“Jonathan Denton,” she said. “Amuse me while you work. Tell me something of yourself.”
“What would you like to know?”
“Anything. What you usually tell someone upon first meeting them. I have never heard of the Denton family,” she said when he seemed to be struggling. “You apprentice in Prynn, but are you from there? Are you of the poisoner gift?”
“I am. We are, though I’m not surprised that you haven’t heard of us. The Arrons are the only poisoners that anyone seems to know.”
“That is because they share blood with every poisoner line, or that is what they say.”
“It’s true.” Jonathan raised his brush. “Every poisoner in Indrid Down has a little of the Arrons in them. But I don’t have much. My hair is nowhere near blond enough.”
She chuckled and looked at his clothes: dark gray hose and tunic. The cloth was of good quality, and it was well-made, but it was simple and had no fur edging in sight. It was probably the finest he owned, worn especially for this occasion on the Volroy grounds. He straightened and studied her face so intently that she blushed.
“Is there,” she said, and cleared her throat, “is there somewhere in particular you would have me fix my gaze?”
“No, I— My apologies. I was staring. It is a heady thing to be so near the oracle queen.”
“Yes. My crown blinds people to my faults. Maybe it will even blind your painter’s eye, and my portrait will come out looking gorgeous.” He looked down, and she felt guilty. What could he say to that? Flatter her and say she was beautiful? “An oracle queen is a queen like any other. Do not worry; I cannot spy into your heart and uncover your secrets.”
“That is a relief. I must admit to knowing nothing about the sight gift. I have never traveled to Sunpool, and the gift outside of there is so rare.”
“There is no shame in that. Being a poisoner is a mystery to me as well. All of the gifts are impossible to know to those who do not have them. You may ask me something if you like.”
He paused in preparing his canvas and thought. “Did you always know you would win the crown?”
“I did. By the time the Ascension began after the Festival of Beltane, I had already had a strong, clear vision.”
“Of your sisters’ deaths?”
“Of myself. Wandering the rooms of the completed West Tower.” She looked up at the Volroy, neck stretching back. She knew its silhouette well enough to see it with her eyes shut, where the unfinished tower ended and which stones jutted up like a gap-toothed smile.
“That must’ve been comforting,” he said.
“It was. And it wasn’t. The sight gift is many things, but I would never call it a comfort. Visions can be misinterpreted. They can be unavoidable, or they can be a warning.”
Jonathan was silent a moment as his hand moved over the canvas and made small marks. His movements were exact and confident for an apprentice. Elsabet watched his eyes as they grew distant, studying the Volroy, and as they sharpened, focusing back on her face and gown.
“I would have this be a joyful portrait,” she said. “A celebration of Midsummer. Nothing too dark.”
“If you want it to be joyful, then you will have to smile.” He raised his brow at her and chuckled. “Or I suppose I could simply imagine what that must look like.” He stuck the handle of a brush between his teeth and went at the canvas with broad, dry-sounding strokes. Then he set the brushes aside and stepped back. “After you are set in the foreground, I will add things around you. Bushels of summer fruit and crops. I do a very fine set of playful hunting dogs.”
Elsabet laughed. “You will make a naturalist of me.”
“Not to worry. There is no mistaking an oracle queen in a portrait. Not with the aura of black shadow around her head.” The aura of black. It was the traditional way of depicting the sight gift in paintings. The stronger the gift, the darker the aura. For a queen’s portrait, it would be so dark it would appear to be a black orb floating just above her crown.
“Jugglers, then, and the feast table. I promise I will make it seem a very merry occasion.”
“Then you must feast with us,” she said. “So you may make an accurate representation.”
Jonathan blushed, and Elsabet looked away. She had meant to get the measure of him, to find out why he had appeared in her dream. Instead, she was the one doing all the talking. More talking than she had done in years with anyone besides Rosamund and Bess.
“Well?” she asked. “What say you?”
“To an invitation from the queen?” He smiled, a pleased, befuddled expression on his face. “I can hardly refuse.”
INDRID DOWN
The house that the Arrons kept in the capital stood on the north side, proud and darkly timbered. It had been built atop a small knoll and in the rear boasted a small walled garden full of poison. There, it got the best of the morning sun and the best of the breezes coming from the north end of the harbor before the wind made it to the market and began to reek of mingling foods and people. Unfortunately for Gilbert, it was also the council house that was the farthest away from the castle, and by journey’s end on a warm summer day, the top of his forehead was beaded with sweat.
“I don’t know why you won’t settle in one of the row houses on High Street,” he said as Francesca greeted him in the garden.
“I don’t know why you won’t ride a horse,” she replied, and kissed his cheek.
“I told you; I don’t care for horses. And my mount would too often be seen tied to your post.”
Francesca laughed. “Your mount was seen often enough at my post when you first arrived in the capital.” She slipped her hand below his tunic and squeezed, making him smile and flush. Their tryst had been sweet but brief. Over now for years. She had set her sights on him the moment he stepped out of the carriage behind the new queen. Seducing him had been easy; Gilbert had never been with a girl as lovely as Francesca Arron. For nearly two months, she had listened to his troubles with his head resting on her chest. Just long enough to learn his vulnerabilities. And his darkest desires to capitalize on.
Francesca shook her long, pale braid over her shoulder as he followed her to a stone table and flinched away from the plants.
“Can we go inside? I feel as if I could die from a deep breath in this garden.”
“We do not keep poisons like that here.” She bent to finish the letter she had been writing. “As long as you eat nothing and do not roll in anything, you will be fine.”
“Roll in anything,” he muttered, and tugged his sleeves in tighter. “What’s that there?” He pointed to a small vine-covered stone set inside a tiny box of iron fence. “I’ve never seen that before.”
Francesca glanced up to where he was pointing. “It’s a grave marker, of course. It’s usually obstructed and overgrown.”
Gilbert walked closer and bent to read the engraving. Grave markers were rare on the island, as most bodies were burned on the pyre and the ashes scattered. Families kept woven shrouds as commemoration, or plaques, or engraved brick, but an actual grave was an uncommonly curious thing. Leave it to Gilbert to find it, with that strange manifestation of his sight gift.