“The warriors and the oracles have always had a strong bond. It is how we knew to come to your aid during the Queens’ Duel. And now we would know what the Goddess has in store for you. What? Did you think we would just hide you here forever, like a prisoner?”
Jules watches as the bard bows to the crowd, taking a break for a meal and some wine. “You said I was welcome for as long as was needed,” she mutters.
The bard stops before their table.
“Emilia Vatros. It is good to see you.”
“And you, Mathilde. Please, sit. Take some ale with us and food. There’s plenty, as you can see.”
“You even know each other,” Jules says as Mathilde takes a seat. She is striking, up close. Not more than twenty years old perhaps, and the braid of white stands out so starkly against her bright blond waves that it is a wonder Jules did not notice it right off.
Emilia takes her knife from her belt and carves a thick slice of meat from the leg, piling it onto a plate along with the greens and potatoes. Benji arrives with a fresh jug of ale and a third cup.
“I would take some wine, also,” Mathilde says, and he nods before going to fetch it. “It is an honor to meet you, Juillenne Milone.”
“Is it?” Jules asks suspiciously.
“Yes. But why are you looking at me like you hate me? We have not yet spoken.”
“I don’t trust many these days. It’s been a bad year.” She looks at Emilia. “And she’s saying my name awfully loud.”
Emilia and Mathilde share a pacifying look. If only Camden were there to swat both of their faces.
“I am aware of the need for discretion,” Mathilde says. “Just as I am aware that your dislike of oracles stems from the prophecy surrounding your birth. That you were legion cursed. But that has turned out to be true, hasn’t it?”
“That I was cursed, yes. Though I’ve heard that the oracle also said that I should be drowned. That is not true.”
Mathilde raises her eyebrows and tilts her head as if to say, Maybe not. Or just not yet. “And is that all that you have heard?”
“What else is there?”
“We never knew the specifics of the portent. We see through another seer’s eyes only that murky curse.”
“You never knew her, then?” Emilia asks. “The oracle who threw the bones when Jules was born?”
“I was still a child when Jules was born. If I knew her in Sunpool, I do not remember. And nor would many, anymore. For that oracle never returned.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Jules snaps.
“That your family covered the truth of you well.”
That they killed the oracle is what Mathilde means. But seer or not, she does not know for sure. It is only conjecture. Accusation. And Jules will not imagine Grandma Cait or Ellis or even Madrigal putting a rock to an old oracle’s head.
“And what is the truth of me now? Isn’t that what you’re here to tell us?”
Mathilde tears a sliver of meat off her plate. The lamb is succulent; there is no need for cutting. Even so, she takes forever to chew. Waiting, Jules vows that she will not believe a word out of the seer’s mouth. And at the same time, she hopes to hear some other vision, some news about Arsinoe and Billy and how they fare on the mainland. Is Arsinoe happy there? Is she safe? Did they give Joseph a fine funeral? It seems an age since she left them that day, bobbing before the mainland. That day that the mist of Fennbirn swallowed her up again and brought her and Camden home.
She would even settle for news about Mirabella.
“The truth of you is yet to come,” Mathilde says finally. “I know only that you were once a queen and may be again. Those words came into my head like a chant the moment that I looked at you.”
THE MAINLAND
At the sound of the bell, the horses take off from the starting line, hooves and tails flying. Arsinoe grips the rail in front of her seat and pulls herself nearly up and over it to watch as they thunder past, every horse shining and beautiful, and each with a tiny man clinging onto its back for dear life.
“There they go!” she shouts. “They’re rounding the . . . that turn that you said. . . .”
“The clubhouse turn.” Billy grasps her by the back of her dress, laughing. “Now get down from there before you fall into the next row.”
With a sigh, she puts her feet back on solid ground. But she is not the only one out of her seat; plenty of others have stood to clap or hold clever little magnifying glasses up to their eyes. Even Mirabella has risen on the other side of Billy, crowding so close in her excitement that he can hardly breathe between the two sisters.
“Fun as this is,” Arsinoe says, “it would be even more fun to be down there beside the track.” She takes a deep breath, smells roasted nuts, and her stomach growls.
“The view might not be as good,” says Mirabella, and Billy nods. His father paid good money every year for these fine seats, or so Billy had told them on the way to the track.
“How about from the back of a horse, then?”
“They don’t allow girls to ride,” Billy says, and Arsinoe frowns. They would change their minds soon enough if only they could see Jules. Small, wiry Jules, who could weave her horse in and out of a herd as though the two were of one body.
On the racetrack, the horses cross the finish line to a chorus of mixed cheers and groans. The last race of the day, and none of the horses they had bet upon had won, but the three of them stand up, smiling. Arsinoe takes Billy’s hand in her left, and pulls Mirabella along with her right as they make their way down from their seats, her ill-fitting gray dress riding up over the legs of the trousers she insists on always wearing underneath. By contrast, Mirabella looks lovely in white, full sleeves and lace to her throat. Before they left the island, neither had worn any color besides black, and Mirabella, a few colored jewels. But Mirabella, with her beauty, manages to look at home in anything.
Arsinoe takes a deep breath. It is pleasant to be out, even if the warm summer air smells like city instead of the sea. Sometimes Billy’s family’s brick row house—fine though it may be—can feel so stifling. As they turn down the avenue in the midst of the crowds, she bumps a shoulder into a passerby. Before she can apologize, he recoils at the sight of her scars, still bright pink and running down the right side of her face. Billy makes a fist, and Mirabella opens her mouth, but Arsinoe pulls them back.
“Never mind it. Let’s just go.” They do but closer to her and just ahead, their shoulders protecting her shoulders, their scowls a barrier against anyone who might slight her. “Good Goddess,” she says, and laughs. “You lot are as bad as Jules.”
They walk on, navigating the crowds and watching the cabs and carriages pass. It is busier even than Indrid Down High Street, and never seems to slow. A cab dashes by, pulled by a poor bony horse, his back a wreck of whiplashes.
“Oi, go easy on him, will you!” Arsinoe shouts, but the cabbie only sneers.
“If only I had the fullness of my lightning,” Mirabella adds. “Or my fire. I would start a cozy flame in the pocket of his pants.” But she does not. Away from the island, their gifts weaken and fade. Even if Arsinoe were a true naturalist instead of a poisoner, she may not have had enough left to comfort the horse anyway.