“To find out how it was made,” Mirabella says.
“Or how it could be unmade.” Arsinoe turns to them. “I knew we weren’t coming home to rule. Though if I’m being honest, I wasn’t certain. But now I know.”
“Know what?” Billy asks.
“I think I’m here to stop the mist.”
THE VOLROY
High in her rooms in the West Tower, Katharine locks herself away with a glass of wine full of floating poison berries. It has been days since she dispatched a messenger to seek out the rebels and convey her message, and that morning, the mist rose again. The infernal mist, bobbing on the water just past the northern outcropping of rocks of Bardon Harbor. She takes a large swallow of wine and curls her lip. She can go only so fast. The mist must be patient, and neither she nor the dead sisters appreciate having it loom over her shoulder. Since it appeared again, she has not looked outside nor taken any visitors. Her mood has turned from gray to black, and the change is not caused only by the mist.
The idea of sparing Jules Milone—of granting her mercy or even making peace—sticks inside Katharine’s throat. To rise against the line of queens should not be tolerated.
The leaders of the rebellion should be flayed in the square. We should take their skin in slow strips.
Katharine puts down the poisoned wine. Flaying is not the work of a poisoner. Flaying is the work of a war queen. Or queens who have been dead too long to know better.
Her door opens, and her maid announces Pietyr and the priestess of the council, Rho Murtra.
“Rho.” Katharine nods a greeting as the taller woman bows. “How strange to see you here.”
“When you did not come to the council chamber, I tired of waiting.”
Ignoring her, she holds her hand out to Pietyr, who comes and kisses her on the mouth.
“Pietyr. Have you found me a low magic practitioner to unravel the Milone woman’s blood-binding?”
“Not yet, Kat. None will come forward.”
She knew that none would. She knew that, as usual, none would volunteer to help her.
“Queen Katharine,” says Rho. “I have a report on the naturalist’s rebellion, if that interests you.”
“Of course.”
“They are falling back through the mountains.”
“How many?”
“Impossible to get an accurate count. They are coming from everywhere: ten from one village, a dozen from another. Streaming across the north country like ants. Unfortunately, none seems to have a direct line to Jules Milone.”
Katharine folds her arms.
“I would settle this uprising as quickly as possible. How long before she receives my message? How long before I can expect a response?”
“Any messenger she sends back will have to go through mountainous country, in winter weather.” Rho sucks her cheek. “A response rider will take more than a week, even if she changes horses.”
“How then is she able to communicate so well to so many small bands of rebels?” Pietyr asks as his hand slips around Katharine’s waist.
“We think they have naturalists in their ranks,” Rho replies, eyeing his arm about the queen. “They send birds and all manner of beasts with their orders. And with the naturalist gift, birds fly swift and direct.”
“If only we had one who could be relied upon,” Pietyr whispers, his lips brushing against the queen’s ear.
“Stop trying to irritate my war adviser.” Katharine turns and bites him, and he chuckles and moves away.
“My queen, perhaps we do have a naturalist who could be relied upon.” Rho calls to the maid. “Send for Bree Westwood.”
It does not take long for Bree to arrive, and when she does, her eyes dart between Rho and the queen.
“What is going on?”
“The queen requires a naturalist to ferry messages between her and the rebel uprising. Can you think of anyone?”
“A naturalist?”
“Someone who can use a bird. And be discreet.”
“Would she do it?” Katharine asks, realizing who they mean.
Bree presses her lips together.
“If it is not dangerous for the bird, then I am sure Elizabeth would gladly be of service to the crown.”
“It should not be dangerous at all!” says Katharine. “Only a summons to a meeting, on neutral ground, for a prisoner exchange. We are trying to avoid a war, not start one.”
“Very well. I will speak with her immediately.”
Bree finds Elizabeth in the kitchens, helping a few of the servants to prepare the evening’s meal, using a clever attachment on her left-side stump to chop vegetables. As soon as she sees Bree, her ruddy face lights up. She quickly excuses herself, detaching the blade and wiping her hand on a cloth.
“I didn’t expect to see you so soon. Did the Black Council disband early?”
“Come with me.” Bree leads Elizabeth down the corridor until they step outside, skirting the side of the castle and the drains for kitchen and rain runoff. “The queen did not feel like attending the council today. Her mind is on the rebellion in the north. Where is Pepper?”
Elizabeth stills and they listen. Soon, they hear him loudly drilling into some unlucky nearby tree.
“I love that sound.”
“Really?”
“It soothes me. You’ve no idea how often I would like to drill my nose into a tree in winter, especially here in the bleak, closed-off capital.”
“Elizabeth,” Bree begins, and looks up into the branches. “Can you use Pepper to send letters?”
“I suppose so. I’ve never tried. I send him to fetch things for me sometimes: tools or even wild ingredients for one recipe or another.”
“How far can he go?”
“He’s a very good flier.”
“I mean, how far can he go and still . . . hear you?”
“Far, I would imagine.” Elizabeth’s brow knits, finally realizing this is not an idle line of questioning. “If our bond was breakable, I think it would’ve broken when I sent him away to take the bracelets. It must’ve been stretched taut. But he came back when I called.”
“The queen wants him to find the rebel camp. She wants him to find Jules Milone and deliver a message to her. Can he do that?”
“He doesn’t know Jules Milone.”
“But could he find the camp?”
“It would . . .” Elizabeth pauses, her eyes on the trees. Perhaps sensing that he is being discussed, Pepper has come closer and clings to the trunk directly in front of them, his tufted head cocked.
“Would it be dangerous?” Bree asks. “Would the rebels be likely to hurt him?”
“You know as well as I do that it would depend on who he found.”
“Could you send another bird, then?”
Elizabeth shakes her head. “My gift is not that strong. I have only used it with Pepper. I am out of practice.” She looks so sad and frightened that Bree takes her by the shoulders.
“You do not have to do this. I can simply tell the queen that it is impossible.”
“Do you want me to do it?”
“I do not want a war.” Bree exhales. “And I think . . . I think that Katharine is sincere in her offer to trade Jules Milone for her mother. Whether or not she will really spare her life afterward is anyone’s guess.”
Elizabeth holds out her arms and the woodpecker hops off his tree and swoops into them. He is a watchful, silent bird, very good at hiding. Perhaps he will be all right.
“Tell the queen to write her message. I’ll tie it close against his leg.” She strokes his back, and he pecks her robes affectionately. “Then I’ll feed him a good meal and send him off.”
When Pietyr descends into the cells beneath the Volroy, the guards there barely acknowledge him. They are not the best of the queen’s army, but they do not need to be. So few prisoners rank high enough to warrant being tossed down below. Only murderers. Traitorous queens. Rebels. Or a rebel’s mother.
Pietyr stops outside the bars of Madrigal Milone’s cell. She is unbound and seated on the bench beside the wall. Her crow perches on her knee, eating from the palm of her hand what he assumes is the last of Madrigal’s meager breakfast.
“Hello, Mistress Milone.”
“Hello, Master Arron. You ought to do something about the food here. It’s upsetting the stomach of my bird, and she’s quite hardy.”