Arsinoe rubs at her brow. The tower with Jules had become her hideaway, and his intrusion is an intrusion indeed.
“There’s no need to house them anywhere. They’ll not be with us long. And they’re naturalists. Perfectly happy in tents by the sea.”
“Surely some will want to stay?” he asks.
“I wouldn’t count on it.”
“What is he asking you for, anyway?”
Arsinoe does not bother to stifle her groan when Emilia walks into the room, with no warning or announcement. The warrior’s footsteps are only heard when she wants them to be. She grasps the man harshly by the shoulder and spins him away from Jules’s door.
“You are not to be here. And you are not to ask her anything.”
“I only thought . . . in the absence of the Legion Queen—”
“In the absence of the Legion Queen, I will handle all arrangements,” Emilia growls.
“Good Goddess,” Arsinoe says as the poor fellow hunches low and tries to sidle from view. “He only asked me because I am a naturalist and I am from Wolf Spring.”
“Naturalist, poisoner . . . ,” Emilia grumbles. “You wear whatever hat suits you at the moment.”
Arsinoe sighs. “They’ll be fine on their own. They’ll figure it out,” she says, and the man nods.
“No,” says Emilia. “Place them in the vacant wing of the Lermont estate and whoever does not fit in the empty servants’ quarters adjacent. We need them rested and comfortable if they are to fight.”
“They aren’t to fight,” Arsinoe whispers.
“Some will fight. More than you think.” Emilia gestures with her chin, and the man bows to her and leaves to see it done. Arsinoe waits for her to leave as well, but to her extreme displeasure, Emilia does not.
“Is there anything else?”
Emilia looks past her to the partially open door where Jules lies. She has not told anyone besides Mathilde about Mirabella’s defection, and Arsinoe knows why. Emilia does not want the rebellion shaken. Not before their Legion Queen is well again.
It is something to be thankful for, she supposes, and then immediately hates herself for thinking it. She looks at Emilia with a softer expression and tries to remember the hours the warrior has spent by Jules’s side.
“Emilia, I—”
Emilia’s eyes flash to hers, full of contention, setting Arsinoe’s teeth back on edge immediately. But before either can hurl another insult, a large, brown hound comes bursting through the door, followed by Jules’s Aunt Caragh, with a baby slung around her middle.
“I had a feeling you two wouldn’t get on,” says Caragh as her brown hound sniffs happily at Arsinoe and goes to whuffle around Camden.
“Caragh,” Emilia says, and embraces her. She wiggles a finger before the baby’s face. “And little Fenn. Welcome.”
“Caragh,” Arsinoe breathes. She banishes the flicker of annoyance that Emilia greeted her first and hugs her heartily, careful to keep from jostling Jules’s little brother. “What are you doing here?”
“I missed my sister’s burning.” Her voice drops. “But I won’t be kept from Jules. And I had to bring Fennbirn Milone here to meet his father.”
“Yes,” Arsinoe says. “Matthew is here.”
“I’ve seen him. And I’ve seen my mother. And convinced her to give you this.”
Caragh reaches into her coat and produces a glass jar with a length of blood-soaked cord inside. It is the color of rust, and beside it rests a yellowed, folded piece of paper.
Arsinoe recognizes the cord and the blood. It is a low-magic spell.
“It’s all Madrigal left us about the binding. She never was much of a writer.” Caragh taps the glass. “Only a page and a half, but it’s all there. All she knew.” She pushes them farther into Arsinoe’s hands. “And now I’m giving them to you.”
“Cait wasn’t going to give them to me?”
“Maybe she was angry. Maybe she was blaming you. But if she was, she is over it now.” Caragh bounces the baby on her hip. “And she was wrong to.”
“What might that do?” Emilia asks, peering into the jar.
“Maybe nothing,” Caragh replies for her. “Maybe it’s too late. Or maybe you can still find something in there to help.”
THE VOLROY
Mirabella wanders through the king-consort’s apartment with a morbid fascination. Nicolas Martel died before he could spend even one night inside, but the rooms still feel like his tomb. She runs her hands over the bright brocade of the chairs, and reaches out to touch fresh lace that drapes across a small table. The rugs are soft and new. All of these furnishings, selected by Katharine for her dead husband.
It is a sad thought, made sadder by the silence, though as she looks around the walls, she sees nothing that seems personal or particularly sentimental, no portraits or remembrances of Nicolas Martel. That is no real wonder, she supposes. Such a tragic beginning would have been hastily brushed aside in any reign. The faster forgotten, the better. Still, she wonders how Katharine feels. Everyone knows that she has been in an affair with Pietyr Renard, and long before meeting Nicolas Martel. But for a queen to lose her chosen partner so soon . . . It must have caused her pain, whether she loved him or not.
Or perhaps not pain, Mirabella thinks, remembering the sight of Katharine and Nicolas together, how darkly and coldly they shone. Perhaps only disappointment.
The door opens, and Mirabella straightens. Katharine has not sent the clothes that she promised, and she is still wearing her stained, blue mainlander dress with the ragged, hanging lace.
The woman who enters is one of the loveliest people Mirabella has ever seen. Her light blond hair is streaked with gold, and the violet of her eyes brings life to her otherwise statuesque face. Even beautiful Bree, who comes in behind her, is somehow less impressive by comparison.
“Bree!” Mirabella brushes past the woman to embrace her friend, who is practically vibrating with excitement.
“You are here,” Bree exclaims. “You are really here!”
“I am.” She touches Bree’s cheek, as if to test Bree’s realness as well. “Forgive us,” she says to the woman behind them. “We have not seen each other . . . often.”
“Of course, Mirabella,” she replies. “Take all the time you need.”
Her dismissive tone drives the friends apart. “I think you mean Queen Mirabella,” Bree says.
“I am fairly certain that I do not. I am Genevieve Arron, head of the Arron family of poisoners,” she says, and cocks her head in a decidedly sarcastic bow.
“Genevieve Arron. I almost did not recognize you outside of Natalia’s shadow. Allow me to express my sympathy in regard to her passing. Losing a sister is never easy.”
“So it would seem.” Genevieve snaps her fingers, and Bree makes a sour face. “See to her quickly.” She looks disdainfully upon Mirabella’s clothing. “And make sure she is presentable.”
As she turns to leave, a black-and-white tufted woodpecker flies past her cheek, making her swat at the air. “Disgusting birds everywhere,” she hisses, and when she is gone, Elizabeth slips inside, her white hooded robe making the blush in her ruddy cheeks stand out all the more. As soon as they are alone, she, Mirabella, and Bree fall into one another’s arms.