Queen Katharine walks through the hallways of Greavesdrake Manor, holding tight to the seam of Edmund the butler’s pant leg. The great house that the Arron family occupies is easy to get lost in and makes Katharine feel even smaller than she already is. Last week in the library she had to fight her way out of the folds of a curtain. And the ballroom is so large that the entire Black Cottage could fit inside.
As they go down the halls, their footsteps echo, and Katharine keeps glancing behind them, sure that Miss Genevieve is lurking about, ready to jump out and frighten her. The game was funny at first, but grows less so due to its frequency, and Miss Genevieve pinches hard enough to leave marks.
“There is no one back there, little queen,” Edmund says. He looks down and winks at her over the top of his silver tray. “Miss Genevieve is already in the courtyard with the others. They have been playing croquet.”
“She must like that game very much,” says Katharine. “Since it lets her use such a big mallet.”
Edmund chuckles, and she giggles back, though she does not know what is funny. Genevieve would like things with big mallets. She seems to like anything that allows her to hit.
They wind through the rear kitchens and step outside to make their way to the courtyard. The Arrons had erected black-and-white tents; more shade for visiting family than the alder trees could provide. Edmund leads her to the largest tent, where Natalia sits, watching her sister, Genevieve, and brother, Antonin, play a round with the younger cousins.
“There you are,” she says as Katharine enters. Edmund places the silver tray down onto the table, and Katharine curtsies to Natalia and sits on the chair opposite. “And you have brought the May wine. How lovely.”
“May wine,” says Katharine. “Is it called that because of the month? Are we only to drink it in May?”
“May wine is a poisoner tradition.” Natalia takes hold of the clear pitcher, full with bright, golden liquid. “We drink it always, but it is especially for the children. Let me show you.”
She pours the wine into a silver cup and holds it out for Katharine to sniff. The scent is acidic and sweet, slightly grassy. Katharine wrinkles her nose.
“The toxin is from the woodruff plant,” Natalia explains. “But it is not too much. That is why even those early in their gift are safe to drink it. Like children. And also because it is best served like so.” She takes up a set of tongs and drops three lumps of sugar into the cup. She pauses, raises an eyebrow at the queen, and then drops in a fourth, making her giggle. “Almost done,” Natalia says, but first she takes a large strawberry and makes fast slices into the tip, then uses her fingers to spread the fruit like a fan. She dips the berry into a bowl of honey and then drops the whole sticky mess into the cup of wine.
Katharine holds the cup in both hands and sips as Natalia licks her fingers. She can still smell the grassy bitterness, but the drink is sweet and wonderful.
“Well? What do you think?”
“It is delicious,” Katharine says, and takes another sip. Natalia smiles and goes back to watching the cousins at their game. To Katharine’s eyes, no woman in the world could be more beautiful than Natalia Arron. Her blond hair blazes like sunlight, and her lips are as red as summer apples. Everything about her is regal and elegant. Every step she takes is sure. The other Arrons, and the servants, are more than a little afraid of her, but since Katharine arrived at Greavesdrake, Natalia has been nothing but kind.
Katharine sips her drink and watches the croquet balls tumble across the lawn. No one asks her to play. No one pays her much mind at all, except to glance at her occasionally with curious looks on their faces. But that is fine with Katharine. The day is sunny and pleasant, and the May wine is cool in her belly. She has never cared for croquet anyhow; Arsinoe would never follow the rules when they tried to play at the cottage, and the mallets are too tall for her to swing comfortably.
After some time, Natalia stands and calls to Genevieve.
“I am going inside to settle some accounts,” she says to her sister. “And then into the capital. I will not return until suppertime. Can you play the hostess until then?”
“Of course, sister,” Genevieve replies, her mallet resting against her shoulder, and her pretty, lilac eyes sparkling.
“Serve more May wine to the children. It is weak enough for them. But do not taint it with anything else. The littler cousins have no gift at all yet, and we do not want there to be vomit in the grass.”
It is on her third glass of May wine that Katharine’s stomach starts to hurt. At first, she tries to conceal it, thinking that the pains will pass, like the time that she and Arsinoe ate all of Willa’s plum tart and could not walk for hours. But then her head begins to throb, and her vision darkens. She is vaguely aware that she is throwing up, just as her body thumps against the soft, green grass beneath the black-and-white tent.
When she wakes later she is nauseous and shivering, but at least she is in her bed inside the manor and no longer stretched out on the lawn for everyone to see. She half opens her eyes in the candlelight. It is dark. Nighttime. Of the same day? She hopes so.
Natalia and Genevieve stand just outside of her bedchamber, in her sitting room. Their voices are hushed but angry. Perhaps frightened. She moans, so they will know they do not need to be quiet, and so they might come in and see her. Their talking pauses, but they remain outside.
Curious and a little more awake, Katharine rolls and looks through the doorway. Just the sight of Natalia calms her: back straight, wearing a dove gray shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. The front of her black trousers are messed, and Katharine realizes with horror that she must have thrown up on her.
“She is weaker than Camille ever was, and now the whole family knows it,” Genevieve hisses.
“And whose fault is that? How many cups of May wine did she have? Did I not tell you to watch her? To mix the wine weak? Now we have a sick queen and two sickening cousins in a carriage back to Prynn.”
“This story will spread. The people will dive upon it. Especially with the tales coming out of Rolanth about the elemental queen. How strong she is. The storms she produces. Queen Mirabella—”
There is the sound of a slap, and Genevieve cries out.
“How many times must I say not to speak their names? Nowhere that she might overhear.”
“She is unconscious,” Genevieve says.
“I do not care. No one speaks their names. They do not exist. A queen’s memory is short at this age, and in a year or two, she will have forgotten them entirely, as long as we do not help her to remember. Ignore her when she asks of them, as if you had not heard. And never speak the names!”
Clothing rustles, and Genevieve squeaks again. Even disoriented and sick, the sounds frighten Katharine, and she huddles down into her blankets.
“We will have an easier time of it, once she forgets,” says Natalia.
“We will have an easier time of it once her gift strengthens,” says Genevieve. “Let me train her. Let me coax it out. Such methods have worked before, and even if the gift is slow to show, at least she will build natural tolerances.”
A long pause, and Katharine raises her head to find Natalia staring in at her. Katharine sinks back on her pillows and feels safe. Natalia will not leave her. She will probably stay by her bed all night. Her eyes drift shut. Nothing bad can happen as long as Natalia is there.
WOLF SPRING
The house of the naturalist Milone family rests on the outskirts of the village of Wolf Spring. It is an agrarian land, some residents with more of a gift than others, but the strongest magic in the region bears a naturalist slant. Crops and livestock grow well, and fish are plentiful in the waters outside Sealhead Cove, named not for its shape but for the propensity of seals to bob up and down in the waves.