“The big gate, then,” the driver had said, and for the first time, looked carefully at Mirabella’s face. After that, she did not speak much to her and began addressing her as “Mistress” rather than “Miss” when she did. She dared not say “Queen” so close to the castle.
In the back of the carriage, Mirabella listens to the horses’ hooves clack along the road and watches the Volroy grow larger. The approaching sight of the castle has banished all thoughts of sleep, and she fidgets with the folds of her cloak and the skirt of her light blue dress. The lace edge has come loose and turned black with dirt after dragging across the ground, and she considers tearing the whole of it away. Instead she clasps her shaking hands in her lap. She must be calm. Katharine is her little sister and will not see her tremble.
Two guards stop the carriage before the main gate and approach to question the driver and peer inside. All the other passengers have been let off elsewhere. Only Mirabella and the cargo remain, trunks and crates loaded onto the roof and lashed to the back.
“What business do you have at the Volroy?”
“None of my own. I’m bringing a passenger. And I think you’ll find that she has plenty.” At the driver’s words, both guards lean back to look in through the windows. Mirabella gazes evenly at them. It takes longer than she expects for them to realize who she is, but eventually they open the gate, and shout for more guards to attend the carriage.
“Our coming must have been kept a secret, Pepper,” she whispers to the little bird, who watches with his head cocked. “But of course it would be. Katharine would not want to lose face if I refused her offer.”
The carriage stops, and Mirabella steps out into the shadow of the fortress. The moment she is clear, Pepper darts from inside her hood, flying off to find his Elizabeth. Mirabella tries not to feel abandoned. But as the guards glare at her warily, she wishes he would have stayed.
“Will you be all right, Mistress?” the driver asks, and Mirabella turns to her with a grateful smile. “I will be fine. Thank you. It has been a pleasure.”
The woman makes a reverent gesture and clicks to the horses. Mirabella turns back to the queensguard and is greeted by the blades of their spears.
“Do not point those at me,” she says. She sends a crackle of dry lightning through the sky and the blades drop. “Take me inside. To the queen.”
GREAVESDRAKE MANOR
Katharine sits beside the bed, surrounded by whispers. Her old bed in her old room, only this time it is not she who lies upon it but Pietyr, as the three healers she has summoned from the capital and one from Prynn mutter near the open door.
They are the finest healers she could find. Poisoners all. But none of them has been able to help Pietyr. None is even able to say what is wrong with him.
Of course, perhaps they could if they knew what truly happened. But Katharine will never tell them that.
“Please wake up,” she murmurs for what feels like the thousandth time. She touches his cheek, then his chest. Both warm, and his strong heart keeps beating. The slow bleeding from his eyes and nose has finally eased, and his face and neck have been wiped clean, the pillow and bedding beneath him changed. Only the barest bit of red seeps from inside his ear.
“Let him wake,” she growls, but the dead queens do not respond. She can feel them staring at him through her eyes. Perhaps she can even feel a little remorse.
No. Regret, perhaps, but not remorse. They did what they had to do to Pietyr to keep him from sending them back into the Breccia Domain. With his bumbling, flawed, low-magic spell that caused them so much pain, he gave them no choice. And every day and night since then, they have reminded Katharine by raising their rot to mar the surface of her skin, by humming through her blood and her mind in soothing, comforting tones. They are part of her now, and they will not be moved.
He would have harmed us. Weakened you. We would protect us. Protect you.
“Be silent,” Katharine whispers. “Be silent!”
“Our apologies, Queen Katharine,” one of the healers says, and bows his head.
“We will take our counsel into the hall so as not to disturb you,” says another, the one from Prynn, and motions to her colleagues.
“No.” Katharine stands. “Forgive me. This accident—his illness—I cannot think.” And it seems that Greavesdrake is always full of whispers. At the end of every hall. Behind every closed door. “Speak plain and tell me your thoughts. What is wrong with him? When will he recover?”
They straighten nervously, huddling and rustling like a flock of birds.
“I know there is no good news,” she says, reading their faces. “But I would have your opinions.”
The healer from Prynn steps back toward the bed. She was the one who took the most aggressive approach to Pietyr’s examination, prodding his gums, pulling on his fingers and toes. It was hard for Katharine to stand there and watch him be poked at, lying unresponsive while a stranger turned his head back and forth and peered inside his ears. When they peeked under the bandages wrapped around his hand, Katharine held her breath. It had been ugly business when she sliced into the rune, mangling it to hide it from discovery. She had made so many cuts that his palm looked like it had been torn apart. But sweet Pietyr had not been awake by then. He had not felt it.
“The wound on his hand continues to heal. Though it is still impossible to tell what caused it. And it does not seem to be the source of his illness. There are no dark lines stemming from the cuts, no foul odor—”
“Yes, yes,” says Katharine. “So you have said before.”
“We think it likely a trauma inside the skull. An unlucky vessel that burst or became clotted. It would leave no outward sign and would require no external impact. You said you found him lying on the floor. It is likely that, when the vessel burst, he simply fell there. There was probably little pain or what there was would have been brief.”
Katharine stares at his sleeping face. He is still handsome when he sleeps. But he is not himself. What makes Pietyr Pietyr is the glint in his eye, the clever and cutting curve of his mouth. And his voice. It has been too many days since she heard his voice. Nearly weeks.
“When will he wake?”
“I do not know, Queen Katharine. That he continues to breathe is a good sign. But he is unresponsive to stimuli.”
“So much blood . . .” When Katharine returned to her senses after the failed spell and found Pietyr lying beside her on the floor, his face was a mask of red.
“There is no way to tell the extent of the damage,” the healer says. “We can only wait. He will need round-the-clock monitoring . . . care and feeding—”
“Leave us,” Katharine says, and listens to their footsteps shuffle into the hall. She takes his hand and kisses it gently. She should have banished the dead queens when he gave her the chance. If only she had not been such a coward. They know she cannot oust them now, not with her reign assailed from all sides: the mist, the Legion Queen, her sisters’ return. She used to think that the dead queens had made her strong. Now, too late, she knows the truth: the strength was theirs and theirs alone. And they would see her weak forever, to keep her as their puppet.
“I did not know,” she whispers against Pietyr’s cheek. “I did not know that this is what they would do.”