers yet. The oath was not signed. The room ahead might still turn against her.

But she was not being dragged.

She was walking.

For the moment, that would have to be enough.