A tight, cold ball settles in the pit of her stomach. Pietyr tried to kill her. But only because he thought she would be killed anyway and killed horribly, by serrated knives and strangers pulling her apart.
Of course he could have hidden her instead. But that is not the Arron way. Arrons win, or they lose. All or nothing. And Katharine never expected him to be any different.
Finally, Nicolas finishes his vows and is allowed to face the queen. The priestesses bow to her. Even Luca. Then they file out of the room, followed by the Council. Natalia leaves without looking her in the eye, still angry about her choice of suitor. But Natalia is as a mother to her and will not stay angry forever.
Nicolas takes her gloved hands.
“That is it?” he asks. “I thought they would take my blood or burn their symbol into my chest. I thought we would be bound together by lengths of cord.”
“Is that what they do in your country?”
“No. In my country, we would both take vows. And my bride would wear white.”
“She would not if she were a queen,” Katharine says.
Nicolas lifts her hand to his mouth. He kisses it so greedily that his teeth graze the fabric. He has been respectful in his courtship. He has not even kissed her properly on the mouth. But when he pulls her forward and crushes her to his chest, his hands slide into her hair and cup the back of her head. He is not gentle or shy.
Katharine raises her elbows and pushes out of his grip.
“Not now,” she says.
“What do you mean, ‘not now’? We are married. You are mine.”
“We are each other’s,” she corrects him. He reaches for her again, but she moves away, her gown rustling like a rattlesnake’s tail. “I would see Natalia. I do not like it when she is angry with me.”
“See her later, Katharine. I don’t want to wait. I would have you out of those clothes. Skin to skin.” His eyes move over her hungrily. “I have been patient, and we are here, in our castle.”
“You have been patient,” she says. “But our wedding night will not be here. With everything so rushed and sudden there was no time to prepare even a bedchamber in the West Tower. It is all covered over in dust sheets. Full of coughing priestesses chasing away cobwebs.”
“Where, then? And when?”
“My rooms at Greavesdrake. Natalia has arranged a carriage to take us there.”
When someone opens the door to Natalia’s study high in the East Tower, she expects a servant. Some good and thoughtful boy come to bring her a hot cup of poisoned tea. But it is not. It is William Chatworth.
“Some other time, William,” she says, and returns to the letter she has been scribbling, another letter to her brother Christophe seeking the whereabouts of Pietyr, as well as to tell him what has transpired. Perhaps the news will finally jolt her brother out from underneath that wife of his, away from her country estate and back to the capital where he belongs.
“Not some other time. Now.” William strides into the room and helps himself to a pour of her brandy, so fast that she can barely slap it out of his hand.
“It is tainted,” she says as they stare at the shattered wet mess upon the floor. “With nightshade and fresh elderberry.”
Chatworth exhales. He flexes his fist and releases it. Then he swings back hard and slaps Natalia across the face.
Her head turns. She takes a step back, mostly from shock. It is shock more than the pain that makes her eyes water.
“Perhaps I should have let you drink it,” she says. The impact has driven her teeth into her cheek, and she spits a little blood down at his shoes. “But then again, I see that you are drunk already.”
“You married your brat to the Martel boy.”
“There was nothing I could do. You were there. She made her choice in front of everyone. Perhaps if your son had bothered to show up—”
“So say she changed her mind. That she was angry at him for not being at the crowning.”
“I cannot,” Natalia says calmly. “She is the queen. And we had to proceed quickly. We are in a precarious place—”
“Undo it.”
“I said I cannot.” Natalia grimaces, tired of his breath and his mainland concerns. His normally clear, handsome eyes are squinted and swollen. She does not like him like this. Though perhaps this is what he truly is underneath. Angry, and ugly, and small. “They are wed. He is on his way to her bedchamber now.”
“What does it matter? She can sleep with him and then marry Billy later. Your queens are not ladies. None of you are fit to be true wives. My son will have to teach her.”
“He will not teach her anything,” Natalia snaps. “Now leave, William. You are drunk.”
But Chatworth does not leave. His face turns red and spittle flies from his lips.
“I’ve spent years feeding Joseph Sandrin to get Billy a place on Fennbirn. To get him a crown. I poisoned the elemental. And before that, the girl in Wolf Spring.”
“We will not forget it.” Natalia turns her back. A mistake, perhaps, but she cannot bear to look at him any longer. “You will have as much of our trade as I can manage; I do not think Nicolas’s family will be overly diligent. All that you lack is the title, and for that, you get to keep your son. That must please you, surely.”
He falls quiet, and Natalia begins scribbling on her letter again. His hands wrapping around her neck from behind are such a surprise that she does not even cry out.
He is strong and so angry that it is only moments before Natalia’s vision swims. Her hands claw at his fingers and then at her table for anything to help her. All she has is a glass paperweight, a pretty, lilac thing, rounded and not very large. A gift from Genevieve. She picks it up and twists as far as she can to smash it against the side of his head.
The blow is glancing but makes him stumble, and she falls to the ground, gasping. She tries to call for help, but her voice comes out a croak. Then William kicks her in the stomach, and every muscle in her body clenches tight.
He hits her. And hits her. Without a sound. She stares into his drunken, bloodshot eyes, hearing nothing but her heartbeat and his labored breathing.
I cannot end like this, she thinks. I am Natalia Arron.
She puts her arms up to fight, clawing wildly.
“Kat,” she gasps. “Katharine.”
And then Chatworth’s hands close around her throat again, and Natalia’s world goes dark.
Rho steps into the threshold to find the mainlander standing over Natalia.
“This is your fault,” he is muttering, and spits at the motionless body. “You should have done what you were to—”
His words cut off abruptly when Rho enters. She sweeps past him in her white robes and kneels to feel for Natalia’s pulse even though she knows she will not find one. Her neck is crushed. Her eyes are red with burst blood vessels.
“Clean it up,” the mainlander says. “Clean it up, and find me someone else to deal with.”