“What’s the point of dining outside?” Billy asks. “If you wanted shade, I could have had the table moved underneath the trees.”
“I will not let them rain,” Mirabella says as he presses his lips together crossly. He has warmed to Bree and to Sara. And of course he could not resist Elizabeth. But when Mirabella speaks, he barely listens. Much of his time is spent in the city with Bree and her glassmaking apprentice, and when he is not there, he is with Elizabeth at the temple, fascinated by the white-robed priestesses and their black tattooed bracelets.
Mirabella clears her throat and turns toward the cart of food. Fortunately, he is a good taster, taking complete control of the kitchen. Unfortunately, he is a horrible cook.
“What have you brought for us today?”
“Pork stew,” he says, “with spoon bread for dipping and, for dessert, a baked strawberry tart with cream.”
“You are becoming quite skilled,” she says, and smiles.
“Lying is a waste when you know I have to taste it.” He serves them both. The stew looks thin and strangely pale. A sheen of grease has collected on the surface. He uses her fork and knife to sample everything on her plate and waits in silence to see if he will fall over or froth at the mouth.
“I don’t know why I bother,” he says. “The priestesses there”—he gestures into the shadows of the house—“they watched me prepare it and insisted on tasting it themselves.”
“They do not trust you?”
“Of course not. My father gave his word that I would do as I was told, but everyone knows how I feel about Arsinoe.” He clears his throat. “But regardless, I don’t want you eating anything except what I prepare, do you understand?”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve been assured that if you die on my watch, Rho will saw off my head and send it back to my father on a barge.”
Mirabella laughs. “We send many grisly things back on barges, it seems.”
“Yes.” Billy arches his brow. “Joseph told me what Bree said to him before he sailed.”
The cloth overlay of Billy’s cart clucks, and a brown chicken pokes her head out from under the covering, stepping out of the basket she was riding in.
“There is a chicken in your cart.”
“I know,” Billy snaps, and slaps his napkin across his lap.
“Why is there a chicken in your cart?”
“Because this was supposed to be chicken stew,” he says. “I’ve been hand-feeding this bird for days to be sure it was not poisoned before the fact. And now . . .” He pours Mirabella some water and drinks from her cup. The hen clucks, and Billy tosses down a chunk of bread.
“Now her name is Harriet,” he says quietly.
Mirabella laughs.
“No doubt you think I’ve been spending too much time with lowly naturalists,” he says.
“I would never say that. The naturalists are the island’s lifeblood. They feed us. They ensure good hunts.”
“A very queenly answer. One you have been groomed to say?”
“You think because I was raised for the crown I do not know how to think for myself.”
Billy shrugs. He takes a spoonful of greasy stew and swallows it down hard before turning to the bread.
“I’ve known girls like you before. Not queens, of course, but very rich, very spoiled girls who have grown up hearing nothing but praise. Nothing but talk of their family’s important place in the world. And I never liked any of them more than just to look at.”
Mirabella takes a bite of pork. It is terrible. If all she has to eat between now and the crowning is food that Billy has cooked, she will be nearly as thin as Katharine.
“Those are unkind words,” she says. “Your family is not poor, or you would not be here.”
“True enough. Or it would be were my father not reminding me daily that he will take it all, that he will give it away if I don’t earn it.”
“How must you earn it?” she asks.
“By accomplishing whatever benchmark gets into his head that day. Being accepted into the right school, impressing the governor, winning a cricket match. Becoming king-consort of a secret, mystical island.”
“But you ran away from the island,” Mirabella says. “With Arsinoe. You would give up your fortune for her?”
Billy chuckles around a mouthful of bread.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I always planned on coming back.”
Mirabella lowers her head and smiles. His words say one thing, but the truth lies in the color that rises to his cheeks.
“Besides,” he says, “I hardly believe he means it anymore. The same threat used daily loses its shine, you know? Why are you smiling?”
“No reason.” She stabs a piece of potato with her fork and drops it into the grass for the chicken. “It is tragic what has happened to Arsinoe’s suitors in Wolf Spring. But some part of you must be glad that they are not there with her anymore.”
“‘Glad’ is not the word I would use when discussing it. Those lads are dead, and Katharine is insane. It could have just as easily been me who was killed. I don’t know whether you’re truly the ‘chosen queen’ like everyone around here seems to believe, but for Fennbirn’s sake, you had best hope that it’s not Katharine. She’ll be ruinous.”
“The queen who is crowned is the queen who was meant to be.”
Billy sighs.
“My God. Isn’t it exhausting to parrot back temple rhetoric? Do you ever think for yourself?”
“I thought for myself when I saved Arsinoe,” Mirabella says sharply, and the clouds overhead darken. “At Innisfuil, when they tried to cut her to pieces. And two days later, she sent a bear after me. So do not tell me she would be better for the island. She is just as heartless as Katharine.”
He stabs at a chunk of pork like he wishes it was Mirabella’s eye.
“She didn’t send that bear after you, you great idiot,” he says.
“What?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
“No. What did you mean by that? Of course she sent it!” Mirabella glances at the priestesses near the house and lowers her voice. “Who else could control her familiar?”
“Who else do you think?” Billy asks, his voice equally low. “Another strong naturalist, perhaps? One who would have just as much motivation to hurt you after you stole the boy she loved?
“Perhaps someone who Arsinoe would always lie for?” Billy adds, but when Mirabella opens her mouth, he stops her. “Don’t say her name out loud. I shouldn’t have told you. Arsinoe’s going to kill me.”
“Then,” Mirabella says as Billy goes back to prodding at his horrible meal, “Arsinoe never meant to hurt me.”
“No. She didn’t. Arsinoe grew up believing that she would die. She just didn’t count on having so much to live for. Jules and Joseph and the Milones.” He smiles slightly. “Me. But what good is knowing any of this? This is the way of the island, isn’t it? The natural order. So what does it change?”
Mirabella’s fingers dig into her napkin. She wants to scream or cry, but if she does, the priestesses will come running.
“I almost killed her that day in the road,” she whispers. “Why did she let me do that?”
“Maybe because she knew you had to. Maybe she wanted to make it easier on you.”