Caragh kisses him, pressed against his chest, and it is not long before Matthew’s hands change from gentle to searching. Juniper growls and grabs Matthew’s shirt, but before she stalks off, she licks his hand. Juniper is Caragh’s familiar, and because Caragh loves Matthew, so does she.
“Caragh Milone,” he says against her lips, and again as he kisses her neck, as she arches to meet his hands, fumbling at the buttons of her shirt. “Marry me.”
Caragh’s heart pounds between them. She slips her arm around his back and holds him fast when she says no.
He is not surprised. He has asked before and heard the same. His hand slides down, along her leg, and she holds her breath.
Afterward, when they lie entwined, half dozing in the late-afternoon sun, he asks why she said no this time.
“Because you don’t mean it,” she says quietly. “You’re only seventeen, Matt. And I have five years on you.”
“I don’t know why you keep telling me that. Like you think I haven’t heard. Or can’t count.”
Caragh smiles. Matthew thinks their ages are just right. Strong-gifted naturalists live long lives, so she will be one hundred and he will be ninety-five, and they will die together in their bed, on the same day. Caragh touches his face.
“If you can count, then count to three. And ask again then.”
“Three days?”
“Matthew.”
“Three months?”
She shakes her head.
“Three years, Caragh,” he says, “is forever to wait.”
“To you it is. And that’s why I’m saying no.”
Three Years Later
ROLANTH
Sara Westwood sits across from the High Priestess of Fennbirn Island. They have met in secret at an inn in Trignor, a coastal town with a port that smells as much of the sheep from the farms in Waring as it does of fish, but Sara does not mind the smell. She has quietly begged for this meeting for years, and this is as near as they could come to midway between Sara’s city of Rolanth and the High Priestess’s quarters in Indrid Down Temple.
“More ale?” she asks, and snaps her fingers for the serving girl. She does not call the High Priestess by her title, as she has come dressed in simple white-and-black temple robes that any priestess might wear. She does not even call her “Luca,” her name, which is known the island-over.
After the ale is poured, High Priestess Luca regards her with sharp blue eyes.
“How is everything in your household, Sara?”
“Lucky to be standing, truth be told,” Sara replies. “Thank the Goddess for reinforced roofs. They are most resistant to being torn off.”
Luca chuckles. “You are being dramatic.”
“High Priestess, I am not. The stronger she became, the more difficult she was to control. We have”—she pauses, ashamed—“we have taken to keeping her shut up in the basement.”
Inside, belowground and away from windows, Mirabella is manageable. But they have still had to brick over the fireplace. And the nailed-down shutters on the exterior of the windows are not fooling anyone.
“A queen? Locked up in a basement?”
“We are failing her. We were not prepared.”
Sara takes a large swallow of ale. They will do better. The Westwoods’ time is just beginning. The Arrons will fade, and the Westwoods will rise, building up their homes and the city until Rolanth rivals the capital city of Indrid Down. If only they can shepherd this queen.
“There have been rumors,” says Luca. “They say that she is a handful. But surely your letters were an exaggeration.”
“I am not in the habit of exaggerating. And certainly not to you. She has not forgotten her sisters.”
“A queen always forgets. Give her time.”
Luca’s voice is soothing but dismissive. She will seek to put Sara’s mind at ease and leave her with no more than a pat on the head, if Sara lets her. And Sara has written too many letters, and pleaded with too many interim priestesses, for that.
“The people wished for an elemental queen,” she says, her voice bitter. “They feared that there was nothing left to the Goddess but poisoners. And now that they have an elemental, they whisper that she is a handful. She is more than a handful. And we will fail if someone does not help us.”
“At first, the strong queens are always difficult.”
“It has been three years.”
Luca takes a long drink of her ale and crunches through a baked, salted cracker. “How is she other than that? Does she look you in the eye? Respond to your emotions?”
“Yes. There are times when she is almost sweet.” Sara knows what the priestess is asking. Madness in a queen is not to be borne, and would mean Mirabella’s instant death. “She shows no sign of madness.”
“The island can never have another Elsabet,” Luca says, referring to Queen Elsabet, a sight-gifted queen who, upon foreseeing an assassination plot, had three whole houses of people executed without evidence.
“Never.” Sara makes a pious gesture to the Goddess of the island. “But what do we do now? Is there anything that can be done?”
Luca grunts. “There is always something to be done. Fostering a queen is never easy. Did you think it would be? The temple must be neutral, Sara. I don’t know what you would have of me.”
Sara bows her head, and Luca sighs, as if she cannot take a moment more of Sara’s pitiful face. “Do you really think she is a chosen queen? Our queens win their crowns through killing. People have their favorites, but if she truly is as strong as you say, her victory would be near assured.”
“She is that strong. She is chosen. And she needs the temple to guide her. As all queens do. Surely you would go to the aid of any of the young queens in this way.”
“Surely,” Luca says.
Sara keeps her eyes on the table as the High Priestess mulls it over, weighing tradition against rightness, faith against action. But Sara knows that Luca hates the poisoners as much as she does. Though they may not have murdered Luca’s grandmother, they have done even worse in wresting power away from the temple.
Luca wipes her mouth on a napkin and drops it beside her ale. “Well. You had better take me to meet the queen. Let us let her prove it.”
When the door to the basement creaks open, Mirabella blinks curiously into the shaft of light. It is not the hour for lessons or feeding. Though it is difficult to tell in the darkness of her confines.
Bree’s feet come slowly down the steps. She has even dared a small candle to light her way.
“Queen Mirabella,” she says. “We are bringing you to meet someone very important today. Will you let me help you get dressed? We have prepared a bath, and a beautiful new gown, and I will style your hair if you like. . . .”
The stubborn part of Mirabella, that same part that grips on to memories of her sisters with slippery fingers, wants to flare Bree’s candle up into her face. But the other part, that part that has rarely seen the sky in three long years, wins out. Besides, Bree’s gift has shown with an affinity for fire. Maybe she is already strong enough to hold back the flare.
With a gentle touch, Bree leads her up the stairs, into the day. The light hurts at first, stinging her eyes. From the grimaces on the servants’ faces, she must be hurting their eyes just as badly.
“Into the tub, Queen Mirabella.”
They have dragged a deep copper tub into the center of the kitchen and filled it with hot, perfumed water. Two maids strip her of the filthy rag of a dress she wears until she stands in her underclothes, her limbs streaked with dust and her hair hanging in oily strings.
She steps into the tub and submerges immediately, the heat and weight of the water pressing down like a blanket. Water has always been her worst element. The most elusive. Almost playful in its propensity to ignore or disobey. But today is different. Today she can tell that it has missed her.
Mirabella surfaces and lets Bree and the maids wash her face and scrub her fingernails. It is nice to be touched. Nice to be warm. And after the bath, they wrap her in a soft dressing gown, and brush and brush the tangles out of her hair.