Three Dark Crowns (16 page)

W
hen Mirabella wakes, she is alone beneath Elizabeth's cloak. The storm has passed, and the fire has burned down, but she is still warm enough from the memory of the boy's embraces. He was her first. How excited Bree will be to find out . . . if Mirabella can ever return to Rolanth to tell her.

She pokes her head out. It is still early. The water does not yet sparkle, but day has begun to coat the beach with gray, hazy light. The boy sits with his back to her, dressed again in his trousers and shirt, his head in his hands.

Mirabella pushes up onto one elbow. Her dress is somewhere underneath her. She considers trying to discreetly slip back into it.

“Are you well?” she asks quietly.

He turns slightly.

“I am,” he says. He closes his eyes. “Thank you.”

Mirabella blushes. He is just as handsome in the day as he was beside the fire. She wishes he would come back and lie with her. He seems so far away.

“What,” he says, still half turned. “What happened?”

“You do not remember?”

“I remember the storm, and you and me,” he says, and stops. “I just don't understand how it . . . How I could have done this.”

Mirabella sits up and tugs the cloak around her. “You did not want to,” she says, alarmed. “You did not like it.”

“I did like it,” he says. “It was wonderful. None of this . . . None of it is your fault.”

She sighs, relieved, and moves close to wrap them both in the cloak. She kisses his shoulder and then his neck. “Come back to me, then,” she whispers. “It is not day yet.”

He closes his eyes when her lips touch his temple. For a moment she thinks he might resist her altogether, but then he turns and takes her in his arms. He kisses her fiercely and presses her into the sand beside the spent coals.

“I don't know what I'm doing,” he whispers.

“You seem to know very well what you are doing,” Mirabella says, and smiles. “And you may do it again.”

“I want to. God damn it all but I want to.”

He pulls back to look into her eyes.

She watches his expression change from disbelief to despair.

“No,” he says. “Oh no.”

“What is it?” she asks. “What is the matter?”

“You're a queen,” he croaks. “You're Mirabella.” He backs away.

He had not recognized her then, last night. A part of her had wondered, feared that he would return her to Rolanth. But a larger part had not cared.

“No,” he says again, and she laughs.

“It is all right. It is not wrong, to lie with a queen. You will not be punished. You will not die.”

“What are you doing here?” he asks. “Why aren't you in Rolanth? Why do you have a white cloak?”

She studies him warily. It is not the fact that she is a queen that he regrets.

“What is your name?” she asks.

He is not an Arron; he does not have the coloring. And his clothes have the look of a craftsman, well-worn and many times mended. He must have sailed from a great distance. His accent is different from any she has ever heard.

“My name is Joseph Sandrin.”

Mirabella's blood runs cold. She knows that name. He is the boy who loves Arsinoe. The one who was banished for trying to help her escape.

She takes up her dress from the sand and slips into it quickly while underneath Elizabeth's cloak. She has slept with the boy her sister loves. Her stomach lurches.

“Did you think that I was her?” she asks, finishing the fastenings of her dress. “Did you think that I was Arsinoe?”

Given his confusion from the storm and the cold, that might absolve him at least.

“What?” he asks. “No!”

And then he laughs in surprise.

“If I had touched Arsinoe the way I touched you”—he stops and turns solemn once again—“she'd have hit me.”

Hit him. Yes. Arsinoe always hit first when they were children. Especially if she really cared for you.

Joseph stares out at the waves. The water is quiet now. Shimmering and calm, playing innocent after last night's rages and mischief.

“Why did this have to happen?” he asks. “After I waited so long for her.”

“For who?”

“For the girl I've loved my whole life.” He does not give Mirabella her name. Fine, then. Let him keep it.

“She does not ever need to know,” Mirabella says. “You are unhurt. You are alive. You can go home.”

Joseph shakes his head. “I will know.” He looks at her and touches her cheek. “The damage has already been done.”

“Do not say that. Damage, like what happened was something terrible. We did not know!”

Joseph does not look at her. He stares sadly at the sea. “Mirabella. It might have been better if you had let me drown.”

They cannot stay on the beach forever. They dig in the low tide's sand for cockles and clams and then dry their rewetted clothes beside a fresh fire, but they are lingering. Their time is up.

“Where will you go?” Mirabella asks.

“Inland, to the road. I was to ride the coaches back to Wolf Spring. I suppose I still will.”

Joseph looks at the queen by his side. She is nothing at all like Arsinoe. And nothing at all like he expected. He has heard that Mirabella lives as though she is already crowned, that you must drop to your knees if she passes in the street. He has heard she is locked away in the Westwood estate or kept carefully hidden in the temple. In his mind, she became a holiday ornament, only taken out during celebrations and never to be played with.

This Mirabella is not like that. She is wild and brave. Her black hair is not braided or pinned to her head. He wonders if this is the queen who everyone in Rolanth sees. If all the rumors have been untrue. Or perhaps this Mirabella only appears on beaches, after a storm. If that is so, then she is his and his alone.

They kick sand over the remains of the dead fire, and Mirabella leads Joseph up the path to the top of the cliffs.

“It is easier going up than down,” she says, and shows him the cuts on her palms.

When they reach the top, they walk together through the trees, toward the road.

“You will probably have to walk to the next town to find a coach,” Mirabella says. “I had been following this road for at least a day and I did not hear many pass me by.”

Joseph stops. “What are you doing out here? Why aren't you in Rolanth, surrounded by your future court?”

It sounds like mocking, the way he says that. But that is not the way he means it. He takes her hand. “It is not safe to be out here alone.”

“You sound like my friend Bree,” she says. “I will be fine.”

“It has occurred to me that you are headed south because Katharine and Arsinoe are in the south. But that can't be. Movements against the other queens are not allowed until after Beltane, unless the rules have changed. Have they? I have been gone a long time.”

“They have not changed,” she says. “I slip away on occasion. To be by myself. It is lucky for you that I did!”

“That's true,” Joseph says, and smiles. “I suppose I owe you.”

“I suppose you do.”

They have nearly reached the road, but they are not eager to part. Their steps slow, almost to dragging. When Joseph suggests that he accompany her farther south, Mirabella kisses him on the cheek.

One kiss leads to more. They will have so little of each other, they must take what they can. By the time the sun begins to sink, they have not traveled far, but at least beneath the trees, it is easier to find wood for a fire.

J
ules uses her gift to urge the horses faster. They have never been so game in their lives. Even so, they and their riders must all rest for the night in Highgate, and upon reaching the outskirts of Indrid Down, Arsinoe uses Billy's father's money to wheedle them new mounts, as well as a cart-lead back to Wolf Spring for the horses loaned to them.

Jules pats each of their old mounts and kisses their cheeks. They were good, and they will be sore from the speed of the journey.

“All right,” Arsinoe says. “Let's go.”

“Wait a minute, at least,” Billy says, stretching his back. He is a pampered city son, unused to haste and dozing in the saddle. “I haven't even adjusted my stirrups.”

“You can ride without them.”

“Not as well as if I use them.”

He reaches for the leathers and the girls give in, taking a
moment to adjust their own stirrups. They check and double-check their girths, and Jules feeds Camden a strip of dried, smoked fish.

Arsinoe would like to be on the road. Whenever they stop, Jules looks miserable. But they are nearly there. The point where Joseph would have sailed around Cape Horn, and where the storm might have come upon him.

“We take to the woods now,” Arsinoe says.

“Why's that?” Billy asks.

“You'll see.”

She swings into the saddle and turns around to face the spires of the Volroy. Indrid Down is her sister's city, for now, and as such, Arsinoe is forbidden to enter without an invitation. But after Beltane, that will change, and if she ascends, those spires will be hers, even though it makes her dizzy just to look at them.

They ride fast through the maze of cobblestone streets, out to where the roads change to gravel, and then to dirt, until they jump the last ditch and disappear into the trees. The going is slower in the forest, and the Indrid Down horses do not like it—fancy, jet-black things that they are—but Jules manages to keep them moving. Camden is tired, and rides draped across the front of Jules's saddle, massive and purring and clinging to the horse's neck. It is a testament to the strength of Jules's gift that her horse does not drop dead from fright.

“We should have kept to the roads,” Billy says. No one answers, and he says no more. Since they left Wolf Spring,
no one has said what they all know to be true: if Joseph went into the frigid water, he is gone. Dead within minutes, and no amount of searching will bring him back. They will know soon. If Arsinoe's spell leads them to the water's edge, they will know for sure.

When they step into a clearing large enough to hold them all, and a fire besides, Arsinoe halts her mount.

“All right,” she says. “Let's gather wood.”

“Gather wood? We've only just started on these horses,” says Billy.

Arsinoe pulls together fallen branches. The fire does not need to last long. Jules strips birch bark with her knife and drops a mound of white- and peach-colored curls over the top of the pile.

She kneels beside the fire as Arsinoe lights the match. “Are you going to need my hair?” Jules asks.

Arsinoe looks at her, surprised. But of course she knows. Jules has always been able to read her better than anyone else.

Arsinoe reaches into her leather bag and pulls out the small silver blade. She takes it from its sheath. It is slightly curved, sharp and mean-looking, and longer than their common knives by half. She takes out the clothes of Joseph's that she brought and sets the knife on top of them.

“What's going on?” Billy asks. “What are you doing?”

Arsinoe feeds the fire up higher with dry weeds and small twigs. There is no one around for a long way in all directions. They passed no fences coming in, and heard no barking dogs.
It is windless and a little warm and eerily silent except for the pop and crackle of burning wood.

Jules rolls up her sleeve.

“I thought you made flowers bloom and forced cougars to balance books on their heads,” Billy whispers.

“Jules doesn't force that cat to do anything.” Arsinoe grabs the knife and searches through the pile of clothes with the tip. “And she can make flowers bloom. Not me, though. All I've got is this.”

“Low magic,” Jules explains.

“Magic for the giftless.” Arsinoe grabs Joseph's shirt and tears a strip from the bottom with her teeth.

“Why do I not like the sound of that?” Billy asks. “Why does it seem like you've kept it a secret?”

“Because I have,” Arsinoe says.

“Because it lies,” says Jules. “Because it kicks back.”

“Then why are you using it now?” asks Billy.

Arsinoe tilts the knife back and forth. “Do you want to find Joseph? Or not?”

Jules watches it fearfully as it wags in Arsinoe's hand. She has never fooled about with low magic, not even as a child, when many of the island grew curious. Low magic is not something to be played at. It is not owned, like a gift is. It is something let off its leash. The priestesses of the temple sometimes call it a sideways prayer: perhaps answered and perhaps not, but always with a price.

“All right,” Jules says, and holds her hand out.

“Wait!” Billy says before Arsinoe can make a single cut. “Joseph wouldn't want you to do this. He wouldn't approve of it!”

“I know. But he would do it for me, if I were the one who was missing.”

“Close your eyes,” Arsinoe says. “Think of Joseph. Think of nothing else but Joseph.”

Jules nods. Arsinoe takes a steady breath and cuts into the meat of Jules's hand, into the soft mound of flesh just above her thumb. Thin red blood runs in stripes, circling around to drip to the ground. Arsinoe slices carefully, carving out the elaborate web of symbols that Madrigal showed her.

She holds Jules's hand above Joseph's shirt. “Squeeze.”

Jules closes her fingers. Blood drizzles onto the fabric. When there is enough, Arsinoe drops the bloody mess onto the fire and quickly binds Jules's cuts with the strip of cloth she tore.

“Breathe the smoke.”

“Did you take too much blood?” Jules asks. “I don't feel right. My eyes . . .”

“Don't be afraid. Think of Joseph.”

The smoke smells acrid from the burning blood. Arsinoe and Billy watch with morbid fascination as Jules breathes it in and the spell inside it hollows her out. It makes of Jules a vacant vessel for whatever the smoke desires. If Arsinoe has done everything right, what it will desire is Joseph.

“Is she all right?” Billy asks.

“She will be,” Arsinoe says, though truly, she does not know. It does not matter now. It is too late to turn back.

Arsinoe and Billy lead the horses in Jules's wake as she lumbers jerkily through the trees. It is not easy; the horses are skittish and nervous without Jules's gift to calm them, and they are afraid of the thing that Jules has become: magic encased in skin, with no person left inside.

“What are you doing to her?” Billy whispers.

“I am not doing anything to her,” Arsinoe replies. “She's looking for Joseph.”

It
is looking for Joseph. It is not Jules. But when he is found, it will let Jules go, or so she hopes.

Camden bumps against Arsinoe's leg and grunts nervously. The spell seems to have made the cougar slightly ill. She does not want to be near the shell that is and is not Jules, and stays close to Arsinoe and the horses.

Billy looks from the cat to Arsinoe.

“How long have you been doing . . . that?” he asks, and jerks his head over his shoulder.

“Why?”

“Because I don't think you know quite how to do it,” he says.

The corners of his mouth turn in a disappointed frown. Arsinoe punches him in the arm.

“It's working, isn't it? And besides, I don't think that you are exactly the best person to judge.”

Jules told her that Joseph thought Billy was already half in love with her. But he is not. Arsinoe sees through him, all the way down to his father's darker designs. He will marry the queen.
The
queen, for
the
crown. But it has been pleasant, becoming his friend. And it is not as if she does not understand his reasons.

Ahead, Jules moans. Then she half shouts, and breaks toward the coast. Toward the water. Arsinoe looks at Billy nervously, and he squeezes her shoulder.

A moment later, Jules changes direction and darts straight ahead.

Arsinoe shoves her horse's reins into Billy's hands.

“Take them,” she sputters. “Cam, with me!”

The cougar needs no more encouragement. She seems to sense that Jules is returning to herself. Her ears prick forward and she purrs as they run together after Jules.

Joseph and Mirabella walk hand in hand. Even after spending a long morning beside a fire, they have to be nearing the capital. No matter how slow they walk, they must soon part. Neither can put it off any longer.

Joseph will return to Wolf Spring. To his girl, and to where he belongs, and this strange interlude will be over.

But not forgotten.

“It is foolish to be sad,” Mirabella said the night before, as they lay together. “Things are the way they are. Even if you were free, I could never keep you.”

Mirabella freezes at movement in the trees, and Joseph steps protectively in front of her. Perhaps it is a search party from Rolanth. She almost hopes so. Then they will drag her off, and she will not have to walk away from him of her own accord.

A girl's cry sounds through the woods. Joseph's fingers slip from hers.

“Jules?” he calls out. “Jules!”

He looks back at Mirabella, perhaps with regret. Then he runs through the trees.

Mirabella follows at a safe distance. Just close enough to see the girl who crashes through the leaves, running through low brush like an animal.

“Joseph!”

The girl throws herself against his chest with no grace, and he wraps his arms around her. She sobs, very loud sobs for a body so small.

“Your mother had a dream,” she says. “I was so afraid!”

“I am fine, Jules.” He kisses her head. She jumps up and presses her lips to his.

Mirabella's heart feels as if it is hanging on the outside of her chest. She shrinks back into the trees as Joseph kisses this girl he has loved his whole life.

Something else shakes the brush, and a large golden cat jumps up on them both.

Mirabella watches as they pet and stroke the cougar. They are naturalists, then. And such a strong familiar is befitting a queen. Arsinoe must be near. Arsinoe, her sister.

And then she sees her. Running up with a grin that Mirabella recognizes, her short hair flying over her shoulders.

Mirabella wants to shout. She wants to hold her arms wide open. But she is too afraid to move. It has been so long since she has seen Arsinoe, but she is just the same. There are even shadows of dirt on her impish face.

Through the trees, another boy approaches, leading three horses. Perhaps an attendant.

“We thought you were dead,” Arsinoe says.

“I see that. You didn't even bother to bring a fourth horse.”

Everyone laughs except the girl, Jules.

“That is not funny . . . yet,” she says.

They do not see Mirabella. She watches them embrace, and listens to their laughter. But no matter how many times she opens her mouth, she cannot find the courage to speak. Instead she ducks behind a tree and suffers quietly. It will not be long before they walk away.

Arsinoe breathes a sigh of relief watching Jules and Joseph embrace. Jules is herself again. The moment she saw Joseph, the spell released her.

“Are you hurt?” Billy calls from farther back. The horses are still nervous, and he has his hands full trying to hold them steady.

“No,” says Joseph. “But the boat's gone. I got caught in the squall and it went under. I barely made it to the shore.”

“I thought I taught you to sail better than that,” Billy says, and laughs.

“You didn't teach him to sail at all,” Arsinoe says over her shoulder. “He's been on the boats since he was old enough to walk.”

“Jules.” Joseph looks down at her hand, wrapped in blood-soaked cloth. “What happened?”

“Later,” Arsinoe interjects. “Isn't it enough that you are not drowned? And we ought to get you out of these woods and over a hot plate of food.”

“You're right,” says Joseph. He puts an arm around Jules. As he does, he glances back, into the trees. Arsinoe's eyes follow, and she sees a flash of black skirt. As they leave the meadow, she discreetly drops her knife. It is easy enough to pretend to notice it missing a moment later, and go back for it alone.

Mirabella does not hear anything before Arsinoe steps around the tree trunk. Not so much as a snapping twig.

“Arsinoe!”

“You're not very good at hiding,” Arsinoe says. “Those lovely black skirts of yours are sticking out all over.”

Mirabella stiffens at the tone of Arsinoe's voice. Her eyes flicker to Arsinoe's hand, curled around the handle of a knife. Everyone told her that her sisters were weak. That killing them would be easy. But it does not feel easy. So far, Arsinoe is much better at this game.