Bree reaches out immediately and takes Mirabella’s hands.
“I am going to be your foster sister,” she says. “Our rooms are very close. On the same floor. I always wanted Mother to have more babies, but so far she has not, but I am so excited you are here!”
“Give the queen some room to breathe,” Sara says, and Bree quiets. She does not let go of Mirabella’s hands, only drops one and moves to the side. Mirabella tries to listen as they take her through the vast house, and Bree is kind, and it is nice to be looked at again and called by her name. But when they finally leave her alone in her new, richly furnished bedroom, she sinks down beside the bed and hugs her knees. Bree wants to be a good foster sister, but she is no replacement for Arsinoe and Katharine.
“Be brave,” she says to herself. “Do not cry.”
For many weeks afterward, Mirabella does her best to appear cheerful and to be good and dutiful, for Willa has taught her that being a queen is about serving as much as it is about ruling. She goes where she is told to go and wears what she is told to wear. She compliments the Westwoods’ household, their cooks, their city, and their fashion sense. She keeps her own room tidy and tries to help Bree to tidy hers (though that may truly be a lost cause) and impresses Sara with her grasp of the estate accounts.
For a while it seems that all will go as planned. The Westwoods are pleased, and parade her about Rolanth like a new and prized horse. She makes appearances at the best stalls in Penman Market and at the best shops in the high street. She prays to the Goddess every evening before the altar in Rolanth Temple. And everywhere she goes, the people of the city gawk. They stare and they whisper, and the bravest of them touch her clothes: the edge of her sleeve or the hem of her skirt. They ask questions about her, but never of her: “Is it true that her gift came when she could barely walk?” “Is it true that she has command of all the elements? And even the weather?” “I heard rumor that she has a temper, but she seems perfectly sweet and docile. . . . What chance does a docile queen have, even with a gift as strong as hers?”
Always, Sara answers for her with confidence, though Mirabella does not understand why they are shocked that she is strong or why her chances must be good. She wonders about it, but does not worry, for Sara seems to wave it off, and it must be something far away.
For a time, it seems that it may all be well, until one afternoon when Mirabella and Bree sneak into Sara’s sitting room to surprise her with some raspberry cake.
The girls steal into the room like thieves, each holding one side of a silver tray. They duck down behind the arm of the sofa, and Bree presses her lips tightly together to stifle a giggle. The cake is not much to look at, but they iced it themselves with swirls of raspberry frosting, and the taste is very good; not too dry and not too sweet. Sara will like it. She will press her palms to her cheeks and close her eyes on the first bite. Then she will gather Bree and Mirabella in her arms so they can help her eat the rest.
They bring her so many surprises like this that Mirabella wonders how she can still be so surprised every time.
“It is a long time until the Ascension,” Sara says to Uncle Miles, who is seated across from her in the green chair. Sara’s sitting room is full of the swirling blues and blue-greens that she favors, and often being in it feels to Mirabella like being underwater. It is a calming room. An elegant space. And she and Bree are mischievous dolphins.
“Already the city loves her,” says Miles. “There are so many offerings now at the temple. So many lit candles. She will have all the support she needs. We do not need the Black Council. And we do not need to fear the Arrons.”
“We all need to fear the Arrons. Westwoods, elementals, down to the last—we ought to fear them. They are too strong now and dug in like ticks. We have the chosen queen, but they will not give way easily. I would not be surprised if it costs more than queensblood to place Mirabella on the throne.”
The smiles fade from Bree’s and Mirabella’s faces. They have come at a bad time. Sara’s voice is unhappy and serious, and Uncle Miles is not his usual lighthearted self.
“Whatever the cost,” says Miles, “it will be worth it. The poisoners have had their way for too long. Choked us with taxation and mainland tariffs. Rolanth was the jewel of the island in Grandmother’s time. And when she fought their injustices, they put her in a cell. Poisoned her in the dark with one of their concoctions.”
“I have not forgotten, Miles.”
“No one has. But it will stop now. Queen Arsinoe and Queen Katharine . . .”
Mirabella freezes at the mention of her sisters’ names.
“They are weak. Mirabella will kill them easily. Quickly. Certainly faster than any of these poisoner queens have managed to kill their sisters.”
Mirabella looks at Bree. Bree’s eyes are wide, but out of fear, not of surprise. Mirabella’s world tilts as she half listens to Sara going on about unclear oracles and quick deaths, death by lightning bolt or death by fire. Kill Arsinoe and Katharine. It is so terrible that she almost laughs. She must have misheard. How could anyone ever think to kill Arsinoe and Katharine? How could anyone ever think that she would?
The tray of raspberry cake clatters to the floor, the icing smearing across the deep blue rug like sea foam. Sara and Uncle Miles leap to their feet.
“Queen Mirabella! Bree!” Sara glares at her daughter. “What in the world are you doing?”
“We brought you cake,” Bree answers, and begins to cry.
Neither adult moves to comfort her. They stare at Mirabella, afraid.
“You want me to kill my sisters?” she asks, and neither replies. Bree cries harder. Bree is a child. A little girl. But though they are the same age, Mirabella is no child. She is a queen. An eldest triplet.
“Mirabella,” Uncle Miles says. “Why worry about such dull, grown-up business? And now we have frightened you and ruined this sweet surprise.”
“No. What you were saying before,” Mirabella says, undeterred. “A queen is to kill her sisters?”
“Mirabella—”
“Tell me!” When Mirabella shouts, a crack of lightning rattles the house, and even Sara flinches.
“You should not have heard this,” Sara says. “There is plenty of time for such difficult things when you are older.”
“But it is true,” says Mirabella, and outside the rain starts. It pelts the roof and the sides of the house, harder and harder, turning to hail, and thunder booms against the cliffs of the Blackway, growing louder until Bree covers her ears.
Sara reaches for the queen, but Mirabella screams and sends the flames in the candles high, scorching the walls. “Miles! Bree! Put them out!”
Little Bree is too afraid to move, but Miles clenches his teeth, pitting his gift against the queen’s. He is older, and more practiced, and the candles snuff to smoke. But neither he nor Sara nor anyone else can stop the ferocity of the storm.
“Queen Mirabella, please!”
Shutters tear loose from the house. Windows rattle and threaten to shatter. Lightning strikes so close that the foundation shakes, and every elemental inside feels the electricity through the bottoms of their feet.
“I will not!” Mirabella screeches. “I will never, I will never, I will n—”
The storm eases when she falls to the floor, after Miles leaped behind her and used a heavy lamp to strike her on the back of the head.
GREAVESDRAKE MANOR