Almandine once again looks baffled . . . and a little curious. “Do share.”
Malfleur retrieves a set of wrapped sketches drawn up by her minister of war and begins unrolling them on the table beside her cousin. She watches in satisfaction as Almandine gapes at the black, beaklike masks she has devised for her soldiers.
Almandine shivers. “I confess I don’t understand. . . .” She hesitates. “But I see why everyone believes what they believe about you.”
“Which is?”
Almandine looks at her and murmurs: “That you are evil.”
“Is that so?” Malfleur keeps her tone neutral. “I suppose we’ll see about that, won’t we?” She can tell by the way Almandine stiffens that she has succeeded in unnerving her. “Wait here.” She pushes out of her chair and makes her way to the dressing chamber in the east hall.
She tilts the mirror toward her, its surface dinged and scratched from the panther’s attempts to attack its own reflection. Malfleur smooths her riding dress and then touches her face, which, thanks to her tithe, is almost as youthful as it had been when she was only thirteen, when she first met Charles Blackthorn—despite the mottled scar across one eye, the one she’s known for, the one she’d had since early childhood. And yet an entirely different person looks back at her. Gone is the innocence that once brightened her eyes. Now they are dark and hard like polished onyx.
She takes in a slow breath. She can’t believe Almandine thinks she actually invited her here to gain her support. No. Almandine, like nearly all of her kind, has proved herself worthless over the past century.
The once glorious race of the fae has burned down to just a few glowing embers.
But if today goes as planned, it will be the beginning of a whole new era. It will mean she’s on the brink of a greater power than any faerie in the history of the known world has ever possessed. For the fae have only ever tithed from humans. In that way they’ve always depended on the race that has been slowly, for many centuries, displacing them. But Malfleur has been practicing, learning to tithe more than just youth and beauty. And now, she hopes, she has mastered the greatest feat ever: tithing magic.
She has failed before. Aimed too high. Sometimes when she closes her eyes at night, Malfleur still sees the Red Throne . . . and the blood of the North Faerie staining her hands.
That had been an accident. The goal was never to kill the other faeries, not exactly. Only to take what was most important to them.
After she succeeds with Almandine, there’ll be no stopping her. Soon no one will be able to match her power.
Not even Belcoeur.
28
Isabelle
Isbe used to enjoy teasing her sister for her notions about love and marriage and, of course, the princes of Aubin. She always thought romance was a cloudy concept, like the steam over a pot of boiling stew—it smells of hearty ingredients, it warms the senses . . . but ultimately it dissolves. It won’t satisfy you and certainly won’t keep you alive. The soup of life is something else: it’s the things you do to build up who you are—exploration of the world and of your own mind. The important thing, then, is the soup. But like steam, romantic love in and of itself has no survivalist function. It’s just the excuse rich people use so they can marry and procreate and continue their lineages; so they can go on perpetuating the belief that their families deserve to live in giant, fully staffed palaces while every other family is forced to cling to any crust of bread they can get their hands on.
There are many things Isbe used to believe.
But similes elude her now. All she can fathom currently is the proximity of Prince William’s very literal, semi-unclothed body. Which is, now that she thinks about it, coated in completely nonmetaphorical steam.
That’s because they happen to be hiding out in a stone-walled sauna, deep in the cellars of the faerie Almandine’s estate, where a servant insisted they’d be least likely to be discovered. They’re sitting on benches on opposite walls facing each other, and William’s doublet is currently lying discarded somewhere. They were told nearly an hour ago to wait here for Annette, the head housemaid, who was supposed to come for them and show them to a safe room to sleep for the day, before commencing their travels.
“Perhaps we could at least remove a few of the rocks,” Isbe mutters now. The sauna is heated with hot stones from a fire that are then dunked in water, creating the steam that heats up the enclosed space. She’s glad for once that she chopped off her hair—at least she doesn’t have to feel it sticking wetly to her skin. Then again, the shorter locks make her feel more vulnerable too. More exposed.
“You heard what they said,” William replies. The mistress of the house likes everything maintained, apparently. She’d notice if the servants didn’t keep the sauna heated throughout the day and night. “Still, I suppose it’s a bit unfair for you.”
“Why for me?”
“Well, I don’t need to worry about modesty. I could be sitting here naked and you’d never know.” There’s a bit of laughter in his tone, though his words make her feel even more overheated.
“It is unfair,” she admits. “I have a feeling if I were to undress, you might notice.”
“I’m sorry to admit it, but I definitely would.”
If there was any doubt before, Isbe is fairly certain now that the prince is flirting with her. They are, in fact, flirting with each other. This has been happening more and more recently. Their conversations will stray from political strategy to philosophical musings to quick-fire banter without her realizing how they got there.
“Anyway,” she says now. “It doesn’t matter. It’s women who are taught to be modest, not men. You can do pretty much whatever you want without impunity.”
“Now that I disagree with,” William responds.
“Really? Imagine my surprise. You never disagree with me,” she says. “But do tell. For what action would you, as a man, risk censure?”
“For one thing, I can’t play the harpsichord in public. I would definitely receive censure for that.”
She laughs. Sometimes it startles her the way William makes her laugh, even though they are on a potentially deadly mission. She shouldn’t be happy, she tells herself. Not when her sister may not survive the sickness. Not when their country is being invaded by the forces of an evil faerie queen. Not when she is stuck in a morbidly hot chamber with a distractingly interesting prince who does not belong to her, and never can, and never will.
Then again, she’s heard peasants laugh openly and freely even during the cold of winter, when their bones practically protrude from their thin shifts. She’s heard a dying orphan squeal with secret glee. Happiness is funny like that. It’s not bound to circumstance.