“Was she here?” Arsinoe asks. “What does she want?”
“Mirabella,” Billy says quietly. “I think you ought to give the low magic a try.”
Mirabella creeps forward and takes her confused sister by the hand.
“I think you are right.”
Billy, Mrs. Chatworth, Jane, and Mirabella sit at the informal dining table in the room just off the kitchen, sharing a most uncomfortable meal. Mirabella has not touched her sliced ham, instead scribbling away on a piece of paper. The only thing on her mind is the island, and she cannot ignore it, not even to please Mrs. Chatworth.
“I cannot seem to stop drawing her.” Mirabella reaches for a bit of blue chalk, the only drawing tool she could find in that color, even though the blue is all wrong. She turns the paper at an angle and studies it intently. The dark queen made of shadow, her long bony fingers clutching at the air, her grotesque legs tucked under herself. Beneath that drawing is a small stack of others: the shadow queen in other poses, all menacing, all monstrous. So monstrous that Billy’s mother has chosen to pretend that they are simply not there.
“Where is Miss Arsinoe?” she asks.
“On an errand,” Billy replies.
“Alone?”
Neither Billy nor Mirabella bother to respond. It is a stupid question. Who else besides those at that very table would be accompanying Arsinoe anywhere?
“It is like I am trying to commit her to memory,” Mirabella says. “Or perhaps to convince myself that she was indeed real. That we really saw her.” She slides the topmost drawing across the table. Billy takes it, holding it by the edges.
“Don’t know why you’d be trying to do that.” He sets it back down again, so his mother can stop staring pointedly away. “What could it mean? Why would another Fennbirn queen be haunting you?”
“Haunting us. You saw her, too.”
Mrs. Chatworth makes a pained noise, and Jane pats her forearm.
“And you’re certain it is Queen . . .” He searches for the name. “Illiann? The Blue Queen?”
Mirabella taps her drawing with a forefinger. The rendering of the crown is not perfect. The silverwork is much more intricate and the blue stones, a much brighter blue, but for ink and chalk, it is not half bad. “I have seen that crown in portraits before. There is no other like it.”
“If she was an elemental, then why wasn’t she in one of the murals in the temple? She must’ve been one of the most impressive and revered of the elemental queens.”
“William Chatworth Junior, this is not proper conversation for the table.”
“Not now, Mother.”
Mirabella glances at Mrs. Chatworth apologetically. But she goes on.
“Blue queens—fourth-borns—are not claimed by a particular gift. They are queens of the people. All of the people.” She stops. “It is hard to imagine what the island was like before her and before the mist. Had she not hidden us away, we would be entirely different. Perhaps we would be more like you.”
She raises her head. “You must have some record of this on the mainland. An entire nation disappearing into a fog?”
“No.” Billy frowns. “Everything known about Fennbirn is thought to be myth. A fable. There are no mentions of it in any historical text. Nothing on the maps. They must have been removed.”
Or he has seen the wrong maps. Mirabella traces her drawings with the tips of her fingers, and they come away stained black. “This was the queen who turned Fennbirn into legend. What could she want with us now?”
“Ghosts often appear to deal with unfinished business,” says Jane suddenly, and everyone looks at her in surprise.
“Jane!” Mrs. Chatworth gasps.
“I’m sorry, Mother.”
“No, Jane, that’s not half bad,” says Billy, and Jane’s shoulders wriggle happily, as a bird ruffling her plumage. “Could that be it, Mira? Unfinished business?”
“I do not see how. She had a thirty-year reign. It began with a war with the mainland, but she won. And then she reigned happily.”
Mrs. Chatworth throws down her napkin and pushes away from the table.
“Enough of this! I will not stand for it in my own house. This talk of witchery and heathen queens.”
“Mother,” Billy chides. “You sound so old-fashioned.”
“Proper is what I sound. And if Miss Arsinoe is having some sort of . . . episodes, the kindest thing to do for her would be to refer her to a physician, not to let her roam around the city by herself, getting into more trouble.” She stands and smooths her dress. “Jane, let us retire into the drawing room.”
Jane does as she is bid but casts a rather longing look over her shoulder. After they have gone and the doors between them are shut, Mirabella puts her head in her hands.
“Until last night, I would have agreed with her about the . . . physician. That is something like a healer, yes?”
“Yes. But when she says physician, all she means is a quack who will determine that Arsinoe is suffering from hysteria. They’d lock her away in a sanitorium.” Mirabella grimaces, and Billy glances at her.
“It was chaos in that room last night,” he says. “So I didn’t mention it. But I saw what your gift did up there. I saw that candle light without a match. How did you do it?”
“I did it for her,” Mirabella replies. “Arsinoe needed me to do it. So I did. Sometimes I think that is my true purpose. Not to be queen, like the Westwoods and Luca convinced me of. But to protect her. Just to protect her.”
THE ROAD FROM BASTIAN CITY
Jules, Camden, Emilia, and Mathilde creep out of Bastian City beneath the cover of dark. They have only the supplies that can be carried on their backs and what money can be stuffed into their pockets. As they pass through the outer wall and move onto the main road, Emilia suddenly stops.
“What is it?” Jules asks, and Emilia bursts into muffled laughter.
“It occurs to me,” she says when she has quieted, “that in our haste for revolution, we have neglected to decide where to start.”
Jules groans. So does Camden, leaning heavily against her good leg. “Well? There are not too many choices. Do we head north for Rolanth? Or west toward Wolf Spring?”
“Neither,” says Emilia. “Word from Rolanth suggests they are still too bitter about their loss, yet also still too loyal to the temple.”
“And why not Wolf Spring? Have your bards made it there yet? What are they saying about the uprising?”
“They may have heard rumors,” Mathilde says. “But it is still too soon. In my experience, it is best to allow naturalists to warm to ideas slowly.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jules asks.
“It means they are fast to say no. Nothing more.”
“It means they still hate the legion curse,” Emilia adds, less kindly. “Better to avoid Wolf Spring awhile. Dealings with naturalists are uncertain under the best of circumstances. They never want to get involved in anything.”
“Hey,” Jules says. “I’m a naturalist.”
“Yes, and you are the only one here who does not really want to rise.”
“Fine. So where, then, are we supposed to start?”
Mathilde adjusts her pack on her shoulders and begins to walk. “Why not start where we have already begun? My home of Sunpool is with us, as are many of the surrounding villages. They have been preparing for months, for they believe in the prophecy.” She gestures up the road. “We will go south around the capital and then skirt the mountains to the east. Once we are far enough north, we will begin speaking to the towns. Until the new force meets the existing one.” She looks at them over her shoulder, smile and white braid flashing in the moonlight. “Then we will circle back for Wolf Spring and Rolanth.”