Whitehall Palace, London

Jane walked up Idol Lane. She had neatened herself as much as possible—although the state of her face (swollen, bruised, scabbed, black-eyed) meant that she was a sorry sight indeed.

A youth passing glanced at her, and then hurried on, not quite managing to stifle his snigger and Jane coloured as she turned down Little Tower Street and then eventually down an alley running parallel with Cheapside.

Oh gods, that once she had walked this way when she had been beautiful and powerful, and all who had passed her had bowed in respect.

Now, here she walked, a bedraggled, humiliated prostitute, off to visit Brutus.

A king.

How would he regard her? With pity? Revulsion? Surely not with respect.

A sudden, horrible thought occurred to Jane. Were Ecub and Erith there as well? Would they smile in satisfaction, and send cruel barbs her way?

Jane forced herself to think of Noah to take her mind away from how Ecub and Erith, not to mention Brutus, might treat her. She’d meant what she said to Noah the previous night; Ariadne should not have been able to pull Noah to her side with the power that she used. Noah was not a trained Mistress of the Labyrinth, so that meant only one thing.

She must have it bred within her. Gods, how had that come about?

Jane crossed into the square about St Paul’s and, without a glance at the cathedral, walked down towards Ludgate and Fleet Street. She felt numb. Jane’s one remaining piece of pride had been in her ability to deny or grant Noah powers as Mistress of the Labyrinth as she, Jane, chose. If you want me to teach you the craft of the Mistress of the Labyrinth, then do this, or be that, or grant me this wish.

Now even that was taken away from her.

Even Noah didn’t need her any more. Sooner or later Noah was going to realise that she barely needed to snap her fingers to assume the powers of Mistress.

But why? Why? And how long had Noah been carrying this potential? Had she, even as Cornelia, been harbouring the power of the labyrinth?

How? How?

Jane was walking past Charing Cross and her steps slowed. It was now but a short walk to her total mortification. She made the effort to straighten her spine, square her shoulders and bring her emotions under some kind of control.

Finally managing to attain some semblance of calm, Jane walked to the gates of Whitehall Palace. There was a crowd gathered composed of curiosity seekers and supplicants, and Jane had to shove her way through so that she could speak to the guards.

And how was she going to argue her way past them? Impress them with her regal bearing, her pride, her damned, cursed power?

“I am Jane Orr,” she said as she finally managed to stand before them. “I have come to present my respects to His Majesty, King Charles.”

The four guards looked her up and down, glanced among themselves, and then, incredibly, one of them shrugged and opened the gate enough for her to slip through.

“Follow me,” said another and, stupefied (had Weyland arranged this?), Jane trailed a pace or two behind the guard as he led her into the palace.

Tears threatened again as she walked as softly as she was able through the palace. Never had she felt so shabby, so unworthy, as she did in this royal building. Everywhere was gilt, or marble, or rich, dark carved wood dressed with silk and velvet.

Everyone she passed stopped and stared, their eyes round, their mouths open.

Aghast.

Jane stiffened more with each step, her head held unnaturally high, her eyes focussed straight ahead, wondering if some of those exquisitely clothed courtiers were even now sending for the servants, to wash and scrub the path where Jane had trod.

What manner of king, they would be thinking, would want this in his presence?

The guard led her into grander and grander apartments, until they reached a series of massive rooms that opened each into the other. It was, Jane realised, the end of her journey. Here the final approach to the king, through the series of waiting and audience rooms, where, in each succeeding chamber, the hopeful supplicant would be vetted by increasingly senior members of the king’s household, to be judged and either allowed to continue on the pilgrimage to the royal person, or to be cast aside, and asked to leave the palace forthwith.

Here even more people stared at her: those waiting, or those already told their application to be received by the king had been unsuccessful. Here they stood or sat, watching as a tattered, thin, beaten prostitute was shown through chamber after chamber without any examination.

Why oh why, Jane thought, couldn’t the guard have brought me to Charles via some unknown way, some servants’ passage?

Then Jane realised that Charles had wanted this, had wanted her to suffer the ultimate humiliation.

He’d wanted her to endure this open shame, this public crucifixion.

He’d wanted her paraded through his palace as…what? Triumph on his part? Malice? Punishment? Entertainment?

As the guard brought Jane to a halt outside the final doorway leading to the king’s private audience room, the royal parlour, Jane briefly closed her eyes. It had come to this, all the promises and ambitions and power of three thousand years before.

Hatred, revenge, humiliation.

“You may enter,” said the richly dressed man whom the guard had addressed. The man, probably the palace chamberlain, lifted an eyebrow at her, and pointedly stepped back…then pulled a snowy handkerchief from his coat pocket and held it to his nose.

The doors swung open, and Jane, hating herself more than she thought humanly possible, entered.

King Charles’ private audience room was smaller than Jane had initially expected.

It was also dimmer, and she had to stop a few paces inside the doors and blink, trying to refocus her vision.

There were only a few lamps burning which, combined with the fact that the heavy drapes at the windows had been pulled closed, meant the room was as dark as twilight.

The chamber gradually came into focus. Its walls were hung with green damask silk, matching the drapes at the windows. The domed ceiling was ivory, and richly gilded. The accoutrements of power were everywhere: the gold glinting from ceiling and chairs and table tops; the richness of the Oriental carpets on the solid mahogany floors; the oil portraits of King Charles I and his queen, Henrietta Maria, as well as the current Charles’ grandfather, James I; the all-pervading sense of power in the room.

It was that sense of power that brought Jane to her senses. She glanced about. There were two women standing almost hidden in the drapery by the window.

There was a man—dark, tall, lithe—standing to one side of the dais. He had a hand on his sword, and his face was swathed in dark anger.

Coel? she wondered, and her heart beat faster as she recalled that strange dream she’d had while unconscious after Weyland’s attack. She looked at the man again, wondering at the anger on his face.

Finally, Jane looked to the dais. There were two thrones atop it, and Jane looked first to the queen.

She was tiny, and dark, and sat sitting forward, her arm propped on the arm of the gilded throne, resting her delicate chin on one hand. She wore a speculative expression on her face, and Jane could see strength and determination there as well.

Jane felt her mouth go dry. That was Matilda-reborn. Queen again, at Brutus’ side, and once more witness to Jane’s mortification.

Finally, Jane looked at Brutus himself: Charles II of England.

There was something “hidden” about him; Jane’s eyes were now accustomed to the dimness of the room, and she should have been able to make him out as clearly as she had Catharine, his queen.

But much of Charles remained hidden. She could feel him, feel the power of the kingship bands about him (and yet even that was muted, as if also hiding behind some enchantment), but she could make out little else save for his overall height and the vast richness of his clothes.

He made an expostulatory sound, as if Jane had somehow annoyed him, and rose.

Scared almost to death, Jane sank to her knees—wishing she had thought to do this the instant she’d entered the chamber—and hung her head low.

Perhaps this way he won’t see how terrified I am. How ashamed I am. How—

“Jane,” he said, and she literally jumped at the kindness and gentleness in his voice.

She shifted her eyes forward, and saw a pair of beautifully tooled scarlet leather boots.

She lifted her gaze a little higher, and saw the fine cut of his silken and velvet breeches.

Still higher, and Jane saw the richly brocaded and jewelled doublet he wore, saw the lace that cascaded from the cuffs of his sleeves, saw the gems on the fingers of his hands as they rested relaxed on his hips.

Still higher, and she saw his face.

And in that moment, as she heard herself gasp and as she heard everyone else in the room step forward and move to encircle her, Jane was absolutely certain that she was a dead woman.

She looked into the handsome face of Charles II, looked at his black curling hair, felt the aura of the golden bands of Troy emanate from his flesh, looked at the power in his dark eyes.

Looked at the knowledge in them.

And recognised him.

“You’re not Brutus,” she said.