Mirabella’s eyes fill with tears, and Billy quickly wipes his mouth. He scoops strawberry tart onto his fork and holds it out.
“Here,” he says. “You must try this.” As she takes the bite, he uses his thumb to discreetly wipe the tear that falls down her cheek.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I suppose I haven’t even tried to consider your point of view. It was thoughtless of me.”
“It is all right,” Mirabella says. “Does she know that you love her?”
Billy raises his eyebrows.
“Why would she when I didn’t? It wasn’t like I read in books. A thunderclap. Eyes meeting. Tortured glances. With Arsinoe it was more like . . . having cold water poured down your back and learning to enjoy it.”
“And does she love you?”
“I don’t know. I think she might.” He smiles. “I hope she does.”
“I hope so too.” Another tear slides down her cheek, and Billy darts forward to discreetly hide it.
“It is all right,” she says. “They will think I am only crying because of how terrible this strawberry tart is.”
Billy sets down his fork, insulted. Then they both begin to laugh.
WOLF SPRING
They put the suitors in long wooden boxes to sail them home, as is the mainland tradition. The boxes seem small, and are so still that Arsinoe’s throat squeezes shut. She knew Tommy and Michael so briefly. Two boys who thought they might be king. Who perhaps thought it was all just a great game.
The Black Council sent the poisoners Lucian Arron and Lucian Marlowe to examine the bodies, hoping to find evidence that they did not die from poison. But of course, they had.
“Let them start as many rumors as they want,” Joseph says. “Everyone will know now that they’ve lost control of their queen.” He slips one arm about Jules’s waist and the other around Arsinoe’s, but she slides out of it. She killed those boys, not Katharine. She was careless, and she killed them.
Arsinoe steps closer to the edge of the dock and watches as the ship bearing Tommy’s and Michael’s bodies casts off into the cove.
“I can’t breathe, Jules,” she says, and gulps air. She feels Camden press warm fur against her legs, and then Jules is there, to hold her up. “You were right. I shouldn’t have played with it. I didn’t know how to be careful.”
“Hush, Arsinoe,” Jules whispers. There are too many people gathered on the dock. Too many ears.
Arsinoe waits until the boat is out of sight and turns back toward shore, her feet hammering the wooden planks. The faster she gets back to the Milone house, the faster this day will be over.
“Queen Arsinoe!” someone shouts as she crosses the docks toward the hill road. “Where is your bear?”
“Well, he’s not in my pocket,” she snaps without pausing. “So he must be in the woods.”
ROLANTH
The letter from Natalia is addressed to the High Priestess and not the queen, but Rho insists that it be opened by gloved novices in a windless room. She will not allow Luca to touch it before it is thoroughly examined.
“You are being ridiculous,” Luca says. The priestesses have been with the letter for most of the morning, and none of them have fallen ill with so much as a paper cut.
“There is nothing to be gained by poisoning me.” Luca paces across her room indignantly. “And if there were, Natalia would have done it by now. Goddess knows, she has had many chances.”
She goes to her eastern window and throws the shutters open for the breeze. As far north as it is, Rolanth does not get terribly hot, but in summer, her rooms in the temple can still feel stifling. Her old quarters in the capital were much better. When her legs were young, she walked off tension on the many stairs of the east tower of the Volroy. She sighs. She is so old. If Mirabella is crowned and they return to Indrid Down, she will have to be carried up and down in a litter.
Finally, her chamber door opens, and Rho enters with the letter in hand. From the look on her face, Luca knows that she has ignored the order not to read it.
“Well?” Luca asks. “What does it say?” She snatches the letter angrily, but Rho does not flinch. Rho never flinches. Her toughness is as much a comfort as it is annoying.
“See for yourself,” Rho says.
Luca’s eyes skim over it so greedily the first time that she barely comprehends a word and must start again.
It opens with only her name, “Luca,” as if she and Natalia are old friends. No “High Priestess.” No other greeting. The corner of Luca’s mouth twists upward.
“She wants to push the queens together for the high festivals. With Midsummer in Wolf Spring and the Reaping Moon to be held here.”
“They are plotting something,” Rho says.
Luca purses her lips and reads the letter again. It is short, and for Natalia, almost conversational.
Luca reads aloud. “‘Surely you would welcome the chance for your Mirabella to make good on her promises.’” She puts the letter down and scoffs. “Surely.”
“She fears a stalemate. She does not want the Ascension to end with queens locked in the tower,” says Rho. “She knows that poisoners do not fare well there.”
“Mirabella may not either if Arsinoe is still alive with her great brown bear.” Luca taps her chin.
“You know that by sending this letter she is lulling you with courtesy. She knows that we could stop it if we chose. The Black Council does not have the final word when it comes to the high festivals.”
Luca kicks at embroidered pillows that have fallen onto the floor.
“I think we should do it,” she says. “Mirabella is strong. And whatever action the Arrons have planned to take, at least it will not come as a surprise.”
“We will take care,” Rho says. “But with the three queens face-to-face, I like our chances. She is strong, like you said.” Rho’s eyes sparkle. Despite her cautious words, she craves bloodshed.
Luca lowers her head and asks the Goddess for guidance. But the only answer that hums into her bones is the one she has known all along: that if the crown is meant to be Mirabella’s, then she will rise up and take it.
“Luca?” Rho asks, always impatient. “Shall we begin preparations for an envoy to Wolf Spring?”
Luca takes a breath.
“Do it. Get started right away. I am going to take some air.”
Rho nods, and Luca leaves to wander down the steps and through the temple, keeping clear of the gathered worshippers who flock to the altar daily.
As she passes one of the lower storerooms, she reaches out to close a door that is slightly ajar and glimpses someone inside. It is the suitor, Billy Chatworth, searching through the temple stores with a large brown chicken perched beside him on a few crates of dresses.
“High Priestess,” he says when he sees her, and bends a shallow bow. “I was after some fruit, to attempt a pie with.”
“To add to your chicken?” she asks, and chuckles. “You do not need to do all of this. The priestesses will prepare meals for you.”