“Hear what, Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth cranes her neck toward the green-leafed branches casting shade onto the path.
“It is Pepper,” she whispers. “He’s agitated. He recognizes someone.”
“I think I know who,” Bree says. Beside the fountain, Luca and Rho stand at the head of a band of priestesses. Kneeling at their feet, his head down so she can see only the top of his sandy hair, is the suitor, William Chatworth Jr.
And to his right is Joseph Sandrin.
Mirabella wants to shout but she does not react. She has been raised a queen and feels every eye on her. She cannot ask what Joseph is doing there. She cannot even reach out to squeeze her friends’ hands.
“Queen Mirabella,” William says. “I have come to serve.”
“You are most welcome,” comes her distant reply.
William raises his eyes, and she forces herself to smile. Has Joseph come to stay? Is this the way he has found to be near her?
“Come, Mira,” Bree whispers, and escorts her to the banquet table. Elizabeth bows, and leaves to dine with her fellow priestesses.
They seat Joseph on the other side of William Chatworth, who is seated to Mirabella’s left. At her right, High Priestess Luca signals the musicians to play, and dancers and jugglers fill the space in the grass before the table.
When a novice priestess brings Mirabella the first cut from the haunch of a roasted boar, Chatworth takes her knife and fork before she can even touch them.
“Not yet, my queen,” he says. “This is my lot. To chew and swallow and see if I will die so you won’t.” He takes a little of the meat and a section of apple pastry. Then he washes it all down with wine from her goblet.
Mirabella waits. He drums his fingers.
“No cramps. No burning. No blood from my eyes.”
“Do you think it safe, then, William?”
“Call me Billy,” he says. “And yes, I think it’s safe. Safer anyway than what you did to Arsinoe in the forest.”
Mirabella’s eyes flash to his. They are squinted at the corners as though smiling, but that is not real. Underneath, they are hard as stone.
“There is no suitable apology for that,” she says. “So I will make none.”
“Good. I would have spat it back in your face.”
“May I have my fork now, Billy?”
“No.” He nods out, toward the crowd, where people eat roasted boar and smoked fish off trenchers of bread. Dancing and laughing, and watching the royal table from the sides of their eyes. “We ought to give them a proper show. Isn’t that what they expect? A love story for their queen?”
He cuts a bit of meat and skewers it onto her fork. He offers it to her with his hand on the back of her chair, doting, as though feeding her sweets with his fingers.
When she eats it, the people cheer.
“There now,” Billy says. “That’s better. Even though you were hesitant. Did you think I might push the fork into your throat? Every one of these barbaric priestesses would be on me the moment I did.”
“But your death would serve Arsinoe. So perhaps you will still risk it.”
“Things aren’t that bad yet, Queen Mirabella.”
She tries to see around him, to Joseph, but he has turned away, conversing with Rho of all people. No one seems to be listening; no one is hearing the things that Billy is saying to her. Sara is talking with Luca. Even Bree is distracted, calling out to a boy with tawny hair.
“This is how it will be,” Billy says, his voice low. “I will taste for you, and I will smile. I will appease my father.” He feeds her another bite of sweet apples. “And I will be back with my Arsinoe before she can even miss me.”
WOLF SPRING
“I’m not wearing that,” Arsinoe says.
Madrigal sighs, and drops the long black dress onto Arsinoe’s bed.
“It’s their first time meeting you. You could wear a dress. Just once.”
Arsinoe turns to her mirror and adjusts the cuffs on her black shirt. She straightens the mask on her face.
“I haven’t worn a dress since I was six years old. It was half the reason I was crying when they came to take us from the Black Cottage.” She holds her hands out. “Well? How do I look?”
Madrigal raises her eyebrows.
“Oh, who cares, anyway?” Arsinoe snaps.
“You’re in a foul mood. And you haven’t even seen them yet.”
“Tommy Stratford and Michael Percy,” Arsinoe grumbles as she strips off her vest and throws it aside. Perhaps another. The pinstriped one that Luke made. She looks at her frowning reflection, at the bit of her soft pink scar peeking out from beneath the red and black of the mask.
“Just what is the punishment,” she asks, “if Braddock accidentally eats them both?”
“It’s not wise to joke about such things.”
“I wish Billy was here.”
“If he was, there would be a fight,” Madrigal says, and Arsinoe hides a smile. “Well, if you will not wear this, maybe I can get it onto Jules. It will be longer—”
She bends to pick up the dress, and something small and dark falls out of the green sash at her waist.
“What is that?” Arsinoe asks.
Madrigal picks it up quickly and tucks it away. “It’s nothing,” she says. But Arsinoe has done enough low magic to recognize the cords they use to collect blood.
“It’s not your blood,” Madrigal assures her. “Not even I would dare to use that. Besides, for this kind of spell, it’s better to use your own.”
“What type is that?” But Arsinoe already knows. The length of cord was tied around a familiar gold ring. She hopes she is wrong, but it looked just like a ring that Matthew gave to Caragh, a long time ago.
“Only a charm,” Madrigal replies, and avoids her eyes.
“How did you even get it? Did you go through her things? I thought she’d have taken it with her to the Black Cottage.”
“Well, she didn’t. She gave it back to him. And what does it matter?”
Madrigal goes to the window and looks out, where down in the yard Braddock is bonding with Camden and Jules. “It is almost time to go.”
“Don’t change the subject,” Arsinoe says, and Madrigal whirls.
“Caragh isn’t here,” she hisses. “So why should he still love her? Why shouldn’t he love me?”
“Because it’s ugly, what you’ve done. Have you done it all along? Is that why he came to you in the first place?”
“No. He wanted me. He still wants me, but—”
“But he doesn’t love you.”
“Of course he does. Just . . .” Madrigal pauses. “Not like he loves her.”
“Well, so what? If he still cares for you?”
Madrigal shakes her head. “You don’t understand.” She lays her palm flat against her stomach.
“You are pregnant.”
“Yes.” She looks down at her belly and smiles a little sadly. “Another Beltane Begot, I think. It seems I have a way with them. Only this time, I will not tell anyone that is what it is.”
“Because you want it to have a father,” says Arsinoe. “You want it to have Matthew.” She purses her lips. All this time using low magic, and still Madrigal does this. Knowing the risks. Knowing that there is always a price.