“Do not try to make me guilty,” Katharine interrupts. “It had to be one of us. That is the way the game is played. That is what we are.”
“Have it your way, then,” says Arsinoe. “Take us out of this cell and back to the arena. See which of us walks out.”
Katharine clucks her tongue. “I am afraid not, Sister. You both had plenty of chances.”
“Have you come only to gloat?” Mirabella asks. “Where is the High Priestess? Or Sara Westwood? Where are the Milones, for Arsinoe? We would see them if this will truly come to pass.”
“Yes,” Arsinoe says, and waves her hand. “Let them come and tell us this news. You should go, Queen Katharine. And if you return”—Arsinoe rises onto her tiptoes to look farther down on her smaller sister—“bring a box to stand on.”
Such darkness comes into Katharine’s eyes that Arsinoe sinks back onto flat feet. Again she thinks that there is something not right about Katharine. Something off. And she does not know why, but she is certain that the Arrons do not know what it is.
“Open the door,” Katharine orders. Keys jangle and the door opens, and the new queen steps inside.
“You misunderstand,” she says, and Arsinoe and Mirabella step back as guards spill into the cell. They herd Mirabella to the wall and grab Arsinoe’s arms and hold her fast. “I have not come to tell you news! I have come to deliver your fate.”
“What are you talking about?” Arsinoe jerks in the guards’ grip.
“On the island, only queens kill queens,” Katharine says sweetly. “That will not change just because two are traitors to their birthright. You, Arsinoe, are a queen. So you may not be executed by any other than one of your own.” She reaches into her sleeve and draws out a stoppered glass vial of amber liquid. “Guards, restrain Queen Mirabella.”
Mirabella bares her teeth. Every torch lining the corridor of the prison flares nearly to the ceiling.
“Tell her to be still,” Katharine says to Arsinoe. “Unless you want me to return later with the heads of the legion-cursed girl and her mountain cat.”
The torch flames lower, and the heat vanishes as Mirabella ceases to struggle.
“Fighting will not change this,” Katharine continues. “But the fates of your friends have not yet been decided.”
“You mean to poison us,” Arsinoe says calmly.
“Yes. But only you, for now. Queen Mirabella will be executed tomorrow morning in the square.” Katharine smiles meanly. “For that is what the High Priestess wishes.”
“No,” Mirabella cries. “You are lying!”
Katharine may not be lying, but she is certainly cruel. Arsinoe glances through the open door, and into the hall. Jules and Joseph cannot have been taken that far. There are only so many floors of cells to take them to. Still, there are plenty of guards. Strong, armed guards. She can only hope that Mirabella is even stronger. They will not get another chance.
“Come now, let us get on with this,” Katharine says. “I am still to be married this evening.”
“Don’t fight,” Arsinoe says to Mirabella. “For Jules’s and Joseph’s sakes.”
“No! Arsinoe, no!” Mirabella protests, but the guards back her up against the wall.
Arsinoe stares at the poison in Katharine’s hand. She forces her eyes to widen. She takes a deep breath and another. Faster and faster. It is not hard to seem frightened. She is frightened. Just not of what is inside of the vial.
Katharine removes the stopper and Arsinoe pretends to lose her nerve, twisting, trying to pull free, her heels digging into the straw-lined floor. The look in Katharine’s eyes is wickedly mirthful, and Arsinoe is tempted to forgo her plan. It would almost be worth it just to see Katharine’s face when she drinks the poison and does not die.
“Lower her onto her back,” Katharine orders.
Arsinoe kicks and screeches. She presses her lips together when Katharine bends over to pour the poison in, so that Katharine must force her mouth open, squeezing her cheeks with gloved fingers.
The poison is oily. Bitter-tasting. It smells sharply of vegetation. It runs into her mouth and down her throat, so much of it that she nearly chokes and coughs it up onto her face, making the guards reel backward. She hears Mirabella screaming on the other side of the cell, and feels the floor tremble as a great crack of lightning strikes the fortress above.
Katharine cries out. She pushes away from Arsinoe and runs for the door, covering her head.
“You,” she says, and points at Mirabella. “You will have to be weakened before your execution. I will not have any shows of lightning diverting the people’s attention.”
“Are you so afraid?” Mirabella shouts, with tears in her voice. She shoves past the guards and falls to her knees at Arsinoe’s side, and Arsinoe coughs and convulses.
Katharine watches until Arsinoe begins to grow still. As Mirabella’s weight presses down on her chest, Arsinoe lets her eyes drift shut.
“I am not afraid,” Katharine says. “And I am not without mercy.” She turns to the guards. “Let her cry awhile over the corpse before you take it away. And then prepare it for viewing. I would have it on display at the execution. So afterward they can lie side by side.”
Mirabella pulls Arsinoe’s limp form onto her lap. She weeps so loudly that it is hard to hear when the sounds of Katharine’s escort fade into the corridor.
And even then, Arsinoe waits until the only sound she hears is Mirabella before she finally reopens her eyes.
THE WEDDING
As Nicolas takes his oaths before the High Priestess, Katharine’s mind wanders. It is not that she is not excited to be marrying him. She is. But it feels almost like the denouement, after the thrill of the crown inked into her skin. After the joy of pouring poison down her sister’s frightened throat. She had waited so long for that. She could almost spin in place remembering how Arsinoe struggled and how Mirabella screamed.
She slumps, sees Natalia watching, and straightens up again. It is just that there are so many oaths. Nicolas is not a queen, and he must swear, and swear, and swear his allegiance.
Only Natalia and the Black Council are present for the wedding, with Luca and a few priestesses. The small dark room in the East Tower is lit by three tall candelabras. Someone should have opened a window. The reek of the sacred incense is making her want to cough.
“Drink and be anointed,” Luca says.
They make him drink from her crowning cup and dab him with blood and oil. Poor Nicolas. He tries hard to look like he belongs there. But he keeps looking at her, like she might come to him instead of standing to one side. No one told him that the wedding of a king-consort is more to the Goddess than it is to the queen. That she will not even touch him. That they will not even kiss.
Katharine studies him in the candlelight. He is so handsome and a good match for her. But he is not Pietyr.