“Poisoner queens are good for the island.” He feeds her another piece of bread. “We have run it for a hundred years. The Westwoods are arrogant indeed if they think they can do better.”
“The Westwoods,” Katharine says, “and the temple.”
“Yes. The temple. I do not know why they feel so slighted. Why they have to possess the entirety of the people’s hearts. But they do.”
Pietyr eats some bread smeared with apple jelly. He does not turn up his nose at untainted food like the rest of the Arrons do. He does not make Katharine feel small for being weak.
“It smells like dust in here, Kat,” he says. “I do not know why you like it.”
Katharine looks around at the tall stacks of leather-bound books. “Queen Camille liked them,” she says. “She liked to read about mainland queens. Did you know that is where Arsinoe got her name?”
“I did not.”
“There was a queen on the mainland who was murdered by her sister. She was called Arsinoe too. So when Arsinoe was born weak, that is what she named her. Arsinoe the naturalist.”
“Such a wicked way to name a newborn. I am almost sorry for her,” says Pietyr.
“The queen knows what we are from birth. She knows our gifts. A dud is a dud, even then.”
“She gave you a fine name, in any case, Katharine the poisoner. She must have known then that you would grow up to be sweet and thoughtful.” He traces a finger along her cheek. “And very fair.”
“Fair enough to capture the eye of every single suitor?” she asks. “Must I really?”
“You must. Imagine the look on Mirabella’s face when every one of them ignores her. Perhaps she will be so dismayed that she will throw herself off the Rolanth cliffs.”
That would be very convenient indeed. Though it would rob Katharine of the sight of her clawing at her throat, after it had been poisoned shut.
Katharine laughs.
“What?” Pietyr asks.
“I was thinking of Arsinoe,” she says. “Of how sad and easy she will be to kill, after Mirabella is dead.”
Pietyr chuckles. He draws her close. “Kiss me,” he says, and she does. She is getting much better at it, and bolder. Afterward, she bites his lip gently.
He is so very handsome. She could kiss him all day and never tire of it.
“You are a fast learner,” he says.
“But were you? How many girls have you practiced on, Pietyr?”
“Many,” he replies. “Practically every serving girl who came through our household, and most of them in the village besides. As well as a few of my stepmother’s more discerning friends.”
“I should not have asked,” she pouts.
He runs his hand up the side of her leg, and Katharine laughs. So many girls. So many women. But he is hers and hers alone. For now.
“You do not find me dull, after others who were more practiced?” she asks.
“No,” he says, and looks into her eyes. “Never. In fact, the hardest part of all this will be something that I had not really thought of.”
“What?”
“Remembering why I am here. To make you the kind of queen who wins hearts. To help you gain island support at the festival.”
“What does their support matter? They will not help me kill my sisters.”
“A well-loved queen has many eyes and ears. The support will matter very much, in any case, after you are crowned.”
Katharine’s stomach lurches, and she pushes her food away.
“It is all pressure and expectations. And I will fail. I will fail, like I did on my birthday.”
“You will not fail,” says Pietyr. “When you step onto your stage at the Quickening, no one will bother looking at your sisters’ stages. When the suitors see you at the Disembarking, they will forget that there are other queens to see.”
“But Mirabella . . .”
“Forget Mirabella. She will be stiff-backed and haughty. You will smile. Flirt. You will be the queen they want. If I can only get you to stand up straight.”
“Stand up straight?”
“You are very meek when you walk, Kat. I want you to move through a room as though it is already yours. Sometimes, it even seems that you scurry.”
“Scurry!”
She laughs and shoves him away. He leans back on the carpet and laughs as well.
“You are right, though. Sometimes, I do scurry. Like a rat.” She grins. “But that is over. You will teach me and I will make them forget their own names. With one look.”
“One look?” Pietyr asks. “That is a bold promise.”
“But I will do it. And I will make you forget as well.” Katharine lowers her lashes.
“Forget what?”
She looks up at him.
“That I am not for you.”
When Natalia asks Katharine to accompany her to the Volroy, it can be for only one reason: to poison a prisoner. That is all she has ever gone to the palace for. She has never sat in session with the Black Council, listening to them discuss the tax on naturalist fruit or glass windows from Rolanth. Nor has she ever met with the last king-consort’s representatives from the mainland, when they come to press their interests. But that is all right, Natalia says. She will one day, when she is crowned.
“He was tried in Kenora,” Natalia says as they take the carriage toward Indrid Down and the black spires of the Volroy. “For murder. A stabbing, and a brutal one. It did not take the council long to determine his punishment.”
The coach stops momentarily on Edgemoor Street to be allowed through the side gate and onto the palace grounds. Katharine tilts her head back in the dark shadow of the fortress, but they are already too close for her to see the top of the spires. When she is crowned, she will live there, but she has never cared for the Volroy. Despite the grandeur of the twin spires, with their flying buttresses, it is too formal and too full of hard surfaces. There are more windows and light than at Greavesdrake, yet the place is still cold. So many hallways, and drafts slide through it like notes from a flute.
Katharine leans away from the coach window as the ceiling closes over their heads.
“Are Genevieve and Lucian here today?” she asks.
“Yes. Perhaps we will meet with them afterward, for lunch. I can make Genevieve sit at a separate table.”
Katharine smiles. Genevieve has still not been allowed to move back into Greavesdrake, Natalia preferring to keep the house quiet. With luck, she will not be allowed to return until after Beltane is over.
The coach stops, and they disembark and enter the building. People passing in the halls nod respectfully at the pair, buttoned up in their stark wool coats and topped with warm black hats. Katharine is careful to keep her sleeves tugged down, to hide Genevieve’s bandage and the last of the scabbing blisters. They have almost healed now, much faster than she expected. Thanks to Pietyr, she is healthier and stronger. Most of the scabs have flaked off and left fresh pink skin behind. None will scar.
On the stairs that lead to the holding cells below, Katharine pauses. Deep places have always made her uncomfortable, and the holding cells have a distinct and unpleasant odor. They smell of cold and dirty ice. Whatever wind fails to escape the Volroy through its many upstairs windows falls down into the cells to rot.
“Is one murder his only crime?” Katharine asks as they tread carefully down the stone steps. The holding cells are usually reserved for prisoners of special importance. Like those who have committed crimes against the queen.
“Perhaps he could have been dealt with in Kenora after the trial,” Natalia admits. “But I thought you could use the extra practice.”
At the bottom, the cold-ice smell gives way to the cells’ true scent: human filth and sweat and fear. It is made more pungent by the close quarters and by the heat thrown off the many torches.
Natalia sloughs her coat, and one of the guards holds her hand out to receive it before they duck through the low doorway. Another guard unlocks the last large metal door
, shoving it aside so hard that the heavy steel bounces against the track.
Of the many cells in the lower level, only one is occupied. The prisoner is backed into the far corner, with his knees drawn up to his chest. He seems dirty, and tired, and not much more than a boy.
Katharine grips the bars. He has been convicted. Of a murder. But scared as he looks now, she cannot imagine him committing one.
“Who did he kill?” she asks Natalia.
“Another boy. Only a few years older than himself.”
They have given him a blanket and some straw. The remains of his meager breakfast sit in the corner beside him, a small metal mug and a plate scraped clean by his fingers. The bars that separate them are solid, but she would have been safe had they been made of cloth. Whatever fight he had has drained out in the few days spent in the prison.
“What is your name?” she asks, and in the corner of her eye, sees Natalia frown. His name does not matter. But she would still like to know.
“Walter Mills.”
His eyes wobble. He knows what she has come to do.
“Walter Mills,” she says gently. “Why did you kill that boy?”
“He killed my sister,” he says.
“Why is it not him in this cell, then? Instead of you?”
“Because they don’t know. They think she ran away.”
“How do you know she did not?” Natalia asks skeptically.
“I just do. She wouldn’t have gone.”
Natalia leans close to Katharine’s ear. “We do not know if what he says is true,” she says. “He has been tried. He is guilty. In any case, we can hardly bring the dead boy in for questioning.” Natalia sighs. “Have you seen enough?”
Katharine nods. There is nothing to be done. The council has determined his fate. And now she knows everything she needs to know. His crime. His cause. His approximate health, age, and weight.
“Please,” the boy whispers. “Mercy.”
Natalia puts her arm across Katharine’s shoulders and leads her out. It is not necessarily legal for Katharine to participate in executions before she is crowned. But there are no ends to the strings that Natalia can pull. Katharine has been going with her into the chamber of poisons almost since the moment of her claiming from the Black Cottage.
Inside the chamber, high up in the East Tower, Katharine unbuttons her coat and throws it over one of Natalia’s beloved wingback chairs. Her gloves she leaves on. They are close-fitting, and insulated, and will provide some protection in the event of a spill.
“Are there details of the crime?” she asks.
“It was a stabbing with a short-bladed knife,” Natalia answers. “Sixteen times, according to the healer’s report.”
Sixteen times. It is an excessive number that speaks of rage. Evidence of rage might lend credence to Walter Mills’s claim of vengeance. But she cannot really know. That is what makes it so difficult.
The cabinets of poisons occupy two entire walls of the room. The collection has been amassed over the years, kept stocked and increased by countless Arron expeditions around the island and to the mainland. There are herbs and venoms and dried berries from every continent and every climate, carefully preserved and cataloged. Katharine’s fingers flutter past the drawers; she mutters names of poisons as she goes. One day, she may use them to dispatch Mirabella and Arsinoe. Those will be fancy blends, indeed. But for Walter Mills, she will not be too creative.
She pauses on a drawer filled with vials of castor beans. Taken alone, the poison would provide a very slow, very bloody death, hemorrhaging from every organ.
“The boy he killed,” she asks, “did he linger? Did he suffer?”
“For one long night and a whole day.”
“No mercy, then.”
“You do not think so?” Natalia asks. “Even though he is so very young?”
Katharine glances at Natalia. She does not often advocate for mercy. But very well. Not castor, then. Instead, Katharine opens a drawer and points at jars of dried bark of poison nut.
“A good choice.”
The poison nut is housed in a glass jar. Everything is carefully contained. Even the drawers and shelves of the cabinets are lined, to keep them from leaching poison, in case of an accidental spill. Such precautions have probably saved many careless maids from perplexing, painful deaths.
Katharine sets the poison on one of the long tables, and gathers a mortar and pestle. Pitchers of water and oil stand ready to emulsify the blend. To the poison nut, she adds powdered willow to reduce his pain, and valerian to quell his fear. The dose is massive, and death cannot be escaped, but it will, indeed, be merciful.
“Natalia,” she says. “Will you please call for a pitcher of good, sweet wine?”
She is always present when it is administered. Natalia has been firm about that. As queen, Katharine must be made to know what it is that she does, to see the way they struggle against their chains, or how they fight against the hands forcing the poison into their mouths. She has to see the way the crowd in the square can terrify them. In the beginning, it was difficult to watch. But it has been years now since any have made Katharine cry, and she has learned how to keep her eyes wide open.
Deep beneath the Volroy, Walter Mills sits against the wall of his cell with his hands on his knees.
“You’re back so soon,” he says. “Are you going to take me out of here? Into the courtyard, so the people can watch?”
“The queen has granted you mercy,” Natalia says. “You will die here. In private.”
He looks at the pitcher in Katharine’s arms and silently begins to weep.
“Guard,” Katharine says, and motions to her. “Bring a table and three chairs. Two cups.”
“What are you doing, Queen Katharine?” Natalia asks quietly. But she does not stop her.
“Open the cell,” Katharine says after the guard brings the table. “Set it for three.”
For a moment, Walter eyes the open door, but even panicked as he is, he knows that is futile. Katharine and Natalia sit, and Katharine pours the wine into two cups. Walter stares at it as she does, as if he expects it to sizzle or smoke. It does neither, of course. Rather, it is the sweetest smelling thing in the room.
“He murdered my sister,” he says.
“Then you should have brought him before us,” says Natalia. “We would have dealt with him, believe me.”
Katharine tries to smile at him kindly.
“You think I’m just going to drink that?” he asks.
“I think it is a great honor,” Katharine says, “to take your last cups with the head of the Arrons. And I think it is a far finer thing to talk and drink until you fall asleep than to be held down and choke on it.”
She holds out the cup. Walter wavers for a few moments and sheds a few more tears. But in the end, he sits.
Natalia takes the first swallow. It takes a long time, but eventually Walter finds his courage. He drinks. He even manages not to weep again, afterward.
“It’s . . . ,” he says, and pauses. “It’s very good. Will you not have any, Queen Katharine?”
“I never partake of my own poisons.”
A shadow flickers across his face. He thinks he knows now, that the rumors are true and she has no gift. But it does not matter. The poison is already in his belly.
Walter Mills drinks and drinks, and Natalia matches him cup for cup until he is rosy-cheeked and drunk. They talk of pleasant things. His family. His childhood. He breathes harder, until finally his eyes close and he slumps across the table. It will not be an hour before his heart stops beating.
Natalia looks at Katharine and smiles. Her poison gift may be weak, or may be no gift at all. But she is so very skilled at poisoning.
WOLF SPRING
Jules knew that when Joseph returned home, certain things would have changed. She did not expect that he would fit seamlessly back into her life. She did not even know if he would find that he had a place there, after so long away. Five years may n
ot seem like much to some, but in that time, Joseph had turned into a young man. Perhaps with a wider understanding of the world than Jules could ever hope to have from her place at the southwest corner of Fennbirn Island.
But now he is home. His family has released their held breath. And he and Jules have more than exhausted their stores of pleasantries.
“Are you cold?” he asks as they walk down the street from the Lion’s Head Pub.
“No,” Jules says.
“Yes, you are. Your neck has pulled down so far it’s disappeared.” He looks around and up the street. There is nowhere they want to go inside. Both are tired of old lovers winking at them slyly, and suspicious squints from folk who hate the mainland.
Light snow begins to fall, and Camden groans and shakes her coat. There is nothing left to do. They ought to admit it and say good night, but neither ever wants to part.
“I know a place,” Joseph says, and smiles.
He takes her hand and leads her quickly down the street and toward the cove, where the mainland boat is docked.
“Only a skeleton crew will be there tonight. Mr. Chatworth and Billy are staying at the Wolverton until he departs.”
“He?” Jules asks. “Don’t you mean ‘they’?”
“Billy’s not leaving. He’s staying on, straight through Beltane. To get to know Arsinoe. I thought we might introduce them soon. Take a picnic up to the pond. Have a fire.”
He reaches back for her hand, and they jog down the slope to the docks. The mainland boat rocks quietly in the water. Its portholes and fastenings shine under the moonlight. Even at night, it is too bright for the likes of Wolf Spring.
“You want him to be king-consort,” Jules says.
“Of course I do. My foster brother and Arsinoe on the throne, you and me on the council—it would tie everything up rather nicely.”
“Me on the council?” Jules scoffs. “Leading her personal guard, more like. You certainly have everything planned out, Joseph.”
“Well, I did have five years to think of it.”
They cross the gangway, and Jules holds her hand back to coax Camden over.