“For so long.” Natalia chuckles, watching the smoke swirl patterns in the air. It was not really so long. But it was pleasant. They have not been together for months, and she is surprised to find she has missed it. Missed him, in a way.
Chatworth tugs his arm from beneath her head and stubs out his cigar.
“Do you have it, then?” he asks.
“Of course I do. It is the main reason I came.”
She hands him a small bottle, and he holds it gingerly between two fingers.
“Stop being afraid of it,” she says. “You could drink it all and it would not kill you. Nor will it hurt if it gets on your hands.”
She sits up in the small bed and reaches for her clothes: a servant’s uniform that she changed into on the carriage ride from Greavesdrake.
“If it’s so weak,” he wonders, “why bother?”
“Insurance. I would take the wind out of that elemental. My Katharine wants the chance to humiliate her. So she shall have it.” Natalia stands and fastens the last of her buttons. Chatworth remains on the bed, languorous and confident. Perhaps overconfident, and it occurs to her that, aside from having bluster and money, he has never shown any particular skill.
“If you are caught . . . ,” she says, and pauses. “Do not get caught.”
“Don’t worry. Everyone in that camp trusts my son. And Sara Westwood has come to trust me.”
“Has she? Then she is an even bigger fool than I thought.”
“Don’t be jealous,” he says, but he means the opposite. He is such a vain and beautiful man. She wonders whether that son of his will grow to be just as vain, just as arrogant. Whether he will be difficult to manage when he is Katharine’s king-consort.
“Come back to bed.”
“There is no time.”
“But I like you so much in that outfit.” He tries to grab her, but she steps away and whips his arms with her cotton apron.
“Just poison that elemental brat, will you, and stop playing about!” She turns and leaves amid his laughter, to sneak back onto the docks and return home unnoticed.
THE QUEENS’ BALL
Jules spins out of the way as a servant with a tray of wine nearly crashes into her. He calls her an imbecile, and she grits her teeth and curtsies. She must keep her head bowed. Joseph’s orders, as he said her two-colored eyes made her far too easy to notice, even with Camden safely hidden away in a nearby stable.
“There’s a bounty on your head,” he said. “And the city is crawling with guards. You shouldn’t go at all!”
But Arsinoe could not rest easy without at least one set of eyes on Mirabella, so here Jules is.
Jules lowers her chin and walks through the corridors bordering the kitchen nearest the northern ballroom. Many guests are already inside, and more rustle through the doors every minute. Close to the entrance, there are too many searching glances gawking at the finery and hoping for a glimpse of the queens. But those will lessen once Mirabella and Katharine make their entrances and draw away all of the attention.
Jules turns down a hall, the heels of her boots loud against the floor. The stone of the Highbern Hotel amplifies everything, and though the passageways are wide and well-aired by the opening and closing front doors, to Jules they are suffocating. Nothing in the capital is open enough, and she misses the fields and docks of home.
She turns and pretends to move a vase as another servant passes by.
“Nothing will happen here, anyway, with all these people and priestesses milling about,” she mutters before realizing Camden is not there to mutter to. She should have stayed with Joseph and Arsinoe or gone with Aunt Caragh and Madrigal to the dueling arena. She is about to do just that, when a black cloak catches her eye, passing the kitchens.
“What’s this now?” she whispers, before following it down the corridor.
Mirabella and Billy wait on the staircase outside of the ballroom’s eastern entrance, two still statues in the midst of chaos as attendants put finishing touches on Mirabella’s makeup and straighten the fall of her gown and Billy’s coattails. Mirabella’s fingers rest in the crook of Billy’s arm. On some other staircase, she does not doubt that Katharine’s rest similarly in Nicolas Martel’s.
Billy looks over at her. His choker of black gems sparkles at her throat, and he smiles. Her future king-consort. Her suitor now, for real.
On the other side of the large wooden door, sounds of the ball grow quiet and she hears Luca’s muffled voice announce her entrance.
“It is time,” Sara whispers over her shoulder, and the door opens.
“Are we supposed to smile and nod?” Billy asks. “How do we play to the crowd when more than half of them want you dead?”
Mirabella laughs. It breaks the spell of silence, and the guests begin to whisper among themselves. They murmur about her dress. About her jewels. About how lovely she and the suitor look together. Billy helps her up the steps to the Westwood table, and they stand behind their chairs to wait for Katharine.
They do not have to wait long. When she appears, the guests muffle, poisoners and non-poisoners alike. Katharine’s skirt flares out with her long strides, her hair in shining curls. She does not seem small anymore. She does not seem at all like the pale, pinned-tight girl she was atop the cliffs when Mirabella was first reunited with her at the Disembarking.
“The Undead Queen,” they whisper. But she has never seemed more alive.
“She wants it more than I do,” Mirabella says, watching Katharine’s lips curl as she turns to whisper into Nicolas’s ear.
“It doesn’t matter,” Billy replies stiffly. “She still won’t get it.”
Before Katharine and her suitor take their place amid the Arrons, dazzling in their snakes and scorpions, Katharine cocks her head at Mirabella and winks. Nicolas smiles at Billy and discreetly spits onto the floor.
Billy’s jaw tightens.
“You are right; it does not matter,” Mirabella says, and squeezes his hand.
“Fine,” he says as they sit. “But if he takes part in the Hunt of the Stags this year, he’ll find my boot in his back in the middle of the woods.”
She has no doubt that is true. Billy is so like Arsinoe was. What a fine match they would have made had she lived. Thinking of Arsinoe, she watches Katharine intently until the Highbern is rattled by a great, cold gust of wind. Inside, the guests shudder and duck.
“Tomorrow,” Bree says out of the side of her mouth. “Save it for the duel!” She stretches her long leg past Sara’s skirts to kick Mirabella beneath the table, and Mirabella tears her eyes away from her sister so the wind will quiet.
Yes. Tomorrow.
The musicians begin to play. Servants circulate small bunches of dark purple grapes and cups of wine. There is excitement in the air. The people are joyous, celebrating, and if there is any undercurrent at all, it is of relief. One queen has been killed, and two stand ready to claim the crown. Things are as they should be.
Bree pushes away from the long table and takes both Mirabella and Billy by the hands.
“Come, let us dance!”
They step onto the floor, and the crowd parts to make room, priestess guards gathering around the edge. Bree stays only a moment, smiling and twirling in circles before she wanders away to find her own partner. She will not have much trouble. Bree is luminous as always, and her festival gown is easily the most beautiful: strapless and black, with silver beads sewn into the fabric.
Billy turns Mirabella about, keeping close to the Westwood table.
“You are a very fine dancer,” Mirabella says.
“I ought to be, after six years of forced lessons. I can do most any dance you would require, for any formal occasion.”
“You probably know dances that I have never heard of.”
“Possibly. But don’t worry. I’m also a very fine teacher.” His eyes are warm. Charming and wrinkled at the corners. For a moment, it seems as if Arsinoe’s eyes are boring into her back, and Billy misses his step.
�
�What is wrong?” she asks.
“Nothing,” he says quickly. “Nothing. I only thought I saw . . . Never mind.”
She tugs Billy close and squeezes him.
“I think I can feel her, too,” she whispers.
They keep dancing but on stiff legs. When he turns her toward the poisoner table, she glares at Katharine and hopes her little sister can feel the hatred from them both. “Look,” Billy says when they turn back to the Westwoods. “My father is here.”
William Chatworth is leaning across her table, talking to Sara. He is leaning so far that his sleeves are nearly dipping into their wine cups.
“He didn’t tell me he was going to be here.” Billy spins her faster. “He’s probably angry that I didn’t tell him about our betrothal.” He pulls her sharply around.
“Ouch!”
“Oh! I’m sorry,” he says. His eyes narrow at his father walking around the table now to take Mirabella’s empty seat beside Sara. “Nothing distracts me quite like he does. Did I hurt you?”
“No. You—” She stops. For a moment, she thinks she is imagining it, but there is Joseph. Watching them from the crowd. “What are you . . . ?” she whispers.
Joseph shakes his head. He steps back to disappear into the other guests, but Bree has seen him too, and grabs him and drags him into a dance, chattering furiously into his ear.
“Bree,” Mirabella calls, and Bree presses her lips together in a very serious, un-Bree-like line. She dances Joseph closer.
“He should not be here,” Bree hisses, holding on to him with a grip like iron.
“Why not?” Billy asks. “He’s my foster brother, isn’t he?”
“Billy,” Joseph says. He glances around furtively. His dark hair is brushed back, and those storm-blue eyes of his can take Mirabella to the ground with one look. “Jules is here somewhere.”
“Oh.” Billy pulls Mirabella slightly away. “What is she doing here? When did she get back?”
“I can’t explain now,” Joseph says. “And I can’t stay. I’ll find you later.” He spins Bree out and lets go to slip smoothly into the crowd.
“That was strange,” says Mirabella.
“I am going to tell the priestesses he is here,” Bree whispers, but Mirabella stops her.
“No, Bree. It was nothing. It is harmless.”
Bree seems unsure, but eventually she nods, and goes off to find another dancing partner.
“I would know what happened to Arsinoe,” Billy says. “I want to know where Jules took her. I want to know. . . .”
“So do I,” says Mirabella, and turns to glare again at Katharine.
Jules catches the black-cloaked figure when they have stopped to watch the dancing from behind the folds of a curtained doorway. She grasps the figure from behind and covers their mouth, lifting them up so that, despite Jules’s shorter size, the cloaked figure’s legs kick uselessly in the air.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she asks, tearing down the hood and depositing Arsinoe in a corner.
“Stop grabbing at me,” Arsinoe whispers, arms slapping at Jules’s shoulders. “You’ll get us both caught!” She pulls her hood back up to hide her face. “I only wanted to see.”
“I told you to stay back and that I would watch out for her. Didn’t you trust me? And how did you slip away from Joseph?”
“Oh, like it was hard,” Arsinoe says sarcastically. “Ditching Camden was the real challenge.”
“Where are they now?”
“Here, probably. Looking for me.”
Jules purses her lips. She takes Arsinoe by the shoulder and begins to haul her out, down the quiet corridor, toward one of the servants’ side exits to the street.
“You are reckless,” Jules says.
“I know, but—” Arsinoe struggles out of her grip.
“Don’t make me use my war gift to throw you out of here.”
“You would never,” Arsinoe says, and grins. But the smile slides off her face. “Did you see the way they were dancing? Mirabella and Billy?”
Jules puts an arm around her. When she shoves her toward the door now, it is much more gently.
“You say Mirabella loves you. Well, so does Billy. They think you’re dead, Arsinoe. They’re probably missing you together.”
“But he’ll be her king-consort, won’t he? And if I stay dead, I won’t be able to . . . run away with him . . . anywhere.” She looks down. “I was supposed to be able to let him know, Jules.”
“I know it’s hard. But you can’t be seen. What good would it do? We just have to get Mirabella through the duel and then we can decide what to do next.”
“All right,” Arsinoe says, and lets Jules lead her through the dark streets of the capital.
Katharine’s eyes narrow as she watches Mirabella. Her pretty sister, so easily beloved by the island. So easily gifted. Everything for her so easy but never earned. Never deserved.
Beside her, Nicolas keeps feeding her bits of this and that and commenting on some of the stranger fashions. He is a fly, buzzing in her ear. Katharine crushes a grape in her gloved hand. But the cloth is so thick to cover her poisoning scars that she cannot even feel the juice.
“Make her look at me again,” Katharine whispers. “Make her care.”
But Mirabella does not. She goes on dancing with the Chatworth boy, as rigid as if she were strapped to a pole.
“What did you say, Queen Katharine?” Nicolas asks.
“Nothing,” she replies. The entire ballroom is focused on Mirabella. The Arrons have never seen so many turned backs.
“Traitors,” she whispers.
Katharine pushes her chair away from the table and stands. She is of so little consequence to the crowd that she could move across the floor unnoticed.
So she does.
Katharine appears out of nowhere and slips in between Mirabella and Billy like a snake, so fast that neither can think to act. Everything stops. Bows drag to a halt on musicians’ strings.
“Play,” Katharine commands. She wraps her gloved hands around Mirabella’s wrists and drags her to the middle of the emptying floor.
The music is an awkward plucking.
“What are you doing?” Mirabella asks, her eyes wide.
“Dancing with my sister,” replies Katharine. “Though I would not call your movements dancing, exactly. Are your legs made of wood?”
Mirabella clenches her jaw. She grabs on to Katharine’s gloved wrists.
“You are so afraid.” Katharine smiles prettily. “The chosen queen would not be so afraid.”
“I am not afraid. I am angry.”
Katharine draws Mirabella in close as they spin slowly past the tables, past the gaping mouths of the guests and servants frozen with trays raised in the air. After they pass the Westwood table, Luca stands and walks quickly toward Natalia’s chair.
“This is not done, Katharine.”
“Then how are we doing it?” Katharine grins. She tilts her head to consider Mirabella’s face and hair.
“You are beautiful, sister. Hair so carefully brushed. Cheeks so flawless and free of paint and powder. No scars and no rashes, even after all the presents I sent. Tell me, has even one found its way to you?”
“It found its way to a priestess.”
Katharine clucks her tongue.
“The poor girl. But that is your fault, for letting them intervene in our business.”
She steps back and whirls Mirabella around. Theirs is the only movement in the room, and the music plays clumsily, as even the violinists are staring.
“Do you know what I think?” Katharine asks. “I think you are a shame. I think you are a waste.”
Her fingers trace Mirabella’s veins, envying her unblemished skin.
“You are the strongest,” she says. “You could be the one. But up close, you are such a disappointment. Your eyes are wary as a kicked dog’s, when you and I both know you have never been kicked in your life. Not like me, who has been kicked down with poisons a
nd popped blisters and made to vomit until I weep.
“That is why I am going to win,” she goes on as they twirl. “I may be the weakest, but I am a queen, through and through. All the way down to my dead blood and bones.”
“Katharine, stop this now.” Mirabella’s voice is pitiful. And she shudders when Katharine leans close.
“Do you know what they do with the dead queens, sister?” Katharine asks. “Do you know what they do with their bodies?”
She stops the farce of a dance to stand still in the center of the floor and jerks Mirabella toward her until they are chest to chest and eye to eye.
“They throw them into the Breccia for the island to eat. And may I tell you a secret?”
Katharine’s lips press to Mirabella’s ear, almost like a kiss.
“They are tired of it.”
THE BRECCIA DOMAIN
Pietyr walks his mare slowly through Innisfuil Valley. She is tired. So is he. He traded his silver armband for her at the last coach stop before the mountain pass and has not slept since getting out of the coach. Nearly two solid days of fast travel, by coach and on three horses, but he made it. Or at least he thinks so. He has only come to Innisfuil for Beltane, and without the glut of black and white tents, the place looks completely unfamiliar.
Pietyr rides along the edge of the southern trees. He is hesitant to plunge in. Despite sunlight so bright it is near blinding, the valley does not feel safe or peaceful. It feels watchful, and overeager for visitors.
When they enter the trees, the mare shies and he dismounts. If she were to spook when they reach the Breccia, she could send them both plummeting over the edge. He leads her slowly and pats her muzzle. She does not like these trees empty of birds, these woods empty of sound, any better than he does.
Soon enough the ground changes, and his mare’s hooves ring off small half-submerged stones. Pietyr lifts his head and sees the Breccia, though he would swear it had not been visible a moment before.
The Breccia Domain. A deep, dark cut into the heart of the island. It is blacker than a crow’s wing, blacker than night. It is where they once threw the bodies of the vanquished queens, and where he threw his Kat when he thought the priestesses were going to behead her.
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