“The best advice I’ve had so far,” he says, and his smile pushes everything else to the back of my mind—my throbbing headache, the swarm outside, the nuyi crawling through me, Horthy and the king.
“What other sort of advice are you getting?”
“What to say, how to dress, how to behave, who to talk to, who to avoid—and everybody is quite sure I can trust them and only them. Your uncle has been very kind and helpful—I don’t mean him,” he hastens to add.
“Well, you are to be king,” I say. “It’s only natural for everybody to want to help you, or establish their influence, depending on how you see it.”
“Your uncle and a good many others are very keen on my getting to know your friend Dafne,” he adds, studying my face for a reaction.
“She’s a wonderful girl.”
“Indeed, nobody has a bad word to say about her. I’m being regaled with stories of her kindness and piety.”
I get the feeling that kindness and piety are not the keys to this young man’s heart.
“She is kind and pious,” I say. I’m supposed to keep Casimir happy by doing my job, after all. “But she’s very clever too. She has a mind of her own.”
“You’re going to sing her praises as well?” he asks dryly.
“To know her is to love her. But I can see how it might be boring to be told it over and over.”
“Not boring, only strange, to have a girl apparently picked out for me.”
“That’s quite normal for royals, isn’t it? Don’t you like her? You could do much worse, and it would be hard to do better.”
He laughs again. “I do like her. Well, I don’t really know her, but she’s extraordinarily pretty.”
“As lovely on the inside as the outside would suggest,” I tell him, and he all but rolls his eyes. I suspect if there is anything that could make him not gravitate to Dafne, it’s knowing that everybody means him to.
“It’s hard to imagine Dafne running about the palace grounds in such a state of…ah, disarray,” he says, eyes twinkling, gesturing at my general state of untidiness. “Are you going to tell me what you were doing when you startled me in the bushes?”
I draw myself up and try to look haughty. “I heard the buzzing and ran out to see what it was. I was not expecting to meet you.”
He raises his eyebrows. “And this is what you look like in your rooms, is it?”
“None of your business what I look like in my rooms,” I snap, and am gratified that he actually blushes. The drone of the hornets has moved away, and I begin to relax.
“The worst thing about this witch business is that they aren’t letting us out into the city,” he says. “But I think I’ve persuaded my minders to let me go riding outside the city. Do you ride?”
“Not really. I have ridden a horse before,” I say, which is true.
“Perhaps if I invited Miss Besnik as well they’d consider it a worthwhile use of my time and agree to a riding party.” He looks mischievous, and I laugh.
“That’s a very good idea.”
“Will you come too? I’ll arrange it for tomorrow. We’ll make a day of it!”
He’s standing quite close to me now, by the thick curtain, and even though we’re not touching, I can feel the warmth of him. I look up into his eyes and think, If he is not already practiced at charming young women out of their petticoats on his little island kingdom, he’s going to learn his power very soon in Spira City.
“I’m not very good at riding,” I say. “You and Dafne would have a better time without me.”
“I doubt that,” he says. “I’ve been thinking about you, actually. At the opera, when everybody panicked about the rats, you barely seemed frightened at all.”
“I grew up in the countryside,” I say. “Rats don’t bother me.”
He bends closer. “Come riding tomorrow. We could talk about all the things we aren’t afraid of.”
Hounds, he’s a rogue after all. To my annoyance, I find my heart beating faster. I’m sure he’s about to kiss me, and my head tilts up almost of its own accord. It’s a terrible idea, but suddenly I’m desperate to know what it would be like to kiss this bold, golden princeling—even while I’m telling myself by all the stars not to go moony for the heir to the Fraynish throne. But given how dire everything is, don’t I deserve a bit of kissing?
There are voices at the door and his amber eyes go wide.
Only then does it strike me how inappropriate it is that we are in his room together. Julia left all sense of propriety behind her a long time ago and had few rules to abide by in the first place, but Ella Penn Witzel ought to be thinking of her reputation. What must he think, that I made no protest, stayed chatting intimately with him in his bedroom? No wonder he was leaning in for a kiss.
“Hide,” he whispers, pushing me hurriedly behind the curtains.
I vanish and peer through the crack in the curtains. To my horror, the duchess comes in with, of all people, Lord Skaal behind her.
I have seen him twice before. Once, he was at Agoston Horthy’s side while the prime minister tried to bargain with Mrs. Och. The second time, he was in Tianshi, trying to persuade the grand librarian to hand over Princess Zara. Worse, he was able to smell me even when I was vanished. His gray hair is swept back, a patch over one eye, the other eye a piercing yellow in his brown face.
“There you are, my dear! Everybody is looking for you in an absolute panic!” says the duchess. “I want you to meet Lord Skaal. He’s come back to deal with this witch business. Do you remember, the prime minister spoke of him?”
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” says Luca, holding out his hand. Lord Skaal shakes it, smiling affably. Then something shifts in his expression. He lifts his head with a sniff and turns his yellow eye toward the curtains. Toward me.
“Somebody is here,” he says.
Horror breaks across Luca’s face as Lord Skaal stalks over and pulls the curtains wide. But I am gone before his hand reaches the curtains, vanished over the palace grounds, out beyond West Spira and over the Scola, aiming myself at the crow-spiked house that belonged to Mrs. Och.
I return to myself on the back lawn, by the upturned earth where the great cherry tree used to be. I kneel on the grass to catch my breath while the crows shriek at me and Lady Laroche steps out onto the back veranda.
“Julia! Come inside!”
I stagger to my feet. My knees are wobbly, but I pretend it’s nothing special to appear from halfway across the city in a matter of seconds. I follow Lady Laroche indoors to the front parlor, where Princess Zara and Esme are sitting on the sofa. Zara is wearing an elegant dress that fits her poorly. Esme has blood all over her jacket.
“Are you all right?” I ask Esme, startled.
“It’s not my blood,” she says hoarsely.
“Oh.” I don’t ask: Whose is it, then? I say to Lady Laroche, “I’ve just come from the palace. Agoston Horthy told the king they captured twenty-three witches last night from villages in the north and threw them in Hostorak. He’s going to try to get your location out of them.”
The color drains from her face. She has a pen and a roll of paper in her hand so quickly I’m not sure where they came from. She must keep them in her sleeves. Like Esme, she is a lightning-fast draw with her weapon of choice. The room hums as soon as the pen touches the paper, everything coming too sharply into focus. My nostrils and throat begin to burn and my eyes water. Her magic does not smell like anything I recognize, but it is strong and hot. The crows on the lawn take off in unison, crying out in their ugly voices.
“Are we still safe here?” asks Zara.
“We are perfectly safe. None of them know where I am.” Lady Laroche lights a cigar with trembling fingers. “Twenty-three. Blast. Thank you, Julia. Mrs. Freeley is sleeping, but I can make some coffee if you’d like.”
�
��No, thanks.”
Esme is watching me. I hope she’s not going to dive at me again.
“You’ve just come from the palace?” Zara asks. “Then you must have seen…”
Lady Laroche heaves a sigh and flops into a chair.
“We’ve been discussing my methods,” she says. “Endlessly.”
“The hornets?” I ask.
“It is reckless,” says Princess Zara. “And it is cruel.”
“The princess believes revolutions ought to be dainty and well mannered,” drawls Lady Laroche. “I am trying to explain that there is usually bloodshed involved. Wars are not won by being considerate toward one’s enemies.”
“I’ve seen bloodshed, and I’ve known war,” says the princess coolly. “A mass of hornets is likeliest to kill groundsmen, cabriolet drivers, and ordinary folk going about their day, while our true enemies will keep themselves inside. I object on moral grounds to the killing of innocents, and I object on strategic grounds. Sowing panic and a deeper hatred of witches will win us no friends. Without the people behind me, even if we can overthrow the Crown and Agoston Horthy, I will not be able to rule Frayne. I must be seen as benevolent, a friend to the people, not a murderer employing witches. You have done great harm to my cause without consulting me.”
Lady Laroche puffs out a row of bluish smoke rings and then directs herself to me again: “You know she can read your mind, essentially? There is no point in being anything other than blunt with her, which is mostly refreshing, if occasionally a little annoying.”
“I cannot read minds, only sense intent,” says Zara. “I am afraid that you would just as soon see Frayne burn as see peace.”
“That depends on the peace and what it means for witches,” says Lady Laroche. “I would rather see Frayne burn than tolerate the peace we’ve known under Agoston Horthy for the last two decades. But you and I need each other, princess. You cannot take the throne without the support of the Sidhar witches, and there is no real, legitimate future for us in Frayne without you.”
“Do you care at all that unleashing rats and hornets on West Spira will result in the suffering and deaths of innocent people?”
“Innocent people!” snorts Lady Laroche. “That is a fantasy! You might as well talk to me of unicorns.”
I look at Esme, who is sitting there like a statue while they argue back and forth. Her eyes flick to mine but give nothing away.
“There are children in West Spira too,” says Zara.
“You think children are innocent?” cries Lady Laroche. “You must not remember being a child.”
“They haven’t had a chance yet to choose their place in the world,” says Zara. “In that sense, at least, they are guiltless.”
“They will choose to inherit all the wealth, privilege, power, and hardheadedness of their parents, as children born to the upper classes always do.”
“You didn’t,” says Zara.
“Because I was born a witch. My very survival depended on rebellion.” Lady Laroche sighs. “Princess, I agree that war is horrible, but we cannot stage a revolution if we are wringing our hands at every turn and saying What about the children? It simply won’t do! The wonderful thing about magic is that we can manage this with minimum blood on the streets, but there is going to be some blood, and the sooner you get used to the idea, the easier this will be.”
“But what is the purpose?” cries Zara. “Rats and hornets! You are simply confirming all the worst fears people have about witchcraft!”
“I am sending a message. The people will soon see that witches are on their side and can fight for them. Tell me that in the Twist and the Edge people aren’t applauding these assaults on West Spira! Esme, what do you think?”
“The fear of witches runs too deep in Frayne,” says Esme woodenly. “The poor might applaud an assault on the rich, but they are not going to embrace witches anytime soon. That will be a long, slow process after the princess has the throne. To take it, she should not appear to be too strongly allied with magic.”
“Exactly,” says Zara.
“Witches have been hunted and murdered for hundreds of years in this country!” cries Lady Laroche. “Do not speak to me of a long, slow process. We need justice and freedom, and we cannot wait for them. I intend to terrify Agoston Horthy and the new heir, along with all their West Spira supporters, and then I will destroy them. You will see—the people will turn on them soon enough.”
The princess narrows her eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Lady Laroche laughs. “Keep to your own plans. I promise I will do everything in my power to clear the way to the throne for you. We may disagree on the details, princess, but never doubt that I am on your side.”
Princess Zara is quiet, but she does not look happy.
The doorbell chimes. Esme draws her pistol and retreats to a corner of the room.
“That will be Gregor and Csilla and our friend,” says Zara, getting up. “I’ll let them in.”
“What friend?” I ask, but nobody answers me.
“Julia, why don’t we go upstairs to my room?” says Lady Laroche. “I need to speak to you, and we had better be out of the way for this. Esme, do you mind?”
“Not at all,” says Esme. She’s taken the safety off her pistol.
I’m not sure how I feel about that—her asking Esme as if I belong to her, and Esme answering in the same vein—but I follow her up the stairs as Princess Zara answers the door. I peer down from the landing as Gregor leads a finely dressed man with a blindfold over his eyes into the house.
“We’ll take that off in a moment, my good fellow,” bellows Gregor in the man’s ear. He spies me on the landing and gives me a wink.
“Come into the parlor, please,” says Zara politely.
“He can’t hear you yet—we’ve stopped his ears with wax!” Gregor tells her. Csilla comes in behind them, and they all four disappear into the parlor. Bewildered, I follow Lady Laroche up to the second floor.
I wondered what Lady Laroche meant by her room. It turns out she means Mrs. Och’s reading room. She sits down at the desk, gesturing at the chair across from her.
“Who was that down there?” I ask.
“A very rich and influential fellow. He doesn’t hold a government post officially, but he has a great many government officials in his pocket, which is even better. He says he’ll back Zara if she takes the throne. Zara is going to see if he’s sincere.”
“And if he’s not?”
She ignores my question. “Csilla and Gregor have managed to bring in a few members of the aristocracy. Professor Baranyi has been even more successful in recruiting allies among the literati. A number of newspaper editors swear up and down they will come out in favor of Zara—but all after the revolution. Everybody wants to throw their lot in with us after the revolution. People are cowards, Julia. It is tiresome.”
“What about the witches in Hostorak?”
“I won’t desert them. It is time Hostorak came down.”
I remember looking up at the impenetrable prison as a little girl after my mother was taken, the stone walls mocking me, for what could I do against them? The thought of those walls coming down fills me with violent joy, and for a moment I think that if Lady Laroche can do that, I will follow her anywhere.
“What else did you hear at the palace today?” she asks me, all business.
I try to match her crisp tone. “They suspect the princess is here and that witches are rallying behind her. Horthy seems very confident. If he smashed the last revolution to bits before it was even under way, what makes you so sure this time will be different?”
“Because of Zara. Horthy’s great strength is his spy network. He infiltrated the Lorian Uprising. We could not look into a person’s mind and see their true intent. But Zara can. Everyone who claims to be loyal to her, to the revol
ution, will meet with her privately. If she sees treachery, they will be dealt with. If they are loyal, we can be sure of them.”
I don’t ask again what dealt with means. Zara can argue ethics with Lady Laroche. I need to save my brother.
“She will make a good queen,” continues Lady Laroche. “And while mercy is a fine quality, somebody has to be ruthless to get the whole thing going. I’ll play the part of the wicked witch if it will get her on the throne and make a better Frayne for the witches who come after me.”
She is jotting things down on a piece of paper as she talks, and I remember what Bianka told me about how she felt when she held a pen—the sense that the pen might overpower her. But Lady Laroche seems quite in control, wielding the pen like a favorite weapon. It is an elegant instrument, with purple-black feathers along its hilt and a bright, coppery tip. She puts it down, blots the ink, and then takes a glass vial the size of my little finger out of her desk. It is full of a sand-colored powder.
“Where do you stand, my dear, on the idea that the end justifies the means?”
“I’m not sure,” I say. “What is that?”
“Poison. I want you to put it in Agoston Horthy’s drink. It will save us a good deal of trouble to get him out of the way early. The Crown and parliament will be in utter chaos without him, struggling to fill the power vacuum and making it that much easier for us to take the throne.”
My mouth goes dry. I used to fantasize about killing him when I was a child. Dek and I went so far as to buy poison from an unsavory character in the Edge—we were going to make poison-tipped arrows. Ridiculous. I was eight years old. Esme spanked me soundly for it and confiscated the poison. Dek was eleven, and she gave him ten strokes with a switch because he was older and should have known better. Now the poison is being handed to me and I can walk right into Horthy’s room, unseen. But I know a bit about death and killing that I didn’t know when I was eight years old. The idea of being his executioner turns my stomach. Still, I reach my hand out and take the vial.
“I need to think about it,” I say.
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