Three Dark Crowns (10 page)

“I hope the tailor from Third Street brought that handsome son of his,” Bree says.

“I thought you were seeing the Wexton boy,” says Sara.

Bree snuggles back into the coach's velvet cushions.

“Not anymore. Since Mira's birthday he has forgotten how to kiss. So much tongue!” She shivers and gags and leans against Mirabella for comfort. Mirabella and Elizabeth laugh. Sara says nothing, but her eyes bulge out and her lips practically disappear.

Mirabella looks out the window. They are nearly there. In the central district, the buildings are broad, and white. What cracks there are have been carefully hidden with paint. Here, one can see how fine the city of Rolanth once was. One can see how fine it will be again, after Mirabella takes the throne.

“Here we are,” says Sara as the coach jerks to a stop. She smooths the skirt of her long black dress and prepares to exit the carriage. “Bree,” she mutters, “please try not to wander off.”

“Yes, Mother,” Bree says, and rolls her eyes.

Mirabella steps out after Sara. Through the park's open gate she can see the jewelers and dressmakers, waiting in a row. And the priestesses, of course. Always on guard.

Bree cranes her neck.

“He is here,” she says, and grins.

It is easy to see who she means. A handsome boy with light brown hair stands beside the jeweler near the end of the row. He has already seen Bree as well.

“It never takes you very long,” Mirabella says quietly.

“Nor should it. I have had years of practice.” Bree grasps Mirabella's arm in one hand and Elizabeth's in her other. “We must find out his name.”

“Enough of that,” Sara says. She unlinks the girls' arms and takes her place behind the queen.

“Mother,” Bree groans. “We are only picking out jewels. You do not have to treat it like the Disembarking!”

“Everything public will be formal after she is crowned,” says Sara. “You had best get used to it.”

As they enter the park, Sara motions to one of the novice priestesses.

“Queen Mirabella has not eaten today. Would you please prepare her something?”

The girl nods and scurries away. Mirabella is not really very hungry. The dreams of her sisters often leave her with no appetite until evening. But it will be easier to nibble than to argue with Sara.

The merchants bow when they approach the tables. The Westwoods will purchase something small from every one—a ring or bracelet, a scarf. Only a select few will be commissioned for gowns, or sets of gems.

“I can tell you without looking that we will only be buying handkerchiefs at the first table,” Sara says into Mirabella's ear. “That woman has no sense of elemental movement. Everything she sews is tight and severe. Fit for a poisoner.”

Approaching the woman's stall, Mirabella can see that Sara is right. It is all shimmer, and each gown is close fitted. But the tailor is so nervous. So hopeful.

“Those are very fine gloves,” Mirabella says before Sara can speak. “Do you also work in leather?” She half turns to Sara. “Bree has need of a new pair for archery. And little Nico must be outgrowing his.”

“Yes, Queen Mirabella,” the merchant says. “I particularly enjoy working with leather.”

Mirabella leaves the table so that Sara may discuss fees, and to keep from hearing her grind her teeth. From the next
merchant she selects rings of twisted silver, and the next of polished gold, as Bree tugs her along in her hurry to meet her brown-haired boy.

The novice priestess returns with a tray of cheeses and bread, and a small jar of preserved tomatoes. Elizabeth takes it from her.

“Bree, slow down,” she says, and laughs. “Take a moment to eat.”

She does, but they are only one table away from her boy now, and the way she nibbles her cheese is highly suggestive.

“We must find something to distract her,” Elizabeth whispers to Mirabella. “Perhaps these gowns. They are beautiful!”

“I do not think any gown can distract her,” Mirabella says. “No matter how beautiful.”

The dressmaker studies Bree. He reaches beneath his table.

“Perhaps this one,” he says, and unfurls it before them.

Mirabella and Elizabeth are speechless. Bree drops her cheese.

It is not a gown for a queen. Those must be all in black. This one has a bodice embroidered with blue waves, and a gathered train of storm-blue satin cuts through the black skirt. It is splendid.

“This is the one,” says Mirabella. She turns to Bree and touches her braid fondly. “You will outshine me in this. All the suitors will look at you.”

“No,” Elizabeth says. “That is not true, Mira!”

Perhaps it is not. A queen's raven-black hair and strange
black eyes always command attention. But Elizabeth misunderstood. Mirabella is not jealous. She could never be jealous of Bree.

Sara rejoins them and nods her approval.

“We will have three gowns,” she says, “including this one to fit my daughter. Perhaps more, if we do not find anything else equal to your skill. I will call upon your shop to discuss them further.”

“Finally,” Bree whispers into Mirabella's ear. They have reached the jeweler and the boy.

“We will speak to his father, not to him,” Mirabella says. “How will you manage this?”

Bree motions discreetly with her chin. The merchant and his son have a small, stout brazier set back from the table, to keep warm as they wait. Perhaps they are not elementals then, or perhaps their gifts are merely weak.

Bree throws her arm around Elizabeth.

“Sweet Elizabeth,” she says. “You are shivering!” She turns to the boy. “May we come round and stand beside your fire?”

“Of course,” he says quickly.

Mirabella's lips curl as he leads Bree and Elizabeth to the brazier. With a lazy flick of her wrist, Bree sends flames jumping up from the red embers. She looks over her shoulder at Mirabella and winks.

“Good,” says Sara in a low voice. “I thought we would have to buy out the display just to give her more time to flirt.”

But perhaps they will anyway. The jeweler's pieces are
exquisite. Laid out across the table, carefully cut gems sparkle in ornate settings. Mirabella's hand drifts to a necklace of three vibrant red-orange stones hanging from a short silver chain. Even on the table in the winter light they seem to burn.

“I would like this one,” she says, “for the night of the Quickening.”

After the purchases are made, they return to the carriage. Mirabella holds the fire necklace on her lap in a velvet case. She cannot wait to show it to Luca. She is sure the High Priestess will like it. Perhaps after the Quickening is over, Mirabella will make a gift of it to her.

“Now that that is finished,” Sara says when the cart starts moving, “there has been some news. From Wolf Spring, if you can imagine.”

“News?” Bree asks. “What news?”

“It seems they are housing a suitor there. His delegation has arrived early.”

“But that is not allowed,” says Mirabella. “Does the temple know?” She looks to Elizabeth, but the initiate only shrugs.

“They do,” says Sara. “It is his family's first delegation. They are being given special treatment for a perceived disadvantage. To let them find their way here, on such unfamiliar ground. And to repay them for fostering Joseph Sandrin during his banishment.”

“It has been a long time since I have heard that name,” Mirabella says. She used to think of it often. Whenever she thought of Arsinoe. He was the boy who tried to run away with
her. Who tried to help her escape. When they were caught, she heard that he spat at Natalia Arron's feet.

Now he brings Arsinoe a suitor. It must have been hard to do, when he had so much love for her himself.

“I think you will meet him,” Sara says.

“Joseph?”

“No. The suitor. Before Beltane. We will arrange for him to come here. Under the eye of the temple, of course.”

“It seems a shame,” says Bree. “All those suitors and you can choose only one. But still, all those suitors.” She shivers with pleasure. “Sometimes I wish that I was a queen.”

Mirabella frowns. “Do not ever say that.”

Everyone in the coach quiets at the tone of her voice.

“It was only a joke, Mira,” says Bree gently. “Of course I do not wish that. No one really wishes to be a queen.”

T
he great shadowy library of Greavesdrake is one of Katharine's favorite places. The large fireplace casts warmth everywhere except into the very darkest corners, and as she grew, the tall shelves and massive leather chairs provided many places to hide from Genevieve's slaps, or from poison practice. Today though, the fire burns low, and she and Pietyr sit out in the open. They have pulled back three sets of curtains from the eastward-facing windows and huddle in the brightest shaft of light. Warmth from the sun feels better somehow. Gentler, and less hard-won.

Pietyr hands her a bit of bread, smeared with soft, triple-cream sheep's milk cheese. He has assembled a picnic on the carpet of the finest untainted food he could find. A sweet gesture, even if it is mostly intended to fatten her up.

“You ought to try the crab soufflé,” he says. “Before it gets cold.”

“I will,” says Katharine.

She takes a bite of the bread and cheese, but it is difficult. Even the best foods taste like mud when accompanied by nausea. She touches the small bandage on her wrist.

“What was it this time?” Pietyr asks.

“Some kind of snake venom.”

It was nothing she had not been poisoned with before. But the cut used to apply it was worse than necessary, thanks to Genevieve's still-held grudge from the night of the
Gave Noir.
Pietyr has looked at the wound already, and he did not like what he saw.

“When you are crowned,” he says, “there will be no more reason for that.”

He serves her a small plate of scrambled egg with caviar and soured cream. She takes a bite and tries to smile.

“That is not a smile, Kat. That is a grimace.”

“Perhaps we should put this off,” she suggests, “until dinner.”

“And let you miss two more meals?” He shakes his head. “We have to recover your poisoner appetite. Try a pastry. Or some juice, at least.”

Katharine laughs. “You are the best personal attendant I have ever had. Even better than Giselle.”

“Am I?” He raises an eyebrow. “I have had no practice. My house in the country is well-fortified, and well-run by Marguerite, though I am loath to admit it. I have spent my whole life being waited upon.”

“Then perhaps you have learned by example,” Katharine
says. “You care very much that I am crowned. But so does every Arron. Did you really come here to escape the country? What did Natalia promise you?”

“She promised me a seat on the council,” he says, “after you are on the throne. But it is more than that.”

He looks at her pointedly, and she blushes. He likes it when she blushes. He says that Mirabella is likely far too proud to show any pleasure at someone's interest.

“Poisoner queens are good for the island.” He feeds her another piece of bread. “We have run it for a hundred years. The Westwoods are arrogant indeed if they think they can do better.”

“The Westwoods,” Katharine says, “and the temple.”

“Yes. The temple. I do not know why they feel so slighted. Why they have to possess the entirety of the people's hearts. But they do.”

Pietyr eats some bread smeared with apple jelly. He does not turn up his nose at untainted food like the rest of the Arrons do. He does not make Katharine feel small for being weak.

“It smells like dust in here, Kat,” he says. “I do not know why you like it.”

Katharine looks around at the tall stacks of leather-bound books. “Queen Camille liked them,” she says. “She liked to read about mainland queens. Did you know that is where Arsinoe got her name?”

“I did not.”

“There was a queen on the mainland who was murdered by
her sister. She was called Arsinoe too. So when Arsinoe was born weak, that is what she named her. Arsinoe the naturalist.”

“Such a wicked way to name a newborn. I am almost sorry for her,” says Pietyr.

“The queen knows what we are from birth. She knows our gifts. A dud is a dud, even then.”

“She gave you a fine name, in any case, Katharine the poisoner. She must have known then that you would grow up to be sweet and thoughtful.” He traces a finger along her cheek. “And very fair.”

“Fair enough to capture the eye of every single suitor?” she asks. “Must I really?”

“You must. Imagine the look on Mirabella's face when every one of them ignores her. Perhaps she will be so dismayed that she will throw herself off the Rolanth cliffs.”

That would be very convenient indeed. Though it would rob Katharine of the sight of her clawing at her throat, after it had been poisoned shut.

Katharine laughs.

“What?” Pietyr asks.

“I was thinking of Arsinoe,” she says. “Of how sad and easy she will be to kill, after Mirabella is dead.”

Pietyr chuckles. He draws her close. “Kiss me,” he says, and she does. She is getting much better at it, and bolder. Afterward, she bites his lip gently.

He is so very handsome. She could kiss him all day and never tire of it.

“You are a fast learner,” he says.

“But were you? How many girls have you practiced on, Pietyr?”

“Many,” he replies. “Practically every serving girl who came through our household, and most of them in the village besides. As well as a few of my stepmother's more discerning friends.”

“I should not have asked,” she pouts.

He runs his hand up the side of her leg, and Katharine laughs. So many girls. So many women. But he is hers and hers alone. For now.

“You do not find me dull, after others who were more practiced?” she asks.

“No,” he says, and looks into her eyes. “Never. In fact, the hardest part of all this will be something that I had not really thought of.”

“What?”

“Remembering why I am here. To make you the kind of queen who wins hearts. To help you gain island support at the festival.”

“What does their support matter? They will not help me kill my sisters.”

“A well-loved queen has many eyes and ears. The support will matter very much, in any case, after you are crowned.”

Katharine's stomach lurches, and she pushes her food away.

“It is all pressure and expectations. And I will fail. I will fail, like I did on my birthday.”

“You will not fail,” says Pietyr. “When you step onto your stage at the Quickening, no one will bother looking at your sisters' stages. When the suitors see you at the Disembarking, they will forget that there are other queens to see.”

“But Mirabella . . .”

“Forget Mirabella. She will be stiff-backed and haughty. You will smile. Flirt. You will be the queen they want. If I can only get you to stand up straight.”

“Stand up straight?”

“You are very meek when you walk, Kat. I want you to move through a room as though it is already yours. Sometimes, it even seems that you scurry.”

“Scurry!”

She laughs and shoves him away. He leans back on the carpet and laughs as well.

“You are right, though. Sometimes, I do scurry. Like a rat.” She grins. “But that is over. You will teach me and I will make them forget their own names. With one look.”

“One look?” Pietyr asks. “That is a bold promise.”

“But I will do it. And I will make you forget as well.” Katharine lowers her lashes.

“Forget what?”

She looks up at him.

“That I am not for you.”

When Natalia asks Katharine to accompany her to the Volroy, it can be for only one reason: to poison a prisoner. That is all
she has ever gone to the palace for. She has never sat in session with the Black Council, listening to them discuss the tax on naturalist fruit or glass windows from Rolanth. Nor has she ever met with the last king-consort's representatives from the mainland, when they come to press their interests. But that is all right, Natalia says. She will one day, when she is crowned.

“He was tried in Kenora,” Natalia says as they take the carriage toward Indrid Down and the black spires of the Volroy. “For murder. A stabbing, and a brutal one. It did not take the council long to determine his punishment.”

The coach stops momentarily on Edgemoor Street to be allowed through the side gate and onto the palace grounds. Katharine tilts her head back in the dark shadow of the fortress, but they are already too close for her to see the top of the spires. When she is crowned, she will live there, but she has never cared for the Volroy. Despite the grandeur of the twin spires, with their flying buttresses, it is too formal and too full of hard surfaces. There are more windows and light than at Greavesdrake, yet the place is still cold. So many hallways, and drafts slide through it like notes from a flute.

Katharine leans away from the coach window as the ceiling closes over their heads.

“Are Genevieve and Lucian here today?” she asks.

“Yes. Perhaps we will meet with them afterward, for lunch. I can make Genevieve sit at a separate table.”

Katharine smiles. Genevieve has still not been allowed to move back into Greavesdrake, Natalia preferring to keep the
house quiet. With luck, she will not be allowed to return until after Beltane is over.

The coach stops, and they disembark and enter the building. People passing in the halls nod respectfully at the pair, buttoned up in their stark wool coats and topped with warm black hats. Katharine is careful to keep her sleeves tugged down, to hide Genevieve's bandage and the last of the scabbing blisters. They have almost healed now, much faster than she expected. Thanks to Pietyr, she is healthier and stronger. Most of the scabs have flaked off and left fresh pink skin behind. None will scar.

On the stairs that lead to the holding cells below, Katharine pauses. Deep places have always made her uncomfortable, and the holding cells have a distinct and unpleasant odor. They smell of cold and dirty ice. Whatever wind fails to escape the Volroy through its many upstairs windows falls down into the cells to rot.

“Is one murder his only crime?” Katharine asks as they tread carefully down the stone steps. The holding cells are usually reserved for prisoners of special importance. Like those who have committed crimes against the queen.

“Perhaps he could have been dealt with in Kenora after the trial,” Natalia admits. “But I thought you could use the extra practice.”

At the bottom, the cold-ice smell gives way to the cells' true scent: human filth and sweat and fear. It is made more pungent by the close quarters and by the heat thrown off the many torches.

Natalia sloughs her coat, and one of the guards holds her hand out to receive it before they duck through the low doorway. Another guard unlocks the last large metal door, shoving it aside so hard that the heavy steel bounces against the track.

Of the many cells in the lower level, only one is occupied. The prisoner is backed into the far corner, with his knees drawn up to his chest. He seems dirty, and tired, and not much more than a boy.

Katharine grips the bars. He has been convicted. Of a murder. But scared as he looks now, she cannot imagine him committing one.

“Who did he kill?” she asks Natalia.

“Another boy. Only a few years older than himself.”

They have given him a blanket and some straw. The remains of his meager breakfast sit in the corner beside him, a small metal mug and a plate scraped clean by his fingers. The bars that separate them are solid, but she would have been safe had they been made of cloth. Whatever fight he had has drained out in the few days spent in the prison.

“What is your name?” she asks, and in the corner of her eye, sees Natalia frown. His name does not matter. But she would still like to know.

“Walter Mills.”

His eyes wobble. He knows what she has come to do.

“Walter Mills,” she says gently. “Why did you kill that boy?”

“He killed my sister,” he says.

“Why is it not him in this cell, then? Instead of you?”

“Because they don't know. They think she ran away.”

“How do you know she did not?” Natalia asks skeptically.

“I just do. She wouldn't have gone.”

Natalia leans close to Katharine's ear. “We do not know if what he says is true,” she says. “He has been tried. He is guilty. In any case, we can hardly bring the dead boy in for questioning.” Natalia sighs. “Have you seen enough?”

Katharine nods. There is nothing to be done. The council has determined his fate. And now she knows everything she needs to know. His crime. His cause. His approximate health, age, and weight.

“Please,” the boy whispers. “Mercy.”

Natalia puts her arm across Katharine's shoulders and leads her out. It is not necessarily legal for Katharine to participate in executions before she is crowned. But there are no ends to the strings that Natalia can pull. Katharine has been going with her into the chamber of poisons almost since the moment of her claiming from the Black Cottage.

Inside the chamber, high up in the East Tower, Katharine unbuttons her coat and throws it over one of Natalia's beloved wingback chairs. Her gloves she leaves on. They are close-fitting, and insulated, and will provide some protection in the event of a spill.