Nicolas laughs. His voice is not deep—indeed, Natalia’s voice is deeper—but it is pleasant.
“It must be more than that,” he says. “Every poisoner here has turned their nose up as my dishes go by.” He glances about the room, and Katharine raises her eyebrows at his plate: a shallow bowl of chilled summer soup. Only he, giftless Renata Hargrove, and war-gifted Margaret Beaulin are eating that, and they all have the sense to pretend they are not hungry.
“Do not pay them any attention,” Katharine says. “Poisoners are always that way about untainted food.” She reaches up and touches the flowers of the centerpiece and the towers of shining fruit. “They see it as inelegant, no matter how much silver they pile it upon or how much spun sugar they hide it under.”
Nicolas reaches out as well, and their fingers touch. He seizes the opportunity and takes her hand to press it firmly to his lips, so firmly that she is sure to feel it even through the gloves.
Katharine does feel it. It shocks her just how much, and for a moment, Pietyr flashes into her mind, the memory of him suddenly strong enough to make her heart pound. She clenches her teeth and takes a breath. She refuses to think of Pietyr that way. Pietyr, who tried to murder her. She touches her face. Her cheeks are flushed. But Nicolas will think it is because of his kiss.
“There is such finery here,” Nicolas says. “But less of a heartbeat than at the Beltane Festival. Those nights beside the fires were so exciting. Watching you through the flames. Looking up at you from the sand. Will there be other festivals like that?”
“The next festival is for Midsummer,” Katharine says, and coughs when her voice trembles. “Celebrated across the island, of course, but really it is a naturalist affair, of harvest and bounty. Then there is the Reaping Moon in autumn, though the elementals claim that through fires and chilled winds.”
“Which festival is the poisoners’ festival?” Nicolas asks.
“Every festival,” Natalia answers from Katharine’s other side. She should have known that Natalia would be listening.
“At every festival there is a feast,” Natalia explains. “And every feast is for the poisoners.”
The main course is served: a poisoned hog with a bright spring pear stuffed into its mouth after roasting. The servers bring it first to Katharine and Natalia’s table, to carve her the choicest bits along with spoonfuls of orange squash sweetened with molasses and arsenic. The hog is delicious, juicy and robust. The seared bird on Nicolas’s plate looks shrunken and sad in comparison.
After the meal, Katharine leads her suitor onto the floor to dance.
“I can’t believe how well you are,” Nicolas whispers, gazing at her in awe. “There was so much poison . . . enough to kill a man twice your size.”
“Enough to kill twenty,” Katharine corrects him, smiling. “But do not worry, Nicolas. I have been eating poison since I was a child. Now I am practically made of it.”
ROLANTH
Mirabella turns back and forth in front of the mirror with a pained expression as Sara and the priestesses adjust the fall of her dress.
“It is so thin in places,” Mirabella says, studying a transparent spot near her hip.
The gown is fashioned from gauzy material overlaid and wrapped around itself. It is light as air and moves in the breeze.
“It is beautiful,” Elizabeth assures her.
“Just the thing to welcome a suitor in,” says Bree.
“William Chatworth Junior is not here as a suitor. He is here as a prisoner. Everyone knows he has already chosen Arsinoe. This feast is a farce.”
Sara fastens a necklace around Mirabella’s throat: it is the one she selected for Beltane, with the obsidian beads and gems that burn like fire. “Boys’ minds are changeable,” she says, and taps the gems. “This will remind him of your dance. His eye was on you then, no matter what he says about the naturalist.”
With an impish grin, Bree bumps Mirabella aside and turns before the mirror.
“I cannot wait for the feast. Stewed apples and pork . . . berry tartlets . . . All this business of poison and tasters. I’m so afraid of my plate most days that I barely manage a mouthful.” She points to a gap between her dress and her armpit. “Look at this bodice! My breasts have shrunk!”
“Bree,” Elizabeth says, and giggles. “They have not.”
“Easy for you to say, with the pair that you have. If they were not trapped under temple robes, no one would look at me twice.” She swishes her skirt back and forth. Despite her words, the dress is very becoming, embroidered with bright blue hydrangeas.
“And what young man do you have your eye on now, daughter?” Sara asks.
“Mrs. Warren’s glassmaking apprentice,” Bree replies. “The tawny-headed one. With good shoulders and freckles.” She turns. “Mira, if we fall in love, you must promise to appoint him to your royal guard. And then you must promise to get rid of him when we fall out of it.”
“Bree,” Elizabeth objects. “She can’t dismiss someone just because you’ve finished with them! If you turn around one day and find that Mira’s guard is filled with your old lovers . . . then that will be your own fault.”
Mirabella tries to smile. They have worked hard to cheer her since Arsinoe and her bear escaped in the Ashburn Woods. Mirabella had searched and searched, but it was as if her sister and the bear had vanished.
“There will be whispers,” Mirabella murmurs. “They are saying I ran home with my tail tucked between my legs.”
“But we know the truth,” Elizabeth protests. “It was Arsinoe who ran, not you.”
Arsinoe had run. But why? The bear had caught Mirabella completely by surprise. It could have torn her wide open. She does not understand why it did not. Why Arsinoe did not fight back.
The pavilion in Moorgate Park has been decorated with wreaths of flowers and long, trailing white and blue ribbons. The temple means to present William Chatworth Jr. to her there. As though he is a gift.
“So many people have come,” Mirabella whispers as their coach draws to a halt. All of Rolanth must have emptied, from the sheep farms in the south to the northern stalls at Penman Market.
Mirabella takes a deep breath. The air smells of baked apple pies and fragrant spiced smoke from the roasting fires.
“Mirabella! Queen Mirabella has arrived!”
Those near to the coach rush toward it. Mirabella, Bree, and Elizabeth get out and are quickly jostled into the center of nine guardian priestesses. Some in the crowd are into their cups and push too close.
“Get back!” Bree shouts as the priestesses grasp the handles of their serrated knives.
“We should have brought Rho,” Elizabeth says.
“Rho is with Luca,” Mirabella replies.
“And besides,” Bree adds, “who likes to bring Rho anywhere?” But Elizabeth is right. If Rho were there, they would not have to worry about trouble from the crowd.
“Do you hear that?” Elizabeth mutters. Mirabella does not hear anything except the noise of the people, and the music from the players beside the pavilion.