Did he really say so? Somehow I doubt it.
The boats launch toward the shore, lit with torches and lanterns, and garlands of flowers that go to waste, as they can hardly be seen in the darkness. They make landfall, and suitors disembark and pass by on the beach below, some nervous boys who mess up their bows, some laughing buffoons like Michael Percy and Tommy Stratford, those poor suitors whom Arsinoe accidentally poisoned.
The ones from Bevellet wear black cloaks hung with gold and carry fat red roses. Those from Valostra are each dressed in different light-wool stripes.
Then it is Henry’s turn. He arrives on a launch lit with nine lanterns.
“One lantern for every great county of Centra,” Daphne whispers to Illiann.
“He looks very handsome in that black-and-crimson cape. Though someone should have told him that crimson is for funerals. Shall I wave?”
Daphne chuckles.
“I think he almost winked.”
Illiann chuckles as well and then stops. Below on the beach stands the final suitor. Branden, the Duke of Bevanne.
Arsinoe feels Daphne swallow and begin to fidget as Illiann and Branden stare at each other. He is good-looking, to be sure. One of the best-looking boys that Arsinoe has ever seen, and she grew up with the likes of Joseph Sandrin. But there is something else about him that strikes her, above his looks.
“Illy?” The queen does not respond, and Daphne clears her throat. “Illy? What is it? Should Henry be worried?”
Henry should be more than worried, Arsinoe thinks. For there is something in Branden’s eyes that reminds her distinctly of Queen Katharine’s wicked king-consort, Nicolas Martel.
“Arsinoe? Arsinoe!”
She jerks awake to find Billy’s hands on her shoulders. They are still on the knoll of grass between the governor’s stable and carriage house, and from the look of the sun, not much time has passed. Yet Billy is looking at her crossly, like she slept the whole party away.
“What? What’s the matter?”
“You said, ‘Henry,’ again.”
Arsinoe sits up and brushes herself off. “Hmm?” She tries to feign innocence, or perhaps confusion, but the blush creeps onto her face. Her scars must already be dark from it.
“Don’t play the fool. And don’t play me for one. You called me Henry the other day when you wanted to borrow some socks. Now who is he?”
“Shouldn’t we be getting back?” She stands and sees Mirabella approaching from the direction of the house. Billy gets to his feet beside her.
“There you are!” Mirabella calls.
“Arsinoe, stop playing with me. Have you met someone named Henry?”
“No, of course not. Why are you so upset? It was only a dream!”
Mirabella arrives in the midst of their argument and looks from one to the other as Billy picks up his jacket and beats it free of grass.
“If I were to dream and start whimpering and moaning, ‘Christine, Christine,’” he says, “I’d wake up to your hands around my throat.”
“Oh no, Billy.” Mirabella touches his shoulder. “It is nothing like that.”
“Mira.” Arsinoe shakes her head. “Keep quiet.”
“We said no secrets, sister.”
Arsinoe exhales hard through her nostrils and turns away, the closest thing to permission she can bring herself to give.
“She has been having visions of the past.”
“Visions?” Billy asks. “I didn’t think you had visions. Isn’t that . . . some other gift?”
“Not visions. I misspoke. Dreams. She has been dreaming through another queen’s eyes. A queen from the Blue Queen’s time. And she saw . . .” She pauses, as though searching for a word. “A specter, a shadow beside Joseph’s grave. A shadow that looked like us.”
Arsinoe peeks at Billy from the corner of her eye. He is utterly befuddled.
“But why would she be dreaming that?”
“I love it when you both talk about me as if I weren’t here.” Arsinoe casts a glare at them. Then, before either can ask any more questions, she stalks quickly back to the party.
BASTIAN CITY
It does not take long for word of the mist to reach Bastian City from the capital. In the Bronze Whistle, Emilia beats her fist against the table.
“The mist rises and spits drowned bodies onto the shore. Right at the Undead Queen’s feet.”
Mathilde leans forward, her arms around a cup of wine. “They say the corpses were torn apart. Skinned. Aged by years when they had sailed only days before.”
“It is another sign,” says Emilia.
“It’s rubbish,” says Jules. “Fishers got caught up in the same squall, and sharks set upon the wreckage afterward. It’s a tragedy, to be sure. But it’s not a sign.”
“And what of the aging? The advanced decay?”
“Exaggeration and fear. Or simple misunderstanding. The sea can do strange things to a body. I’ve seen it myself, back home. And you should know it as well here so near the water.”
Emilia and Mathilde trade weary expressions, and Emilia pounds her fist again.
“Another sign or not, the time is right to move. Half of the people already consider Katharine to be an illegitimate queen, and the other half will say they do if only to get rid of another poisoner.”
“Half and half.” Jules snorts. “So she has no supporters, then? The whole island is on your side?”
“Even the mist is on our side,” says Emilia, and laughs. She looks to Mathilde. “It is time. It is finally time to begin.”
“Yes,” says Mathilde. “A call to arms.”
Both turn and stare at Jules expectantly. As if Jules would stand and shoulder a blade, give a rousing battle cry, and charge straight out of the tavern.
“Don’t look at me,” says Jules. “I already told you what I thought of your prophecy. And where you can stuff it.” She tosses a few roasted nuts into her mouth and chews hard.
Again, Emilia and Mathilde trade glances, and Mathilde slides her hand gently across the table. “Jules. I understand your reluctance. But there will be no hiding from this. No escape. It will be easier on you and everyone if you choose to embrace it.”
The seer looks so confident. The expression in her eyes is soft and imploring, as if she thinks Jules is simple and if only they talk slower she will understand. As if she does not understand full well the scope of their ridiculous plan. Raising a rebellion in her name. The name of the legion-cursed naturalist. She feels her temper rise into her throat and hates it, that war-gifted aspect of herself.
“Come now, Jules,” says Emilia. “Haven’t I always been a friend to you? Did I not help you save the traitor queens from the Volroy?”
“Don’t call them that.”
“Have I not hidden you and fed you all these weeks?”
“So is that it, then?” Jules asks. “I owe you? Well, perhaps I do, but I can think of a more reasonable payment than leading an army.” She chooses her next words with care. “You cannot usurp the throne from the rightful line of queens.”
“A failing line,” Emilia says, and points a finger into Jules’s face. “A weakening line. What did they give to us this time? Two defectors and a lesser poisoner. No real queen.”
Jules cannot really argue with that. Even when Arsinoe had determined to fight for the crown, she only wanted to survive. She never wanted to rule. “Weakening or not,” Jules says, “the queens are all the island has ever known.”
“And does that make it right?” asks Mathilde.
“Why not show them something new?” Emilia gestures to the ceiling, to the sky. “You can be a part of that, Jules. You can lead us to it.”
“Lead us to what?” Jules chuckles. Emilia’s passion, if not exactly infectious, is certainly something to watch.
“An island where voices outside the capital are heard. A council comprised of people from Sunpool and Wolf Spring, from Highgate. From everywhere. The Legion Queen will not be another queen like the triplet queens. She will be different. She will be a protector for us all.”
“She’s an idea,” Jules says. “And you want me to be her face.”
“I want you to realize that you are her.”