Luca takes a long drink of her ale and crunches through a baked, salted cracker. “How is she other than that? Does she look you in the eye? Respond to your emotions?”
“Yes. There are times when she is almost sweet.” Sara knows what the priestess is asking. Madness in a queen is not to be borne, and would mean Mirabella’s instant death. “She shows no sign of madness.”
“The island can never have another Elsabet,” Luca says, referring to Queen Elsabet, a sight-gifted queen who, upon foreseeing an assassination plot, had three whole houses of people executed without evidence.
“Never.” Sara makes a pious gesture to the Goddess of the island. “But what do we do now? Is there anything that can be done?”
Luca grunts. “There is always something to be done. Fostering a queen is never easy. Did you think it would be? The temple must be neutral, Sara. I don’t know what you would have of me.”
Sara bows her head, and Luca sighs, as if she cannot take a moment more of Sara’s pitiful face. “Do you really think she is a chosen queen? Our queens win their crowns through killing. People have their favorites, but if she truly is as strong as you say, her victory would be near assured.”
“She is that strong. She is chosen. And she needs the temple to guide her. As all queens do. Surely you would go to the aid of any of the young queens in this way.”
“Surely,” Luca says.
Sara keeps her eyes on the table as the High Priestess mulls it over, weighing tradition against rightness, faith against action. But Sara knows that Luca hates the poisoners as much as she does. Though they may not have murdered Luca’s grandmother, they have done even worse in wresting power away from the temple.
Luca wipes her mouth on a napkin and drops it beside her ale. “Well. You had better take me to meet the queen. Let us let her prove it.”
When the door to the basement creaks open, Mirabella blinks curiously into the shaft of light. It is not the hour for lessons or feeding. Though it is difficult to tell in the darkness of her confines.
Bree’s feet come slowly down the steps. She has even dared a small candle to light her way.
“Queen Mirabella,” she says. “We are bringing you to meet someone very important today. Will you let me help you get dressed? We have prepared a bath, and a beautiful new gown, and I will style your hair if you like. . . .”
The stubborn part of Mirabella, that same part that grips on to memories of her sisters with slippery fingers, wants to flare Bree’s candle up into her face. But the other part, that part that has rarely seen the sky in three long years, wins out. Besides, Bree’s gift has shown with an affinity for fire. Maybe she is already strong enough to hold back the flare.
With a gentle touch, Bree leads her up the stairs, into the day. The light hurts at first, stinging her eyes. From the grimaces on the servants’ faces, she must be hurting their eyes just as badly.
“Into the tub, Queen Mirabella.”
They have dragged a deep copper tub into the center of the kitchen and filled it with hot, perfumed water. Two maids strip her of the filthy rag of a dress she wears until she stands in her underclothes, her limbs streaked with dust and her hair hanging in oily strings.
She steps into the tub and submerges immediately, the heat and weight of the water pressing down like a blanket. Water has always been her worst element. The most elusive. Almost playful in its propensity to ignore or disobey. But today is different. Today she can tell that it has missed her.
Mirabella surfaces and lets Bree and the maids wash her face and scrub her fingernails. It is nice to be touched. Nice to be warm. And after the bath, they wrap her in a soft dressing gown, and brush and brush the tangles out of her hair.
“Who is here?” she asks as they pull a dress of fine black wool over her head. “Who am I to meet?”
“No one is here,” Bree replies. Over the last three years, Bree has grown lovely. Her chestnut hair is twisted into buns on the back of her head, and she wears a light blue skirt edged with black ribbon. “We must travel to meet them at Starfall Lake. You are to meet the High Priestess of the island. High Priestess Luca.”
It takes a long time for High Priestess Luca and Sara Westwood to reach the end of the rocky, sloping path to the shores of Starfall Lake, but when they do, only Sara is out of breath.
“It surprises you.” Luca stretches her arms. “You likely thought I would be old and soft. You have only seen me from afar, riding in fancy carriages and eating from silver platters on the festival days.”
“I am impressed but not surprised. Have you ever been to the lake before?”
“Of course. Though not for several years. Starfall Lake. Named for the starfalls reflected in its waters, still commonly visible in the winter skies on this side of the island. It is lovely, is it not?”
“Yes, lovely,” says Sara, her voice like a waving hand. The lake is not important. The only thing that is important is the small girl making her way around the shore opposite. Several Westwoods form a circle around her. It would look like protection had Luca not already heard about the queen’s erratic behavior.
The Westwood party arrives and pays respect to the High Priestess. Some wear temple insignia around their necks, and bow to her with unusual fervor, perhaps touched by the Goddess to become priestesses one day. Luca nods and lays distracted blessings upon their heads. Her focus is on the queen, as theirs should be, but the moment the Westwoods saw Luca, they flocked to her in relief and left Mirabella’s side to hide behind the High Priestess’s robes.
Queen Mirabella, meanwhile, has stepped into the lake up to her ankles.
“Mirabella,” Sara Westwood says. “Will you come and meet the High Priestess?”
Other Westwoods begin to gather cautiously around the lake, closing in on the queen in a half circle, but Luca shakes her head. Mirabella walks closer, alone, and silly Sara feels the need to whisper, “Take care. She learns new tricks every day she is allowed outside.”
Luca pays no mind. She slides out of her shoes and walks into the lake, up to her ankles in cool water on the warm, summer day, shoulder to shoulder with the queen.
“It is lovely here,” she says.
“Yes.”
“Nice. Quiet.”
“Yes.”
Mirabella is a queen of few words. Or perhaps she is only shy, like Queen Camille, and will chatter on and on if given the opportunity, in private. Luca looks her over quickly, from head to toe. A beautiful girl with even features and a firm set to her mouth, even at nine years old. Dark, determined eyes. She does not seem like the wild thing that Sara described, though that is perhaps because they have groomed and disguised her in thin black wool, and an airy veil.
“Do you know who I am?” Luca asks.
Queen Mirabella glances at her.
“You are the High Priestess. That much they have told me. But I know what a high priestess is. From my teachings. You are the leader of the temple.”
“That is right. And who was your teacher?”
“The Westwoods teach me now. Sara and Uncle Miles. But my first teacher was . . . Willa.”
“You remember her fondly?”
“I remember,” Mirabella says, but Luca sees through her clenched teeth to the truth. The truth is that she remembers Willa, only not as well as she used to. And she remembers the other queens, though she remembers them even less so. The fight in her has become a fight against forgetting. That is where the anger stems from.