In the dream, Daphne and Henry step out of the passageway. In the corner of her vision, Arsinoe sees that they came from a door hidden behind a tapestry of hunting dogs. Daphne smooths the waist of her dark red gown, and Henry adjusts the fall of her white veil. He pulls his hands away quickly at the sound of a voice.
“My lord, your lady mother wishes to see you. To see you both.”
“All right. Where is she?”
“Waiting in her privy chamber, my lord.”
Privy chamber. What exactly is a privy chamber?
Arsinoe watches, carried easily along inside Daphne’s body as they make their way to the chamber. She studies the woman they bow to (must be Henry’s lady mother) as well as the relative plainness of the room. The woman is obviously high-born, dressed in a fine gown in cloth of silver, but the rug beneath their feet is thinner than Arsinoe is used to and the stone walls, very rough.
“Mother, what is it? You look positively gleeful!”
“And I am,” she says as Henry bends to kiss her hand.
“It is good news, then,” says Daphne. “That is a relief.”
“We have had a letter from the king. Henry is to go to the isle of Fennbirn. He is to be this generation’s suitor for the crown, the only one sent in all of Centra.”
“Fennbirn!” Fennbirn! Henry looks at Daphne excitedly.
He’s a suitor. But why am I dreaming of a suitor and his sister? She feels something in the way that Henry grasps on to Daphne’s hand. Or perhaps NOT a sister.
“But why me, Mother? Are you certain? Has there been no mistake?”
“We have no reason to think so,” his mother says. “The letter was signed by the king’s own hand and sealed with his seal. And we are always among his favorites at court. This is a boon to your father, in payment for past loyalties.”
Kings. Centran courts. I don’t know anything about Centra. Mirabella ought to be dreaming this. She knows everything.
“When do I leave?” Henry asks.
“Soon,” says his mother. “Very soon. Our young ward Richard will accompany you to the isle and remain there during your suit, as an ally and protection.”
“What about Daphne?”
“Daphne will remain here.”
Henry and Daphne look at each other with wide eyes, and Arsinoe’s heart aches for them. It is the same way she looked at Jules when she and Camden sailed away.
“But Mother—”
“No.” His mother takes a breath, and her face brightens. “Now go and prepare for supper. Your lord father is sorry to miss tonight’s celebration, but he will return from court in a week’s time to see you off.”
They stand, and his mother kisses Henry on both of his cheeks. Daphne starts to leave with him, but his mother grasps her by the arm.
“I would keep you a moment, Daphne.”
Daphne and Arsinoe sink back into the chair, though Arsinoe’s eyes follow Henry as long as they can.
“You knew this day would come,” his mother says. “That someday, Henry would make a great marriage and increase our lands and our fortune.”
“Of course I did.”
And even though a stranger, Arsinoe can hear the strain in Daphne’s voice.
“But I thought he would remain here. That his bride would come, with her lands and titles, and she and Henry would live here.”
“And so she will if he is successful. He will return a king! With a queen, as soon as their reign on Fennbirn is over.”
Inside Daphne, Arsinoe sneers.
“And what am I to do, Lady Redville? Without Henry? Without Richard?”
“You will do what all women do. You will wait for the men to make their ways in the world.”
Ugh.
“Do not despair. You are a foundling, of no noble blood, so there can be no great marriage for you. But you will always have a place in my household as one of my ladies. And I am sure that Henry’s queen would have you as a lady as well.”
I suppose it’s better than being put out on the street. Which is where my sister and I would be without Billy.
Luckily, the uncomfortable conversation with Henry’s mother, Lady Redville, does not last long, and Daphne is able to carry Arsinoe out and back into the hall, where Henry promptly ambushes them.
“Well? Did you change her mind?”
“Me? Why don’t you? You’re her son! And you didn’t say a word.”
His hair is windblown, and though boys seemed older by that age in those old times, to Arsinoe he still looks very young. Too young to be a king-consort. And so unschooled in the ways of the island. She can imagine Billy standing so, talking to his sister, Jane, with a similar thoughtful expression.
“I didn’t know what to say,” says Henry. “She has never tried to separate us before.”
“It is a fool’s time to start. When you’re being sent so far away, under newly minted favor of the king. And the isle of Fennbirn . . . who knows a thing about it? They say it is full of witches and magic. . . .”
Watch your tongue, foundling. . . .
“You don’t believe that,” he says.
“But how would we know? Centra hasn’t had a winning suitor for generations. Why is the king sending you anyway? He has plenty of sons!”
“Fennbirn is a prize for nobles, Daph. You know that.”
“That clever look on your face. You want to be king, don’t you? You want to be the king of Fennbirn Island.”
“Daphne.” He laughs. “Who would not? It will be a great adventure. I wish you could come. But I will tell you everything when I return.”
They are quiet for a moment, and that look of separation comes back into Henry’s eyes.
He loves her. He loves her, but he’s going to go anyway.
“I don’t want you to go,” she says suddenly.
“You don’t? Daph—” he reaches out, and she turns quickly away. “Why do you not want me to go?”
“You know why!”
“Do I?”
Do you? Spit it out, then, Daphne. Arsinoe tries to prod, to quicken Daphne’s mind. But she is only a dreamer, and this is far, far in the past. Whatever happened, there is no changing it.
“You know that I can protect you just as well as Richard,” Daphne says, and Arsinoe groans.
“I should be going with you. Who will look out for you? Who will make sure that you’re safe?”
Henry’s hands draw back to his sides. “I wish you had said something else.”
“What else?”
“You think of me still as a child. How can you not see what I have become? That I am not some tottering little boy.”
“Henry—”
“Well, I am not a boy. I am a man. I will be a king, and I will be a lord. Your lord,” he adds, and Arsinoe likes him a little less.
“Daph. Forgive me. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“But that’s the way it is,” Daphne snaps. “Thank you, Lord Henry, for reminding me.”
He storms out, and she spins so fast that Arsinoe is near sick to her stomach. But when she stops, it is to face a mirror, and Arsinoe sees why she is dreaming in the body that she is.
Daphne’s hair and eyes are black as night. Even her natural hair, cropped short and barely peeking out from beneath the wig. Daphne may be a foundling, but she is a foundling queen of Fennbirn.
INDRID DOWN TEMPLE
Anxious butterflies tumble in Bree Westwood’s stomach as the carriage draws to a stop before Indrid Down Temple. The carriage door swings open, and she looks up, taking it all in: the grandeur of the facade, so fiercely black, with carved gargoyles snarling down. It is not as beautiful as the temple in Rolanth; it lacks the soft, artful touches, but she must admit it is imposing. Struck in the center of the capital like a great black sword into the earth.
“Do you need someone to go in with you, miss?” the driver asks. “Announce you?”
“No.” Bree steps out of the coach and rolls her shoulders back. “I am expected.”
Her legs kick out in long strides, the show of confidence easy after years of practice. But she hates the wobbly feeling in her knees and the butterflies still boiling in her belly. She hates that High Priestess Luca summoned her at all, but mostly, she hates that she felt compelled to show up.
When the heavy temple doors close behind her, cutting off the sounds of the city and trapping her along with the breeze, she nearly bolts. She should not have come. Luca should have come to them. She should have come to Westwood House on her knees after what she did to Mirabella. Instead she appointed Bree to the Black Council—along with herself and her pet monster, Rho, of course—and wrote that Bree should join her for tea at the temple before appearing at the Volroy.
“This way, Miss Westwood,” says a tall, reedy priestess with a light blond braid sticking out from her hood. Ice-blond and in the capital: probably an Arron. Indrid Down Temple must be crawling with them. Bree glances at the priestesses sweeping or tending the altar, praying before the great black glass in the floor that they call the Goddess Stone. Their white hoods and black bracelets are supposed to strip them of their names and gifts. But Bree feels like she is walking through a nest of vipers.
She follows the priestess through the temple’s interior rooms, past the small open cloister, and down a set of steps into a chamber lit only by torches.
“The High Priestess’s rooms are not far.”
Bree stops. “I will wait for her here.”
“But—”
“Just bring her to me.” She shrugs out of her cloak and slings it across the back of a chair. “And tell her not to tarry.”
She does not look at the priestess before she goes, so she does not know whether the girl’s mouth dropped open. But it probably did. Perhaps telling the High Priestess not to tarry was going a little too far.
Bree considers sitting in the chair, affecting a bored pose as she waits. But the chair faces the door and the hall where Luca would approach from, and angry as she is, Bree knows that were she and Luca to stare at each other for the length of the hall, she would look away first. So instead she wanders the confines of the small stuffy chamber, studying the fragments of ancient mosaic on the floor and the hangings on the wall: poisoner depictions of deaths by boils, and a snake wreathed in poisonous flowers. There are also tapestries of familiars and battles, but they are much, much smaller.
“Bree Westwood. I am glad you have come.”
Bree turns. The High Priestess stands in the doorway with a look of affection on her face, hands folded.
“Of course I came. You named me to the Black Council. Mother was thrilled. She’s installed an entire household for me in the north end of the city.”
“Good. And are you finding it comfortable?” Luca steps aside as a priestess arrives carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. She sets it on the table.
“Shall I serve?” the girl asks.
“No.” Luca waves her away. “I will serve. If you will sit, Bree?”
“I will not.” She lifts her chin. It is a hard thing to refuse Luca, whom she has known and been fond of for most of her life. Whom she has been taught for so long to revere. “One pot of tea and a seat on the Black Council is not going to make everything better.”
“I see.”
“You joined with them and ordered her execution!”
Luca nods. She pours cups for them both and sweetens her own with honey. “But she was not executed.”
“No thanks to you. You would have been there when it happened. You would have stood there and watched while Queen Katharine killed her!”
“I know,” Luca says. “And she would have known. It is that which keeps me up at night, above everything else. That she went into the sea knowing that I abandoned her.”
“Went into the sea? So you believe that she is dead?”
“A storm rose up in the mist, and came for the ship.”
“A storm couldn’t kill Mira.”
“That would depend on whose storm it was.”
Bree clenches her teeth. Of course. The Goddess’s storm. That is what they say came for the queens. And Luca is the Goddess’s most important servant. Loyal only to her, and to her will. “You are such a wretched old woman.”
Luca’s eyes snap to hers and Bree quiets. Those eyes are not old.
“You are angry, Bree. I understand. But dead or not, Mira is gone, and we must make something of what she left behind. With we three on the council, it will be nearly as if she were the one wearing the crown.”
“I should oppose you,” Bree says bitterly. “I should do it for her.”
“That is not what she would want.”
“You do not know what she would want.”
Luca sighs. “Then what do you want? What must I do? What amends can I make?” She smiles. “Or should I pass you over for your mother?”
Bree is well aware that Luca only appointed her to the Black Council as an act of contrition. And perhaps because she would be a more effective thorn in Queen Katharine’s side than her mother would be. If she cooperates.
“Elizabeth will stay with us, always,” Bree says. “The temple will make no more demands on her. And you will allow her to recall her familiar.”
“Priestesses do not have familiars. We do not have gifts. She made her choice.” But Luca’s expression is soft. She does not really care about one tiny tufted woodpecker.
“Rho made her choose between taking her priestess vows that very moment or watching her bird be crushed. It was not really a choice. Pepper is small. She hid him before. She can do it again.”
“Very well.”
“Fine.” Bree bends and gathers her cloak.
“You know why I did it, don’t you, Bree?” Luca asks.
“Yes, I know.” She looks resentfully around at the musty old temple. “The island is what matters.”
Nearly the moment that Bree exits the temple, Elizabeth grabs her and pulls her into the shadows with her one good hand, black bracelet peeking out from beneath her sleeve.
“Elizabeth! I thought you were going to wait at the town house. What are you doing here?”
“Listening,” the priestess replies, and smiles, her cheek dimpling. “And blending in. None of these priestesses here know me enough to recognize me if I stay quiet and keep my head bowed.” She demonstrates, tucking her chin and widening her eyes until they are large and blank and simple-looking. Then she perks up. “Now what did the High Priestess say?”
“Just what we expected. She wants to be friends again, so I will do what I am told.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said that I would. As long as you can stay with us. And as long as you can have Pepper back.”
Bree grins, and Elizabeth makes a high-pitched noise and throws her arms around her neck. “Oh, Bree, thank you! But will you? Will you really do as Luca requires, even after . . . even after what she would have done to Mirabella?”
Bree glances around, but there is no one near to hear them refer to Mirabella by name. “I may. I will for a time, at least until I find my footing in the capital. But I still intend to make every poisoner suffer. Especially her.”
“You must be careful. She is the Queen Crowned. And maybe she won’t be so terrible. I’ve heard she means to welcome you to the city with a banquet.”
“A banquet?”
“To be held later this week, in the square overlooking the harbor.”
Bree looks over her friend’s shoulder, toward the sea, imagining the trouble she could cause at a party held in her honor. “You are a kinder girl than I, Elizabeth, if you think her overtures are genuine.” She sighs. “Let us go back to the house.”
“I’ll meet you there later.” Elizabeth hastily pats her shoulder and then runs off in a flurry of white robes. “First I’m off to the woods for Pepper!”
THE VOLROY
Pietyr runs his fingers down Katharine’s bare back as she lies across his chest.
“Keep doing that,” she whispers. His touch
is soothing. Gentle. With his hands on her, she could perhaps fall asleep again, despite the bright light streaming into her bedroom. She slept only a little the night before, unable to still her mind no matter how Pietyr exhausted her body.
Today is the day that Bree Westwood comes to claim her place at the table.
“If I keep doing that, it will lead to more of this.” He rolls on top of her and drags kisses along her throat.
“What do you know about Bree Westwood?”
He stops kissing her and sighs. “No more than what you know. She is always fashionably dressed. Certainly beautiful, never serious. She flitted about in the wake of your gloomy older sister like an idiot butterfly.” He rolls away and gets out of bed, struts across the room bare and splendid before slipping into a dressing robe.
“Perhaps someone so serious as my sister needed that lightness,” Katharine says, propped up on an elbow. “Perhaps I do, too, and Bree will become my friend.”
“Or perhaps she is truly an idiot butterfly, never aware of the weight of the events transpiring around her, and now we must suffer her on the Black Council.” Pietyr adds wood to the dying fire and swings a pot of water over it to heat for tea.
Katharine’s eyes go blank, her voice empty. “Never trust her. She will always hate and resent us.”
“Whose words were those?” Pietyr asks. “Yours or Natalia’s? Mine?” He chuckles, and it sounds false. “Or someone else’s?”
She knows who he means. The dead queens clamoring nervously and eagerly in her blood. The words came and went so quickly that not even Katharine is sure.
Pietyr returns to the bed and kneels beside it. He cups her face and trails his fingertips from her neck to her collarbone. “Do you need them anymore?”
“What do you mean?”
“You are the Queen Crowned. You have what we wanted. What they wanted. And now they can grow quiet and disappear.”
Disappear. In her mind’s eye, she sees Pietyr’s neck snapping, his head twisted too far around. She can almost hear it, the crunch of bones. Hush, hush, old sisters. I know you have had enough of disappearing.
She takes his hand and kisses it, then pushes past him to get out of bed.
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