“I think I can feel her, too,” she whispers.
They keep dancing but on stiff legs. When he turns her toward the poisoner table, she glares at Katharine and hopes her little sister can feel the hatred from them both. “Look,” Billy says when they turn back to the Westwoods. “My father is here.”
William Chatworth is leaning across her table, talking to Sara. He is leaning so far that his sleeves are nearly dipping into their wine cups.
“He didn’t tell me he was going to be here.” Billy spins her faster. “He’s probably angry that I didn’t tell him about our betrothal.” He pulls her sharply around.
“Ouch!”
“Oh! I’m sorry,” he says. His eyes narrow at his father walking around the table now to take Mirabella’s empty seat beside Sara. “Nothing distracts me quite like he does. Did I hurt you?”
“No. You—” She stops. For a moment, she thinks she is imagining it, but there is Joseph. Watching them from the crowd. “What are you . . . ?” she whispers.
Joseph shakes his head. He steps back to disappear into the other guests, but Bree has seen him too, and grabs him and drags him into a dance, chattering furiously into his ear.
“Bree,” Mirabella calls, and Bree presses her lips together in a very serious, un-Bree-like line. She dances Joseph closer.
“He should not be here,” Bree hisses, holding on to him with a grip like iron.
“Why not?” Billy asks. “He’s my foster brother, isn’t he?”
“Billy,” Joseph says. He glances around furtively. His dark hair is brushed back, and those storm-blue eyes of his can take Mirabella to the ground with one look. “Jules is here somewhere.”
“Oh.” Billy pulls Mirabella slightly away. “What is she doing here? When did she get back?”
“I can’t explain now,” Joseph says. “And I can’t stay. I’ll find you later.” He spins Bree out and lets go to slip smoothly into the crowd.
“That was strange,” says Mirabella.
“I am going to tell the priestesses he is here,” Bree whispers, but Mirabella stops her.
“No, Bree. It was nothing. It is harmless.”
Bree seems unsure, but eventually she nods, and goes off to find another dancing partner.
“I would know what happened to Arsinoe,” Billy says. “I want to know where Jules took her. I want to know. . . .”
“So do I,” says Mirabella, and turns to glare again at Katharine.
Jules catches the black-cloaked figure when they have stopped to watch the dancing from behind the folds of a curtained doorway. She grasps the figure from behind and covers their mouth, lifting them up so that, despite Jules’s shorter size, the cloaked figure’s legs kick uselessly in the air.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she asks, tearing down the hood and depositing Arsinoe in a corner.
“Stop grabbing at me,” Arsinoe whispers, arms slapping at Jules’s shoulders. “You’ll get us both caught!” She pulls her hood back up to hide her face. “I only wanted to see.”
“I told you to stay back and that I would watch out for her. Didn’t you trust me? And how did you slip away from Joseph?”
“Oh, like it was hard,” Arsinoe says sarcastically. “Ditching Camden was the real challenge.”
“Where are they now?”
“Here, probably. Looking for me.”
Jules purses her lips. She takes Arsinoe by the shoulder and begins to haul her out, down the quiet corridor, toward one of the servants’ side exits to the street.
“You are reckless,” Jules says.
“I know, but—” Arsinoe struggles out of her grip.
“Don’t make me use my war gift to throw you out of here.”
“You would never,” Arsinoe says, and grins. But the smile slides off her face. “Did you see the way they were dancing? Mirabella and Billy?”
Jules puts an arm around her. When she shoves her toward the door now, it is much more gently.
“You say Mirabella loves you. Well, so does Billy. They think you’re dead, Arsinoe. They’re probably missing you together.”
“But he’ll be her king-consort, won’t he? And if I stay dead, I won’t be able to . . . run away with him . . . anywhere.” She looks down. “I was supposed to be able to let him know, Jules.”
“I know it’s hard. But you can’t be seen. What good would it do? We just have to get Mirabella through the duel and then we can decide what to do next.”
“All right,” Arsinoe says, and lets Jules lead her through the dark streets of the capital.
Katharine’s eyes narrow as she watches Mirabella. Her pretty sister, so easily beloved by the island. So easily gifted. Everything for her so easy but never earned. Never deserved.
Beside her, Nicolas keeps feeding her bits of this and that and commenting on some of the stranger fashions. He is a fly, buzzing in her ear. Katharine crushes a grape in her gloved hand. But the cloth is so thick to cover her poisoning scars that she cannot even feel the juice.
“Make her look at me again,” Katharine whispers. “Make her care.”
But Mirabella does not. She goes on dancing with the Chatworth boy, as rigid as if she were strapped to a pole.
“What did you say, Queen Katharine?” Nicolas asks.
“Nothing,” she replies. The entire ballroom is focused on Mirabella. The Arrons have never seen so many turned backs.
“Traitors,” she whispers.
Katharine pushes her chair away from the table and stands. She is of so little consequence to the crowd that she could move across the floor unnoticed.
So she does.
Katharine appears out of nowhere and slips in between Mirabella and Billy like a snake, so fast that neither can think to act. Everything stops. Bows drag to a halt on musicians’ strings.
“Play,” Katharine commands. She wraps her gloved hands around Mirabella’s wrists and drags her to the middle of the emptying floor.
The music is an awkward plucking.
“What are you doing?” Mirabella asks, her eyes wide.
“Dancing with my sister,” replies Katharine. “Though I would not call your movements dancing, exactly. Are your legs made of wood?”
Mirabella clenches her jaw. She grabs on to Katharine’s gloved wrists.
“You are so afraid.” Katharine smiles prettily. “The chosen queen would not be so afraid.”
“I am not afraid. I am angry.”
Katharine draws Mirabella in close as they spin slowly past the tables, past the gaping mouths of the guests and servants frozen with trays raised in the air. After they pass the Westwood table, Luca stands and walks quickly toward Natalia’s chair.
“This is not done, Katharine.”
“Then how are we doing it?” Katharine grins. She tilts her head to consider Mirabella’s face and hair.
“You are beautiful, sister. Hair so carefully brushed. Cheeks so flawless and free of paint and powder. No scars and no rashes, even after all the presents I sent. Tell me, has even one found its way to you?”
“It found its way to a priestess.”
Katharine clucks her tongue.
“The poor girl. But that is your fault, for letting them intervene in our business.”