Elsabet laughed. “You will make a naturalist of me.”
“Not to worry. There is no mistaking an oracle queen in a portrait. Not with the aura of black shadow around her head.” The aura of black. It was the traditional way of depicting the sight gift in paintings. The stronger the gift, the darker the aura. For a queen’s portrait, it would be so dark it would appear to be a black orb floating just above her crown.
“Jugglers, then, and the feast table. I promise I will make it seem a very merry occasion.”
“Then you must feast with us,” she said. “So you may make an accurate representation.”
Jonathan blushed, and Elsabet looked away. She had meant to get the measure of him, to find out why he had appeared in her dream. Instead, she was the one doing all the talking. More talking than she had done in years with anyone besides Rosamund and Bess.
“Well?” she asked. “What say you?”
“To an invitation from the queen?” He smiled, a pleased, befuddled expression on his face. “I can hardly refuse.”
INDRID DOWN
The house that the Arrons kept in the capital stood on the north side, proud and darkly timbered. It had been built atop a small knoll and in the rear boasted a small walled garden full of poison. There, it got the best of the morning sun and the best of the breezes coming from the north end of the harbor before the wind made it to the market and began to reek of mingling foods and people. Unfortunately for Gilbert, it was also the council house that was the farthest away from the castle, and by journey’s end on a warm summer day, the top of his forehead was beaded with sweat.
“I don’t know why you won’t settle in one of the row houses on High Street,” he said as Francesca greeted him in the garden.
“I don’t know why you won’t ride a horse,” she replied, and kissed his cheek.
“I told you; I don’t care for horses. And my mount would too often be seen tied to your post.”
Francesca laughed. “Your mount was seen often enough at my post when you first arrived in the capital.” She slipped her hand below his tunic and squeezed, making him smile and flush. Their tryst had been sweet but brief. Over now for years. She had set her sights on him the moment he stepped out of the carriage behind the new queen. Seducing him had been easy; Gilbert had never been with a girl as lovely as Francesca Arron. For nearly two months, she had listened to his troubles with his head resting on her chest. Just long enough to learn his vulnerabilities. And his darkest desires to capitalize on.
Francesca shook her long, pale braid over her shoulder as he followed her to a stone table and flinched away from the plants.
“Can we go inside? I feel as if I could die from a deep breath in this garden.”
“We do not keep poisons like that here.” She bent to finish the letter she had been writing. “As long as you eat nothing and do not roll in anything, you will be fine.”
“Roll in anything,” he muttered, and tugged his sleeves in tighter. “What’s that there?” He pointed to a small vine-covered stone set inside a tiny box of iron fence. “I’ve never seen that before.”
Francesca glanced up to where he was pointing. “It’s a grave marker, of course. It’s usually obstructed and overgrown.”
Gilbert walked closer and bent to read the engraving. Grave markers were rare on the island, as most bodies were burned on the pyre and the ashes scattered. Families kept woven shrouds as commemoration, or plaques, or engraved brick, but an actual grave was an uncommonly curious thing. Leave it to Gilbert to find it, with that strange manifestation of his sight gift.
“It’s only engraved with the year. Who is it?”
“A long-ago child,” Francesca replied. “She was legion-cursed and put to death in the temple here when she was nine. The poor thing. There are few easy deaths for a poisoner. Fewer merciful options when poison is not one of them.” She handed her letter to a servant, along with her ink and pen, then sighed, staring at the grave. “They took off her head,” she said, and Gilbert winced. “The family had her buried here unburned, holding it like a basket on her chest.”
“Beheading is a cruel thing for a child,” he agreed. “But still far kinder than leaving her to grow into the curse and to run mad.”
“To be sure.” She rubbed a bit of ink between her fingers and then clapped her hands. At a flick of her wrist, a silver vial appeared in her palm. “I have made it stronger this time.”
“Stronger? Why?”
“Why? How can you ask why? You have been at the Black Council meetings. You have been at the court. She is still not listening to us. Still taking no guidance from her advisers.”
He clenched his fist on the vial. She could see that he wanted to throw it. But he would not. Much as Gilbert loved the queen, he knew that her free spirit occasionally went too wide of tradition. And besides, he would never go against Francesca. Not after she had used her poison craft to weaken his older sister so that his position on the council was secured.
“Is it safe?”
Francesca’s mouth fell open, her large blue eyes the picture of hurt. “How can you ask me that? Of course it is safe. A strong gift has made the queen too sure of herself. Too certain she knows what is best. With her gift muted, she will learn to rely on her friends. Really, it is for her own good.”
“It’s not even her fault. The Goddess gave her the sight to put her on the throne. And now we play with that like it is not a sacred thing. We could be leaving ourselves vulnerable to attack!”
Francesca clucked her tongue. “We still have your gift of sight.”
“My gift is not the same as the queen’s.”
“But it will do for now.” She pressed the vial harder into his palm and his hand down to his tied purse to hide it in.
“It’s not forever,” he said, and turned to go.
Not forever. Just until she learned to rely on her council. And on Francesca in particular. Francesca ran her tongue across her teeth and sipped a cup of unsweetened May wine. Poisoning the queen, even nonlethally, was a very dangerous game. And she was relying on soft-hearted Gilbert Lermont to play so much of it. With one hand, Francesca held the queen’s gift down, as if underwater. And with the other, she aroused unrest and directed it toward the queen, by stoking Sonia Beaulin’s warrior jealousy and whispering about the excessive costs associated with the construction of the castle. But still Elsabet did not turn to her as head of council. Still, that designation stayed vacant. And Francesca was running out of hands.
Just as that thought crossed her mind, a new set of hands slipped around her waist from behind. She smiled as the king-consort nibbled on her earlobe.
“Here you are, my beauty,” he said. “What did that milksop want?”
“Never mind him.” She turned in his arms and kissed him. “But it was a good thing you were not seen. You should return to the Volroy soon, before she sends out riders to search for you.” Not that those riders would ever think to look at the Arron house, but she did not wish to press her luck. The king-consort had been spending more and more nights and afternoons. Too many. And even after long hours in her bed, he never seemed to want to leave.
“If I were free, I would never return to her,” William said, his eyes bitter and faraway. “Not to a woman who had the gall to shame me before the court. Who put me on bended knee and forced me to beg and wheedle my way back into her bed! As if that were anywhere I wanted to be.”
The loyalist in Francesca winced at the coldness of his words. He should not speak so of the queen. Not even a queen so foolish as this one. But outwardly, she smiled and touched his face.
“You should not seek to anger her. We need your charms to brighten the court.”