Three Dark Crowns (4 page)

The guests move toward the set table. The crowd, for once, is a help, pressing close in a wave of black to push her forward.

Natalia instructs the servants to reveal the dishes from under their silver covers. Piles of glistening berries. Hens stuffed with hemlock dressing. Candied scorpions and sweet juice steeped with oleander. A savory stew winks red and black with rosary peas. The sight of it makes Katharine's mouth run dry. Both the snake on her wrist, and her bodice, seem to squeeze.

“Are you hungry, Queen Katharine?” Natalia asks.

Katharine slides a finger along Sweetheart's warm scales. She knows what she is supposed to say. It is all scripted. Practiced.

“I am ravenous.”

“What would be the death of others will nourish you,” Natalia continues. “The Goddess provides. Are you pleased?”

Katharine swallows hard.

“The offering is adequate.”

Tradition mandates that Natalia bow. When she does, it looks unnatural, as if she is a clay pot cracking.

Katharine sets her hands on the table. The rest of the feast is up to her: its progression, its duration and speed. She may
sit or stand as she likes. She does not need to eat it all, but the more she eats, the more impressive it is. Natalia advised her to ignore the flatware and use her hands. To let the juices run down her chin. If she were as strong a poisoner as Mirabella is an elemental, she would devour the entire feast.

The food smells delicious. But Katharine's stomach can no longer be fooled. It tries to twist itself shut and cramps painfully.

“The hen,” she says. A servant sets it before her. The room is heavy, and so full of eyes, as it waits. They will shove her face into it if they have to.

Katharine rolls her shoulders back. Seven of the nine council members stand close at the front of the crowd. The five who are Arrons, of course, as well as Lucian Marlowe and Paola Vend. The two remaining members have been dispatched as a courtesy to her sisters' celebrations.

There are only three priestesses in attendance, but Natalia says that priestesses do not matter. High Priestess Luca has forever been in Mirabella's pocket, abandoning temple neutrality in favor of believing Mirabella to be the fist that will wrest power away from the Black Council. But the Black Council is what counts on the island now, and priestesses are nothing but relics and nursemaids.

Katharine tears white meat from the plumpest part of the breast, the meat that is farthest from the toxic stuffing. She pushes it through her lips and chews. For a moment, she is afraid she will be unable to swallow. But the bite goes down,
and the crowd relaxes.

She calls for the candied scorpions next. Those are easy. Pretty, sparkling sweets in golden sugar coffins. All the venom is in the tail. Katharine eats four sets of pincers and then calls for the venison stew with rosary peas.

She should have saved the stew for last. She cannot get around its poison. The rosary peas have seeped into everything. Every sliver of meat and drop of gravy.

Katharine's heart begins to pound. Somewhere in the ballroom, Genevieve is cursing her for a fool. But there is nothing to be done. She has to take a bite, and even lick her fingers. She sips the tainted juice and then cleanses her palate with cold, clear water. Her head begins to ache, and her vision changes as her pupils dilate.

She does not have long before she sickens. Before she fails. She feels the weight of so many eyes. And the weight of their expectations. They demand that she finish. Their will is so strong that she can nearly hear it.

The pie of wild mushrooms is next, and she eats through it quickly. Her pulse is already uneven, but she is unsure whether that is from the poison or just nerves. The speed at which she eats does a good impression of enthusiasm, and the Arrons clap. They cheer her on. They make her careless, and she swallows more mushrooms than she intends. One of the last chunks tastes like a Russula, but that should not be. They are too dangerous. Her stomach seizes. The toxin is fast and violent.

“The berries.”

She pops two into her mouth and cheeks them and then reaches for tainted wine. Most of it she lets leak down her neck and onto the front of her gown, but it does not matter. The
Gave Noir
is over. She slams both hands down onto the table.

The poisoners roar.

“This is but a taste,” Natalia declares. “The
Gave Noir
for the Quickening will be something of legend.”

“Natalia, I need to go,” she says, and grasps Natalia's sleeve.

The crowd quiets. Natalia discreetly tugs loose.

“What?” she asks.

“I need to leave!” Katharine shouts, but it is too late.

Her stomach lurches. It happens so fast, there is no time even to turn away. She bends at the waist and vomits the contents of the
Gave
down onto the tablecloth.

“I will be all right,” she says, fighting the nausea. “I must be ill.”

Her stomach gurgles again. But even louder are the gasps of disgust. The rustling of gowns as the poisoners back away from the mess.

Katharine sees their scowls through eyes that are bloodshot and full of water. Her disgrace is reflected in every expression.

“Will someone please,” Katharine says, and gasps at the pain, “take me to my rooms.”

No one comes. Her knees strike hard against the marble floor. It is not an easy sickness. She is wet with sweat. The blood vessels have burst in her cheeks.

“Natalia,” she says. “I'm sorry.”

Natalia says nothing. All Katharine can see are Natalia's clenched fists, and the movement of her arms as she silently and furiously directs guests to leave the ballroom. Throughout the space, feet shuffle in a hurry to leave, to get as far from Katharine as they can. She sickens again and pulls on the tablecloth to cover herself.

The ballroom darkens. Servants begin to clear the tables as another twisting cramp tears through her small body.

Disgraced as she is, not even they will move to help her.

C
amden is stalking a mouse through the snow. A little brown mouse has found itself in the middle of a clearing, and no matter how quickly it skitters across the surface, Camden's large paws cover more ground, even when she's sunk up to her knees.

Jules watches the macabre game with amusement. The mouse is terrified but determined. And Camden looms over it, as excited as if it were a deer or a large chunk of lamb instead of less than a mouthful. Camden is a mountain cat, and at three years old, has reached her full, massive size. She is a far cry from the milky-eyed cub who followed Jules home from the woods, young enough then to still have her spots, and with more fuzz than fur. Now, she is sleek and honey gold, and the only black left is on her points: ears, toes, and the tip of her tail.

Snow flies in twin shoots from her paws as she pounces, and the mouse scurries faster for the cover of the bare brush.
Despite their familiar-bond, Jules does not know whether the mouse will be spared or eaten. Either way she hopes that it is over soon. The poor mouse still has a long way to run before it reaches cover, and the chase has begun to look like torture.

“Jules. This isn't working.”

Queen Arsinoe stands in the center of the clearing, dressed all in black as the queens do, looking like an inkblot in the snow. She has been trying to bloom a rose from a rosebud, but in the palm of her hand, the bud remains green, and firmly closed.

“Pray,” Jules says.

They have sung this same song a thousand times over the years. And Jules knows what comes next.

Arsinoe holds out her hand.

“Why don't you help?”

To Jules, the rosebud looks like energy and possibilities. She can smell every drop of perfume tucked away inside. She knows what shade of red it will be.

Such a task should be easy for any naturalist. It should be especially easy for a queen. Arsinoe ought to be able to bloom entire bushes and ripen whole fields. But her gift has not come. Because of that weakness, no one expects Arsinoe to survive the Ascension Year. But Jules will not give up. Not even if it is the queens' sixteenth birthday, and Beltane is in four months' time, falling like a shadow.

Arsinoe wiggles her fingers, and the bud rolls from side to side.

“Just a little push,” she says. “To get me started.”

Jules sighs. She is tempted to say no. She should say no. But the unbloomed bud is like an itch that needs scratching. The poor thing is dead, anyway, cut off from its parent plant in the hothouse. She cannot let it wither and wrinkle still green.

“Focus,” she says. “Join me.”

“Mm-hmm.” Arsinoe nods.

It does not take much. Hardly a thought. A whisper. The rosebud pops like a bean skin in hot oil, and a fat, fancy-petaled red rose uncurls in Arsinoe's hand. It is bright as blood, and smells of summer.

“Done,” Arsinoe declares, and sets the rose on top of the snow. “And not bad, either. I think I did most of those petals at the center.”

“Let's do another,” says Jules, fairly certain that she did it all. Perhaps they should try something else. She heard starlings while on the path up from the house. They could call them until they filled the bare branches around the clearing. Thousands of them, until not a single starling remained anywhere else in Wolf Spring, and the trees seethed with black, speckled bodies.

Arsinoe's snowball hits Camden in the face, but Jules feels it as well: the surprise and a flicker of irritation as the cat shakes the flakes from her fur. The second ball hits Jules on the shoulder, just high enough for the exploding snow to find its way into the warm neck of her coat. Arsinoe laughs.

“You are such a child!” Jules shouts angrily, and Camden snarls and jumps.

Arsinoe barely dodges the attack. She covers her face with her arm and ducks, and the cougar's claws sail over her back.

“Arsinoe!”

Camden backs off and slinks away, ashamed. But it is not her fault. She feels what Jules feels. Her actions are Jules's actions.

Jules rushes to the queen and inspects her quickly. There is no blood. No claw marks or tears in Arsinoe's coat.

“I'm sorry!”

“It's all right, Jules.” Arsinoe rests a steadying hand on Jules's forearm, but her fingers tremble. “It was nothing. How many times did we push each other out of trees as children?”

“That is not the same. Those were games.” Jules looks at her cougar regretfully. “Cam is not a cub anymore. Her claws and teeth are sharp, and fast. I have to be more careful from now on. I will be.” Her eyes widen. “Is that blood on your ear?”

Arsinoe takes off her black cap and pulls back her short, shaggy black hair. “No. See? She didn't come close. I know you would never hurt me, Jules. Neither of you.”

She holds her hand out, and Cam slides under it. Her big, deep purr is the cougar's apology.

“I really didn't mean to,” says Jules.

“I know. We are all under strain. Don't think on it.” Arsinoe slips her black cap back on. “And don't tell Grandma Cait. She has enough to worry about.”

Jules nods. She does not need to tell Grandma Cait to know what she would say. Or to imagine the disappointment and worry on her face.

After leaving the clearing, Jules and Arsinoe walk down past the docks, through the square toward the winter market. As they pass the cove, Jules raises her arm to Shad Millner standing in the back of his boat, just returned from a run. He nods hello and shows off a fat brown sole. His familiar, a seagull, flaps its wings with pride, though she doubts that the bird was the one who caught the fish.

“I hope I don't get one of those,” Arsinoe says, and nods at the gull. This morning, she called for her familiar. Like she has every morning since leaving the Black Cottage as a child. But nothing has come.

They continue through the square, Arsinoe kicking through slush puddles and Camden lollygagging behind, unhappy about leaving the powdery wild for the cold stone town. Winter ugliness holds Wolf Spring in a firm grip. Months of freezing and partial thaws have coated the cobblestones with grit. Fog covers the windows, and the snow is mottled brown after being walked through by so many mud-covered feet. With the clouds hanging heavy overhead, the entirety of the town looks as though it is being viewed through a dirty glass.

“Take care,” Jules mutters as they pass Martinson Sisters' Grocery. She nods toward empty fruit crates. Three troublesome children are ducked down behind them. One is Polly Nichols, wearing her father's old tweed cap. The two boys she does not know. But she knows what they are up to.

They each have a rock in their hands.

Camden comes to Jules's side and growls loudly. The
children hear. They look at Jules and duck lower. The two boys cower, but Polly Nichols narrows her eyes. She has done one naughty thing for every freckle on her face, and even her mother knows it.

“Do not throw that, Polly,” Arsinoe orders, but that seems to make it worse. Polly's little lips draw together so tightly that they disappear. She jumps from behind the crates and throws the rock hard. Arsinoe blocks it with her palm, but the stone manages to skip off and strike the side of her head.

“Ow!”

Arsinoe presses her hand to the spot where the stone struck. Jules clenches her fists and sends Camden snarling after the children, determined to plant Polly Nichols onto the cobblestones.

“I'm fine, call her back,” Arsinoe says. She wipes the line of blood away as it runs down to her jaw. “Little scamps.”

“Scamps? They are brats!” Jules hisses. “They should be whipped! Let Cam tear up Polly's ridiculous hat, at least!”

But Jules calls Camden, and the cat stops at the street corner and hisses.

“Juillenne Milone!”

Jules and Arsinoe turn. It is Luke, owner and operator of Gillespie's Bookshop, looking smart in a brown jacket, his yellow hair combed back from his handsome face.

“Small of stature but large of lion,” he says, and laughs. “Come inside for tea.”

As they enter the shop, Jules stretches up on her toes to quiet
the brass bell above the door. She follows Luke and Arsinoe past the tall, blue-green bookshelves and up the stairs to the landing, where a table is set with sandwiches and a tray of buttery yellow cake slices.

“Sit,” Luke says, and goes to the kitchen for a teapot.

“How did you know we were coming?” Arsinoe asks.

“I have a good view of the hill. Mind the feathers. Hank's molting.”

Hank is Luke's familiar, a handsome black-and-green rooster. Arsinoe blows a feather off the table and reaches for a plate of small muffins. She picks one up and peers at it.

“Are those shiny black bits legs?” Jules asks her.

“And shells,” Arsinoe says. Beetle muffins, to help Hank grow new feathers. “Birds,” she remarks, and sets the muffin down.

“You used to want a crow, like Eva,” Jules reminds her.

Eva is Jules's grandma Cait's familiar. A large, beautiful black crow. Jules's mother, Madrigal, has a crow as well. Her name is Aria. She is a more delicately boned bird than Eva, and more ill-tempered, much like Madrigal herself. For a long time, Jules thought she would have a crow too. She used to watch the nests, waiting for a fuzzy black chick to fall into her cupped hands. Secretly, though, she had wished for a dog, like her granddad Ellis's white spaniel, Jake. Or her aunt Caragh's pretty chocolate hound. Now, of course, she would not trade Camden for anything.

“I think I would like a fast jackrabbit,” Arsinoe says. “Or a
clever, black-masked raccoon to help me steal fried clams from Madge.”

“You will have something far more grand than a rabbit or a raccoon,” Luke says. “You're a queen.”

He and Arsinoe glance at Camden, so tall that her head and shoulders are visible over the tabletop. Queen's familiar or not, nothing could be more grand than a mountain cat.

“Perhaps a wolf, like Queen Bernadine,” Luke says. He pours tea for Jules and adds cream and four lumps of sugar. Tea for a child, the way she likes it best but is not allowed to drink at home.

“Another wolf in Wolf Spring,” Arsinoe muses around a mouthful of cake. “At this rate, I'd be happy to have . . . one of the beetles in Hank's muffins.”

“Don't be pessimistic. My own father did not get his until he was twenty.”

“Luke,” Arsinoe says, and laughs. “Giftless queens don't live until they're twenty.”

She reaches across the table for a sandwich.

“Maybe that is why my familiar hasn't bothered,” she says. “It knows I will be dead, anyway, in a year. Oh!”

She has dripped blood onto her plate. Polly's thrown rock left a cut, hidden in her hair. Another drop falls onto Luke's fancy tablecloth. Hank hops up and pecks at it.

“I had better go clean this up,” Arsinoe says. “I'm sorry, Luke. I'll replace it.”

“Do not think of it,” Luke reassures her as she goes to the
bathroom. He puts his chin in his hands sadly. “She'll be the one crowned at next spring's Beltane, Jules. You just wait and see.”

Jules stares into her tea, so full of cream that it is almost white.

“We have to get through
this
spring's Beltane first,” she says.

Luke only smiles. He is so sure. But in the last three generations, stronger naturalist queens than Arsinoe have still been killed. The Arrons are too powerful. Their poison always gets through. And even if it does not, they have Mirabella to contend with. Every ship that sails to the northeast of the island returns telling tales of the fierce Shannon Storms besieging the city of Rolanth, where the elementals make their home.

“You only hope, you know,” Jules says. “Like I do. Because you don't want Arsinoe to die. Because you love her.”

“Of course I love her,” says Luke. “But I also believe. I believe that Arsinoe is the chosen queen.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know. Why else would the Goddess put a naturalist as strong as you here to protect her?”

Arsinoe's birthday celebration is held in the town square, beneath great black-and-white tents. Every year the tents heat up with food and too many bodies until the flaps have to be opened to allow the winter air in. Every year, most of the attendees are drunk before sundown.

As Arsinoe makes her way through, Jules and Camden follow closely. The mood is jovial, but it takes only a second for the whiskey to turn.

“It's been a long winter,” Jules hears someone say. “But the madness has been mild. It's a wonder more fishers haven't been lost on their boats, taken a gaff to the side of the head.”

Jules presses Arsinoe past the conversation. There are many people to see before they can sit down to their own food.

“These are very well done,” Arsinoe says, and leans down to sniff a vase holding a tall spray of wildflowers. The arrangement is layered with the pinks and purples of hedge nettles and showy orchis. It is as pretty as a wedding cake, early bloomed by the naturalist gift. Each family has brought their own, and most brought extra, to decorate the tables of the giftless.