“Kat, stop!”
She strikes again and catches his sleeve; the dark gray fabric begins to stain red. He backpedals around the billiard table and into the bar, knocking over a tray and a decanter of Natalia’s favorite tainted brandy.
“It is for your own good,” she says miserably. “There is danger for you here.”
“I do not care. I will not leave you, Kat. And you still love me, I know that you do.”
Katharine stops short.
“Whatever is left in me that can love,” she says, “loves you.”
Before he can speak, she raises the knife and carves into her own face, along the hairline and her ear as though cutting off a mask. Her blood runs bright red down her neck and into her bodice.
“Katharine,” he whispers. “Oh, my Katharine.”
“Pietyr Renard,” she says in a gravelly voice. “We have not been your Katharine since you threw me down the Breccia Domain.”
Pietyr stumbles out of Greavedrake in a daze. Katharine told him to go. But he did not gather any of his belongings. Instead, he rushes to the stable and saddles the best horse he can find. His hands tremble as he tightens the cinch. All he can see is the image of her cutting into herself.
“It is not her fault.” He leads the horse quickly out of its stall and mounts. “It is my fault, and I will find a way to make it right.”
Pietyr puts heels to the horse and gallops down the drive, hurrying for the road that curves north around the capital and on to Prynn. He will ride all day and into the night, then rest and change horses in the morning.
He will ride all the way to Innisfuil Valley. Back to the cold, dark heart of the island: the Breccia Domain.
THE ROAD TO INDRID DOWN
“Jules,” Arsinoe says. “You’ve been staring at that map for hours.”
They are traveling through the quiet roads in the shadow of the mountain, all on horseback, except for Arsinoe, who had to borrow Willa’s ill-tempered brown mule. It is sticky hot, even riding in the shade, but Jules and Caragh both insist that everyone keep their cloak hoods up in case anyone passes.
“Jules! It’s a good thing you’re a naturalist, else your horse would’ve run face first into a tree with all the attention you’re paying.”
Jules responds with a grunt but keeps on studying the map of the capital.
“Let her be, Arsinoe,” Joseph says, riding up beside her. “If she studies now, by the time we reach Indrid Down, she’ll be able to pass through the city like water in a stream. And we won’t have to study as much.”
“You should still study it,” Jules mutters.
“Give it here, then,” he says, and holds his hand out. But she will not relinquish the map. “That’s what I thought.”
“Is that the war gift?” Arsinoe asks him quietly. “The strategy? The preparation?”
Joseph shrugs. And in the saddle, Jules frowns. No one knows. There is so much about the war gift that none of them understands.
Arsinoe shoves her hood down and tosses her short hair.
“I miss the breeze off the cove,” she says.
“Put your hood back up,” says Caragh, riding behind on her stout chestnut mountain mare.
“Let her keep it down,” Madrigal objects. She takes down her own and leans her head back to catch the wind. “We haven’t seen anyone since we left the cottage. These roads are practically deserted; you said so yourself.”
“It doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be cautious.”
“You never should have come, anyway. You’ll get us into trouble if we’re caught with you away from the Black Cottage.”
“Madrigal,” says Caragh mildly, “we are traveling with a presumed dead queen and a legion-cursed fugitive. If we’re caught, my being away from the cottage will be the least of our offenses.”
Madrigal scowls. She twists in the saddle, back toward Jules.
“How much farther until we reach Indrid Down?”
“Tomorrow. Afternoon, maybe. Or just before nightfall.”
“Good,” Arsinoe says. “I want to go and see Braddock.”
Jules lowers the map. The notice of the duel was not the only news that Worcester brought with him. He also told tales of Katharine’s victorious return to the capital, and the parade of the vanquished naturalist’s bear familiar.
“I know that you do,” Jules says. “But we can’t risk it. When everyone is distracted by the duel, Caragh and Madrigal will sneak in and free him. Then you can see him afterward.”
“But I left him for dead,” says Arsinoe. “I need to explain to him why I just left him there, for her to put in a cage.”
From the ground, Camden stands and puts her paws up onto Arsinoe’s knee before jumping into the saddle to provide heavy cougar comfort.
“Thanks, Cam,” Arsinoe says around the cat’s licks. “But you’re angering the mule.”
Camden yawns, unbothered by the mule’s grunting and ineffectual bucks, occasionally whapping the mule in the face with her tail.
“Camden, be nice to that mule,” Jules says, and then looks at Arsinoe. “Braddock is a good bear. He’ll forgive you.”
Arsinoe quiets, and lets Jules concentrate on the map. It is she who will have the most to do when they arrive in the capital. It will be up to her to use her war gift, to sabotage Katharine’s poisoned weapons and guide them safely off course. It makes Arsinoe’s stomach tighten just to think of it.
Joseph sees the look on her face. He rides close and nudges her with his knee.
“It’ll be fine,” he says.
BARDON HARBOR
A shining, mainland boat is docked in a private Arron slip on the northern shore of Bardon Harbor. Inside, Natalia lies in William Chatworth’s arms, the soft rocking of the water threatening to lull her to sleep.
“I’m surprised,” he says, and puffs cigar smoke. “I didn’t think you would be able to sneak away for so long. Not with the ball tonight.”
“For so long.” Natalia chuckles, watching the smoke swirl patterns in the air. It was not really so long. But it was pleasant. They have not been together for months, and she is surprised to find she has missed it. Missed him, in a way.
Chatworth tugs his arm from beneath her head and stubs out his cigar.
“Do you have it, then?” he asks.
“Of course I do. It is the main reason I came.”
She hands him a small bottle, and he holds it gingerly between two fingers.
“Stop being afraid of it,” she says. “You could drink it all and it would not kill you. Nor will it hurt if it gets on your hands.”
She sits up in the small bed and reaches for her clothes: a servant’s uniform that she changed into on the carriage ride from Greavesdrake.
“If it’s so weak,” he wonders, “why bother?”
“Insurance. I would take the wind out of that elemental. My Katharine wants the chance to humiliate her. So she shall have it.” Natalia stands and fastens the last of her buttons. Chatworth remains on the bed, languorous and confident. Perhaps overconfident, and it occurs to her that, aside from having bluster and money, he has never shown any particular skill.