“You are the only priestess here who has ever really spoken to me,” Mirabella says. “I mean, besides Luca.”
“Am I?” Elizabeth asks. “Oh dear. Yet another sign that I am not a very good priestess. Rho is always telling me so. Perhaps she is right.”
Bloodthirsty Rho. The terror of the temple. Mirabella cannot remember ever seeing her be kind or hearing her utter a word softly spoken. But she will be good protection once Beltane is over and the Ascension begins. Luca is right about that.
Elizabeth cocks her head. “You are feeling a little better now?”
“I am,” says Mirabella.
“Good. That rite, the rite of sacrifice—you can be sure it was Rho’s idea. She wants to bring back the old ways and supplant the council once more for the temple. She thinks she can do this by force, as if she alone is the Goddess’s hand. But she is not.” Elizabeth smiles brightly. “You are.”
“You said she did it,” the High Priestess says. “And so it is done.”
“I did not say that she did it well,” says Rho.
Rho picks up a trinket from the corner of Luca’s mahogany desk—a shiny, polished orb of opal—and makes a face. She does not like the High Priestess’s rooms, up in the top floor of the temple, overlooking the cliffs of Shannon’s Blackway. They are too soft, lined with pillows and blankets against the drafts. They are too cluttered, full of things, decorative things that have no use, like mosaic vases and carved, gilded eggs. Like the little opal.
Luca watches Rho wind back her arm to cast it out the window.
“Do not do that,” the High Priestess cautions. “That was a gift.”
“It is only a rock.”
“It was still a gift. And close that window. The breeze is cold today. I cannot wait for spring. The fires of Beltane leading to hot summer nights. Will you take some soup? The kitchen tells me it is rabbit and cabbage and cream.”
“Luca,” says Rho. “You are not listening. The rite was a farce. Our queen was backed into a corner, and even then she would do nothing until we first let the girl feel the fire.”
Luca sighs.
“The sacrifice lies buried beneath a pile of fallen stones. She performed the rite. You cannot ask her to enjoy it.”
Luca herself did not enjoy it. She had listened when they cautioned her about being too soft. She believed them when they said it would be Mirabella who would be hurt by it in the end. And now an innocent is dead. Crushed under rocks that form a convenient monument to be prayed over.
“We will not ask her to do anything like this again,” Luca says. “You do not know her like I do. If we press her too hard, she will buck. And if Mirabella learns to buck . . . if she remembers how . . .”
Luca looks out her west-facing window, through the trees to the roof of Westwood House. Even at that distance, the copper-cored lightning rods are still visible, standing up like stiff hairs. The Westwoods knew better, too, than to take them down.
“You were not here,” Luca adds, “when they brought Mirabella from the Black Cottage. Neither was I. I was still in Indrid Down, fighting the Arron council for any scrap of power. I would not have believed Sara Westwood when she came and told me that our six-year-old queen was going to tear her house from beneath her feet had it not been for the look on her face.
“The island has not seen a gift like hers in hundreds of years. Not since Shannon and the Queens of Old. We are its keepers but not its masters.”
“That may be,” says Rho. “But if she does not rise to her duty, the Black Council will keep its stranglehold for another generation.”
Luca rubs her face hard. Perhaps she is too old for this. Too exhausted from a life spent trying to wrest power from the Arrons. But Rho is right. If another poisoner queen sits the throne, the Arrons of the Black Council will rule until the next set of triplets comes of age. By the time that happens, Luca will be long dead.
“Mirabella will rise,” the High Priestess says. “And the temple will rein back the council. Full up with Westwoods, it will be much easier to control.”
Some days later, Mirabella wakes from another dream with her mouth tasting of blood. In the dream, she, Arsinoe, and Katharine had been children. She remembers black hair fanned out in water, and dirt on Arsinoe’s nose. She remembers her own hands turned to claws and tearing Arsinoe and Katharine apart.
She rises up on her forearms from being facedown in her pillows. It is midday, and her room is empty. Perhaps there are not even any priestesses lurking outside her door since Sara, Bree, and the other Westwoods are all at home.
The dreams are coming more frequently. They wake her two, sometimes three, times a night. Luca said to expect them. That they would show her the way. She did not warn her of the dread they would make her feel.
Mirabella closes her eyes. But instead of darkness, she sees the face of the sacrificed priestess in the rocks. She sees Arsinoe’s dirty nose. She hears Katharine’s laugh.
Queens are not supposed to love their sisters. She has always known that, even when they were together at the Black Cottage, where she had loved them anyway.
“They are not those children, anymore,” she whispers into her hands.
They are queens. They must die.
Bree knocks on her door and pokes her head in, her long brown braid swinging over her shoulder.
“Is it time?” Mirabella asks. Today they are to go into the city, where Rolanth’s best artisans wait to present their finest jewels and gowns for the Beltane ceremonies.
“Nearly,” Bree says. “But do not sound so glum. Look who has come from the temple.”
Bree swings the door wide, and Elizabeth leans in from the opposite side. Mirabella smiles.
“Oh no,” she says. “People will start saying that I will only be friends with girls who wear braids.”
After Mirabella is readied and dressed, she, Bree, and Elizabeth climb into a coach waiting in front of Westwood House. Sara is already inside.
“Very good,” Sara says, and taps the roof, signaling the driver to depart. “It is kind of you to join us, Priestess.” She smiles at Elizabeth. “The temple will surely approve of our choices today.”
“Oh, I am not here for temple approval.” Elizabeth grins happily, watching the city rumble past. “I’m only escaping my chores.”
Sara’s lips draw into a thin line, and Bree giggles.
“We are happy to have you in any case,” says Sara. “Mira, are you well? You seem pale.”
“I am fine, Sara.”
Sara taps the roof harder, and the driver urges the horses to go faster.
“Perhaps you are needing something to eat. There will be plenty when we arrive at the park.”
Moorgate Park sits in the central district that runs alongside the channel. In spring it is pretty, full of trees and pale stones, with a gurgling ivory fountain. This time of year, the trees are bare and the grounds more open. Plenty of room for the jewelers and tailors to present their wares.
“I hope the tailor from Third Street brought that handsome son of his,” Bree says.
“I thought you were seeing the Wexton boy,” says Sara.
Bree snuggles back into the coach’s velvet cushions.
“Not anymore. Since Mira’s birthday he has forgotten how to kiss. So much tongue!” She shivers and gags and leans against Mirabella for comfort. Mirabella and Elizabeth laugh. Sara says nothing, but her eyes bulge out and her lips practically disappear.
Mirabella looks out the window. They are nearly there. In the central district, the buildings are broad, and white. What cracks there are have been carefully hidden with paint. Here, one can see how fine the city of Rolanth once was. One can see how fine it will be again, after Mirabella takes the throne.
“Here we are,” says Sara as the coach jerks to a stop. She smooths the skirt of her long black dress and prepares to exit the carriage. “Bree,” she mutters, “please try not to wander off.”
“Yes, Mother,” Bree says, and rolls her eyes
.
Mirabella steps out after Sara. Through the park’s open gate she can see the jewelers and dressmakers, waiting in a row. And the priestesses, of course. Always on guard.
Bree cranes her neck.
“He is here,” she says, and grins.
It is easy to see who she means. A handsome boy with light brown hair stands beside the jeweler near the end of the row. He has already seen Bree as well.
“It never takes you very long,” Mirabella says quietly.
“Nor should it. I have had years of practice.” Bree grasps Mirabella’s arm in one hand and Elizabeth’s in her other. “We must find out his name.”
“Enough of that,” Sara says. She unlinks the girls’ arms and takes her place behind the queen.
“Mother,” Bree groans. “We are only picking out jewels. You do not have to treat it like the Disembarking!”
“Everything public will be formal after she is crowned,” says Sara. “You had best get used to it.”
As they enter the park, Sara motions to one of the novice priestesses.
“Queen Mirabella has not eaten today. Would you please prepare her something?”
The girl nods and scurries away. Mirabella is not really very hungry. The dreams of her sisters often leave her with no appetite until evening. But it will be easier to nibble than to argue with Sara.
The merchants bow when they approach the tables. The Westwoods will purchase something small from every one—a ring or bracelet, a scarf. Only a select few will be commissioned for gowns, or sets of gems.
“I can tell you without looking that we will only be buying handkerchiefs at the first table,” Sara says into Mirabella’s ear. “That woman has no sense of elemental movement. Everything she sews is tight and severe. Fit for a poisoner.”
Approaching the woman’s stall, Mirabella can see that Sara is right. It is all shimmer, and each gown is close fitted. But the tailor is so nervous. So hopeful.
“Those are very fine gloves,” Mirabella says before Sara can speak. “Do you also work in leather?” She half turns to Sara. “Bree has need of a new pair for archery. And little Nico must be outgrowing his.”
“Yes, Queen Mirabella,” the merchant says. “I particularly enjoy working with leather.”
Mirabella leaves the table so that Sara may discuss fees, and to keep from hearing her grind her teeth. From the next merchant she selects rings of twisted silver, and the next of polished gold, as Bree tugs her along in her hurry to meet her brown-haired boy.
The novice priestess returns with a tray of cheeses and bread, and a small jar of preserved tomatoes. Elizabeth takes it from her.
“Bree, slow down,” she says, and laughs. “Take a moment to eat.”
She does, but they are only one table away from her boy now, and the way she nibbles her cheese is highly suggestive.
“We must find something to distract her,” Elizabeth whispers to Mirabella. “Perhaps these gowns. They are beautiful!”
“I do not think any gown can distract her,” Mirabella says. “No matter how beautiful.”
The dressmaker studies Bree. He reaches beneath his table.
“Perhaps this one,” he says, and unfurls it before them.
Mirabella and Elizabeth are speechless. Bree drops her cheese.
It is not a gown for a queen. Those must be all in black. This one has a bodice embroidered with blue waves, and a gathered train of storm-blue satin cuts through the black skirt. It is splendid.
“This is the one,” says Mirabella. She turns to Bree and touches her braid fondly. “You will outshine me in this. All the suitors will look at you.”
“No,” Elizabeth says. “That is not true, Mira!”
Perhaps it is not. A queen’s raven-black hair and strange black eyes always command attention. But Elizabeth misunderstood. Mirabella is not jealous. She could never be jealous of Bree.
Sara rejoins them and nods her approval.
“We will have three gowns,” she says, “including this one to fit my daughter. Perhaps more, if we do not find anything else equal to your skill. I will call upon your shop to discuss them further.”
“Finally,” Bree whispers into Mirabella’s ear. They have reached the jeweler and the boy.
“We will speak to his father, not to him,” Mirabella says. “How will you manage this?”
Bree motions discreetly with her chin. The merchant and his son have a small, stout brazier set back from the table, to keep warm as they wait. Perhaps they are not elementals then, or perhaps their gifts are merely weak.
Bree throws her arm around Elizabeth.
“Sweet Elizabeth,” she says. “You are shivering!” She turns to the boy. “May we come round and stand beside your fire?”
“Of course,” he says quickly.
Mirabella’s lips curl as he leads Bree and Elizabeth to the brazier. With a lazy flick of her wrist, Bree sends flames jumping up from the red embers. She looks over her shoulder at Mirabella and winks.
“Good,” says Sara in a low voice. “I thought we would have to buy out the display just to give her more time to flirt.”
But perhaps they will anyway. The jeweler’s pieces are exquisite. Laid out across the table, carefully cut gems sparkle in ornate settings. Mirabella’s hand drifts to a necklace of three vibrant red-orange stones hanging from a short silver chain. Even on the table in the winter light they seem to burn.
“I would like this one,” she says, “for the night of the Quickening.”
After the purchases are made, they return to the carriage. Mirabella holds the fire necklace on her lap in a velvet case. She cannot wait to show it to Luca. She is sure the High Priestess will like it. Perhaps after the Quickening is over, Mirabella will make a gift of it to her.
“Now that that is finished,” Sara says when the cart starts moving, “there has been some news. From Wolf Spring, if you can imagine.”
“News?” Bree asks. “What news?”
“It seems they are housing a suitor there. His delegation has arrived early.”
“But that is not allowed,” says Mirabella. “Does the temple know?” She looks to Elizabeth, but the initiate only shrugs.
“They do,” says Sara. “It is his family’s first delegation. They are being given special treatment for a perceived disadvantage. To let them find their way here, on such unfamiliar ground. And to repay them for fostering Joseph Sandrin during his banishment.”
“It has been a long time since I have heard that name,” Mirabella says. She used to think of it often. Whenever she thought of Arsinoe. He was the boy who tried to run away with her. Who tried to help her escape. When they were caught, she heard that he spat at Natalia Arron’s feet.
Now he brings Arsinoe a suitor. It must have been hard to do, when he had so much love for her himself.
“I think you will meet him,” Sara says.
“Joseph?”
“No. The suitor. Before Beltane. We will arrange for him to come here. Under the eye of the temple, of course.”
“It seems a shame,” says Bree. “All those suitors and you can choose only one. But still, all those suitors.” She shivers with pleasure. “Sometimes I wish that I was a queen.”
Mirabella frowns. “Do not ever say that.”
Everyone in the coach quiets at the tone of her voice.
“It was only a joke, Mira,” says Bree gently. “Of course I do not wish that. No one really wishes to be a queen.”
GREAVESDRAKE MANOR
The great shadowy library of Greavesdrake is one of Katharine’s favorite places. The large fireplace casts warmth everywhere except into the very darkest corners, and as she grew, the tall shelves and massive leather chairs provided many places to hide from Genevieve’s slaps, or from poison practice. Today though, the fire burns low, and she and Pietyr sit out in the open. They have pulled back three sets of curtains from the eastward-facing windows and huddle in the brightest shaft of light. Warmth from the sun feels better somehow. Gentler
, and less hard-won.
Pietyr hands her a bit of bread, smeared with soft, triple-cream sheep’s milk cheese. He has assembled a picnic on the carpet of the finest untainted food he could find. A sweet gesture, even if it is mostly intended to fatten her up.
“You ought to try the crab soufflé,” he says. “Before it gets cold.”
“I will,” says Katharine.
She takes a bite of the bread and cheese, but it is difficult. Even the best foods taste like mud when accompanied by nausea. She touches the small bandage on her wrist.
“What was it this time?” Pietyr asks.
“Some kind of snake venom.”
It was nothing she had not been poisoned with before. But the cut used to apply it was worse than necessary, thanks to Genevieve’s still-held grudge from the night of the Gave Noir. Pietyr has looked at the wound already, and he did not like what he saw.
“When you are crowned,” he says, “there will be no more reason for that.”
He serves her a small plate of scrambled egg with caviar and soured cream. She takes a bite and tries to smile.
“That is not a smile, Kat. That is a grimace.”
“Perhaps we should put this off,” she suggests, “until dinner.”
“And let you miss two more meals?” He shakes his head. “We have to recover your poisoner appetite. Try a pastry. Or some juice, at least.”
Katharine laughs. “You are the best personal attendant I have ever had. Even better than Giselle.”
“Am I?” He raises an eyebrow. “I have had no practice. My house in the country is well-fortified, and well-run by Marguerite, though I am loath to admit it. I have spent my whole life being waited upon.”
“Then perhaps you have learned by example,” Katharine says. “You care very much that I am crowned. But so does every Arron. Did you really come here to escape the country? What did Natalia promise you?”
“She promised me a seat on the council,” he says, “after you are on the throne. But it is more than that.”
He looks at her pointedly, and she blushes. He likes it when she blushes. He says that Mirabella is likely far too proud to show any pleasure at someone’s interest.