Tell me about the painting.
I’d written back from my seat in the garden, the fountain finally revived with the return of milder weather, There’s not much to say.
Tell me about it anyway.
It had taken me a while to craft the response, to think through that little hole in me and what it had once meant and felt like. But then I said, There was a time when all I wanted was enough money to keep me and my family fed so that I could spend my days painting. That was all I wanted. Ever.
A pause. Then he’d written, And now?
Now, I’d replied, I don’t know what I want. I can’t paint anymore.
Why?
Because that part of me is empty. Though maybe that night I’d seen him kneeling in the bed … maybe that had changed a bit. I had contemplated the next sentence, then written, Did you always want to be High Lord?
A lengthy pause again. Yes. And no. I saw how my father ruled and knew from a young age that I did not want to be like him. So I decided to be a different sort of High Lord; I wanted to protect my people, change the perceptions of the Illyrians, and eliminate the corruption that plagued the land.
For a moment, I hadn’t been able to stop myself from comparing: Tamlin hadn’t wanted to be High Lord. He resented being High Lord—and maybe … maybe that was part of why the court had become what it was. But Rhysand, with a vision, with the will and desire and passion to do it … He’d built something.
And then gone to the mat to defend it.
It was what he’d seen in Tarquin, why those blood rubies had hit him so hard. Another High Lord with vision—a radical vision for the future of Prythian.
So I wrote back, At least you make up for your shameless flirting by being one hell of a High Lord.
He’d returned that evening, smirking like a cat, and had merely said “One hell of a High Lord?” by way of greeting.
I’d sent a bucket’s worth of water splashing into his face.
Rhys hadn’t bothered to shield against it. And instead shook his wet hair like a dog, spraying me until I yelped and darted away. His laughter had chased me up the stairs.
Winter was slowly loosening its grip when I awoke one morning and found another letter from Rhys beside my bed. No pen.
No training with your second-favorite Illyrian this morning. The queens finally deigned to write back. They’re coming to your family’s estate tomorrow.
I didn’t have time for nerves. We left after dinner, soaring into the thawing human lands under cover of darkness, the brisk wind screaming as Rhys held me tightly.
My sisters were ready the following morning, both dressed in finery fit for any queen, Fae or mortal.
I supposed I was, too.
I wore a white gown of chiffon and silk, cut in typical Night Court fashion to reveal my skin, the gold accents on the dress glittering in the midmorning light streaming through the sitting room windows. My father, thankfully, would remain on the continent for another two months—due to whatever vital trade he’d been seeking across the kingdoms.
Near the fireplace, I stood beside Rhys, who was clad in his usual black, his wings gone, his face a calm mask. Only the dark crown atop his head—the metal shaped like raven’s feathers—was different. The crown that was the sibling to my gold diadem.
Cassian and Azriel monitored everything from the far wall, no weapons in sight.
But their Siphons gleamed, and I wondered what manner of weapon, exactly, they could craft with it, if the need demanded it. For that had been one of the demands the queens had issued for this meeting: no weapons. No matter that the Illyrian warriors themselves were weapons enough.
Mor, in a red gown similar to mine, frowned at the clock atop the white mantel, her foot tapping on the ornate carpet. Despite my wishes for her to get to know my sisters, Nesta and Elain had been so tense and pale when we’d arrived that I’d immediately decided now was not the time for such an encounter.
One day—one day, I’d bring them all together. If we didn’t die in this war first. If these queens chose to help us.
Eleven o’clock struck.
There had been two other demands.
The meeting was to begin at eleven. No earlier. No later.
And they had wanted the exact geographical location of the house. The layout and size of each room. Where the furniture was. Where the windows and doors were. What room, likely, we would greet them in.
Azriel had provided it all, with my sisters’ help.
The chiming of the clock atop the mantel was the only sound.
And I realized, as it finished its last strike, that the third demand wasn’t just for security.
No, as a wind brushed through the room, and five figures appeared, flanked by two guards apiece, I realized it was because the queens could winnow.
CHAPTER
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