“I would like to hold a welcome banquet in your honor.” Katharine turns in the saddle as Luca raises her eyebrows. “To welcome you, and Bree Westwood, and Rho Murtra to the city. So the people might see their new Black Council together as one. We will hold it in the square.”
“How very kind.” Luca looks away again, toward the port. “Bree will love that. She is always danced off her feet at parties.”
“High Priestess,” one of their escorts says. “Look. The mist.”
They follow the priestess’s pointing arm, out over the water.
It is the mist, rising above the surface. It is not much, really, and could be easily overlooked by a less careful eye. It is just substantial enough that Katharine can see it swirling, and something in her blood tightens while she watches it.
“It is not often visible,” she hears herself say. “Not from here anyway. Is it often visible in Rolanth?”
“No. Not often.” Luca sighs. “It is only the Goddess.”
“Yes,” says Katharine. And the curdle in her veins is only the dead queens, who have no love anymore for Her.
“Only the Goddess,” Luca says again. “Keeping something out, or something in.”
BASTIAN CITY
A night and a day after seeing the oracle at the inn, Jules cannot stop thinking about the prophecy.
If it can even be called that. It was a feeling, the oracle said. Words that came into her mind. I know only that you were once a queen and may be again. What a vague bunch of half truths. If that is how it always is with the sight gift, then Jules does not envy them.
“I wouldn’t even trade my legion curse for it,” she mutters to Camden, who pricks her ears.
The mountain cat stands up on her hind paws, her forepaws on the ledge of the room’s solitary aboveground window, so streaked and spattered with mud that she can barely tell what time of day it is. Jules pats her shoulder.
“Maybe we should have gone with Arsinoe to the mainland after all.”
“How can you say that, after hearing what Mathilde said?”
Jules turns. Emilia is standing in the doorway. Jules did not hear her approach down the stairs. Nor did she hear the door open. More impressively, neither had Camden.
“I didn’t hear Mathilde say anything but nonsense. But I noticed that you didn’t seem surprised.”
“That is because she said what I expected.” Emilia gestures toward the low ceiling, the one window. “This is not the finest room for a queen. But for one who must be concealed it is the best choice.”
Jules scoffs.
“I am no queen.” She tugs at the ends of her short brown hair. “Look at this. All brown. And these—” She points to her eyes. “Two different colors and not one of them black. You’ve met my mother. Madrigal. Not a drop of sacred blood there, I can assure you.”
“I didn’t say you were of the queens’ line.” Emilia ducks her head, showing the rolled buns at the nape of her neck. Even wandering her own house she appears formal, in brown boots and a knee-length skirt with deep pleats. Clothes on the Vatroses have the look of a uniform, no matter the cut or material.
“Then what are you saying?”
“I am saying that the time of those queens is over.”
Jules blinks. The line of queens has been in place on Fennbirn for all recorded history. “Is that so?” she murmurs. “And what about Queen Katharine, then? The one who sits on the throne, with a crown etched into her forehead?”
“Another poisoner puppet.”
“Poisoner or not, she is the Queen Crowned. It is the island’s way.”
Emilia crosses her arms. “What if I told you there is a movement growing of people who feel betrayed by the bloodline? Who will not stand for another poisoner to rule above another poisoner’s council?”
“I would say you were lying.” Jules pats Camden on the rump and the cougar hops onto the bed. She lies down facing Emilia with her paws crossed as would a child awaiting a good story. “Queens have always killed queens, and the island accepts the outcome.”
“But this queen did not kill.”
“She tried. I was there.”
“She failed. She was not the Chosen Queen, and the island knows it. Even some of the northern priestesses.” Emilia strolls to the window and peers through the mud. “The botched Ascension was a sign. The debacle of the Quickening was a sign. You yourself are a sign. Too many signs to ignore, and now even the pious will stand with us.”
“Us? Who is ‘us’? Do you believe in these ‘signs’? Or do you believe in the will of the Goddess?”
“I believe that it is time for change. And that the Goddess’s will is for us to make that change.”
THE MAINLAND
Mirabella sips her tea as her eyes drift to the clock. It is full dark, and Arsinoe is still not home from visiting Joseph at the cemetery. Mrs. Chatworth’s foot has begun to tap, and Billy’s sister, Jane, has arched her eyebrow and sighed twice. Even Billy has gotten up to peer through the curtains.
“I should have gone with her,” he says regretfully.
“It’s not as though you could abandon Miss Hollen,” says Jane, and Mirabella sips her tea again. Arsinoe thinks that Mirabella has fallen in with the mainlanders so easily, that she has changed her feathers and joined the flock. In truth, sometimes it is so hard not to scream that she almost cracks her teeth holding her mouth shut.
“Arsinoe has been left to run wild. I know it has not been easy for you girls, coming to a new place,” Mrs. Chatworth says, finally speaking, though her eyes remain fixed on the tablecloth. She never looks at Mirabella when referring to the island or their past. Mirabella does not even know how much about the island Mrs. Chatworth knows. Billy says she knows everything, but if that is true, she seems to have done a fine job of forgetting about it.
“Indeed, it must have been very hard,” she goes on. “But we cannot be expected to . . . corral her at every turn.”
“Corral?” Mirabella bristles.
“Perhaps that is an unfair term. But the fact remains that my son will not be able to look after her forever. Soon enough, he’ll be at university. And then he must make a profitable marriage and start a family of his own.”
Billy winces. Especially at the word “marriage.”
“University,” Mirabella says to him, and raises her eyebrows. “You have not told Arsinoe of this.”
“It’s not far. A few hours’ ride by coach. I’ll be home every Saturday and in between terms.”
Mirabella rises from the table, and the other women stare at her above the rims of their teacups.
“Excuse us a moment. I would speak to Billy alone.”
“No, please,” Mrs. Chatworth says, clearly irritated. “Why should my guest be made to leave the room when I could? Come, Jane, let us retire. I’ve had quite enough of the tedium of waiting.”
Mirabella steps aside as she and Jane quit the room and walk with straight backs up the stairs.
“I know what you’re going to say,” Billy says as soon as he hears both of their bedroom doors shut.
“Do you?”
“It’s just that I haven’t known how to tell her. Or you.” He looks at her guiltily and ruffles his sandy hair. “I feel a complete ass, leaving you like this. But I have to go. If we’re going to make a life here I need an education. We’re rich but not so rich that I can simply be a man of leisure.”
He goes to the window to look again for Arsinoe. “If only my father would come home.”
“Are you surprised he has not returned already?”
He shrugs. “After the way I defied him on Fennbirn, I wouldn’t be surprised if he sailed all the way around the world before coming back. With stops at every friendly port. Or he could return tomorrow. And when he sees you and Arsinoe . . . that’s not a conversation I’m looking forward to having.”
“It seems there are many conversations you are not looking forward to having.”
“Mira, are you cross with me? I haven’t seen
that look on your face since the day I met you in Rolanth and threatened to skewer you through the neck.”
“Do not be silly.” She softens at the memory. “I was cross with you nearly every time you cooked for me.”
“Kept you from being poisoned, didn’t I?” He grins, but it fades quickly. “Well, except for that last time.”
“That was no one’s fault. But do not change the subject.”
“What subject? I thought we were just waiting for your sister.”
Mirabella goes to the window and snatches the curtains out of his fingers.
“About my sister,” she says. “How many times have I heard your mother hint about how much happier Arsinoe would be at your country estate? Hidden away from you and away from anyone who might view her as an embarrassment. How many times have they mentioned Christine Hollen as your potential bride?”
“Lots, I suppose.”
“Then when are you going to tell them about you and Arsinoe? That she will not be sent away. That you will not be cowed into marrying someone else.”
Billy lowers his head. He is a handsome young man. Many times Mirabella has thought so. His looks are less dramatic than Joseph’s were; he is less like a thunderstorm. He is real and of the earth. He is what her sister needs. Or at least he was. But here on the mainland, he is no longer the daring suitor who risked everything for them. On the island, he was courageous, with an outsider’s bravado. Here when girls call him a rogue, they only mean he is trying to get under several skirts at once.
“If you regret bringing us here,” she says carefully, “if you do not intend to be with Arsinoe, then I will take her someplace else. I am not without skill or cleverness. I can make a life for us.”
Billy stares at her, almost like he does not believe her. But then he takes her hand.
“That’s the last thing I want. I will tell them. You have my word. I won’t leave her without assurances.”
Before Mirabella can say anything further, he sees movement thought the curtains and exclaims, “She’s here!”
He opens the door and reveals Arsinoe, shivering and soaking wet, on the front step, with what looks to be a dirty fur rolled up beneath her arm. Then Billy embraces her, and the fur barks.
“I found him in an alley after some boys chased him down there with sticks.” Arsinoe holds the dog, squirming, to her chest.
“Poor thing,” says Billy. “But he’s filthy, Arsinoe; my mother will have a fit if you bring him in here.”
“No, see?” she says, and runs her hand over the little dog’s back. “Under all the scum, he’s got a pretty brown-and-white coat. I thought we’d clean him up and put a ribbon on him. Give him to your mother and Jane as a peace offering.” She steps farther into the foyer as Billy rubs his forehead and chuckles. Distracted as he is by the dog, he does not notice the haunted look in Arsinoe’s eyes. Nor does he note how hard she is shivering, far too hard for someone who has just come in from a warm summer rain.
“Let us take him into the washroom, then,” Mirabella says. “Quietly.”
Once they are in the washroom, Mirabella sends Billy to heat water for a bath and to fetch extra lamps. When he is gone, she pulls a blanket down from a shelf and wraps her sister in it.
“Now,” she says. “What is really the matter?”
“Nothing. I saw this dog get chased, and I wanted to save it. It’s how I was raised.”
“Yes, yes.” Mirabella smiles softly. “Poisoner by birth, naturalist at heart. But there is more to this. Why did you stay gone for so long?”
“I fell asleep,” Arsinoe answers, eyebrows down so Mirabella knows she is not telling her everything. But it will have to wait. Billy is returning with the hot water and lamps. So they set the dog in the washbasin, and Mirabella reaches for soap.
“It is a good thing Mrs. Chatworth and Jane are already in bed,” Mirabella says. “They would be beside themselves if they knew you had taken off your dress in public.”
“It wasn’t in public. It was in the graveyard, behind a tree. And besides, I had all these clothes on underneath!”
They finish bathing the dog, who really is quite a lovely fellow underneath all the muck, and towel him dry before Arsinoe carries him up to their bedroom. Billy does not leave her side until they are in the doorway and then leans in to kiss her cheek.
“Don’t worry me so much,” he whispers.
“Then don’t worry so easily,” Arsinoe whispers back.
“Good night, Billy,” Mirabella says, and closes the door. She goes to Arsinoe’s dresser for dry clothes while Arsinoe gets the dog settled into bed.
“Here. Get out of that shirt and into something dry.”
“I’m all right.”
“I am the oldest.” Mirabella holds the nightshirt out. “Do as I say.”
“Or what? We’re not on the island anymore; you’re all out of lightning bolts.” But Arsinoe unbuttons the shirt and takes it off, then pulls the quilt off her bed to wrap herself in. “This place is going to make us soft. Everything so precious and fancy. Look at this wall covering.” She taps her finger against the pattern of raised green velvet. “It seems like a tapestry, but if you pick at it, it’s paper! It peels!”
“Arsinoe, stop that. Mrs. Chatworth will cut your hands off. Besides, according to you, I was always soft. Raised in Rolanth on a fat bed of priestesses.” She looks at her sister’s still-shivering shoulders. “Now tell me what really happened today.”
“Nothing. I fell asleep and I rescued a dog. How was tea with Christine and the governor’s girls? Did you manage to put her off Billy?”
Arsinoe blinks innocently and gathers the dog into her arms. Something had happened. Mirabella would know it by the electricity in the air even if it were not written all over Arsinoe’s frightened face. But she also knows by the set of her sister’s jaw that she will get no more answers tonight.
CENTRA
When Arsinoe falls asleep, she dreams the same dream she had when she was sleeping beside Joseph’s grave. Which is odd, as she cannot remember ever having had the same dream twice. In it, she is again on a ship, not a ship like she is accustomed to, but an old ship, with one mast, the kind that merchants used to use and went out of fashion at least a century ago. And again, she is not herself but someone else: a girl dressed as a boy.
Also, she is up very high in the rigging, staring out at fast-moving waves that make her stomach lurch.
“David! Get down from that rigging!”
Yes, yes, let’s get down from this rigging, Arsinoe thinks, her own legs weak though the legs of her dream body navigate the ropes and nets without any trouble.
“Richard. You never let me have any fun.”
The girl whose body Arsinoe shares—whose name is actually Daphne, not David—lands on the deck and tugs her tunic down over her leggings. Old-fashioned clothes. Nothing like anything Arsinoe has ever worn, and not terribly comfortable either.
“You shouldn’t be here to begin with,” Richard says. “You know women are bad luck on a ship.”
“Keep your voice down,” Daphne says, with a glance toward the other sailors. “And it’s not as if you would have the nerve to steal the ship without me.”
“Borrowed. Only borrowed.”
The wind flags in the sail as the ship turns back toward the port. Daphne, and by extension, Arsinoe in Daphne’s body, looks to the stern where a boy has given up the wheel. He is Henry Redville—Lord Henry Redville from the country of Centra—and he makes his way to her and Richard and throws his arms around them.
“How are my two favorite wards?” Henry asks.
“She is not a ward,” says Richard. “She is a foundling. A foundling, scooped from the sea, the lone survivor of one wreck and sure to be the cursed cause of another with her penchant for sailing in disguise.”
“You know, Richard,” says Daphne, “when you were small, your nurses said you were sickly and wont to die.”
Arsinoe feels her own ribs squeezed as Henry
hugs them together as though to reconcile them by force. And it works. Richard and Daphne laugh.
“I suppose she is not a curse,” says Richard. “How could she be, when she is already a sea monster stuffed into a baby’s skin.”
“And never forget it. Now stop calling me ‘she.’ I am still David, in tunic and hose. No more ‘she’ until we’re back in the castle.”
The dream moves forward, past the place where she last woke. Yet the strangeness does not abate completely; Arsinoe is still disoriented, and in awe, staring up at the white cliffs overlooking the bay, in a mainland country she has never been to, and in a time she does not know. But it is only a dream, and in any case, she cannot seem to will herself awake.
Daphne, along with Henry (they seem to have left Richard at the port) enter the castle via a hidden passageway through the cliffs, their way guided by lanterns until they reach the end, and Daphne steps behind a hanging curtain to change into her girl’s clothes. Off comes the tunic and scratchy hose, and on goes a high-waisted red dress.
Blegh. I change my mind. This dress is even less comfortable than the tunic.
But even worse than that is the long, black wig.
“Daphne. Your wig is askew.” Henry holds out the lantern and tugs the wig on properly. Then he tops it with a terrible veiled headdress. Trapped inside Daphne, Arsinoe grimaces.
As Daphne fumbles with the wig again, Arsinoe tries to look around. She cannot, of course, which is frustrating. But she is asleep and this is only a dream, so she is not bothered too much.
“I’m sorry, Daph,” says Henry. “Women’s wardrobes are truly a mystery to me.”
“The girls in the tavern tell a different story,” she grumbles, and prods him in the ribs.
I believe I would like to hear that story. This boy Henry is nearly as handsome as Joseph. Tall and lean, with straight, thick, brown hair the color of an oiled walnut shell. A pity he had not been the one changing clothes behind the sheet.