The Crimson Crown, page 14
As the curtains whoosh open, I’m frozen to the spot. There are fewer people here than in the White City, but this is infinitely worse. Dozens of eyes stare back at me, their attention pinning me down like I’m a specimen on a board.
Focus, that voice commands. Find a way out.
I shake myself out of my stupor and latch on to the task. Master Foulton begins narrating the pageant—the same lies I heard in the White City. And as the players move about the stage, acting out the so-called history, I stay out of their way, scanning the set.
The main focal point is the apple tree that Master Foulton had been bemoaning. I can see why it would topple over. The thing is massive, far larger than any typical apple tree would be. The branches are bedecked with jeweled leaves and fruit, rendering them too heavy to be properly supported by the flimsy-looking material comprising the trunk. Whoever mended the tree attached a few of its limbs to the wall, but they’d done a hasty job—one branch has already broken free of its bindings. A thought glimmers in my mind. The tree is large enough that it could prove a suitable hiding place. I could stay there until the pageant finishes and then—
A shape blurs by in my peripheral vision, little more than a flash of red, which vanishes behind the apple tree. What was that? And where had it gone? Unless…
Could there be a door back there? Is that my way out?
The audience roars with laughter at something Master Foulton says. I use the distraction to edge closer to the apple tree. Sure enough, there’s a gap between the tree and the wall, one wide enough for someone to walk through—like whomever I just saw a moment ago. Keeping one eye on the performance, I creep behind the trunk. There is a door back here. It’s only about as high as my shoulder, which is odd, but it’s a way out and I’m going to take it. As for what I’ll do next…
“What are you doing?”
I freeze, anticipating the Sanctress or a palace official. It’s Jacquetta—of course it is.
“Go away,” I whisper, shooing her off.
Her eyebrows jerk up as she registers the door. “Is that unlocked?”
“I’m trying to find out. And stop talking—they’ll hear us.”
Jacquetta scowls, then gestures impatiently for me to try the door. The last thing I want is to bring her with me, but I suppose there’s nothing for it. Besides, just because we leave together doesn’t mean we have to stay together. I twist the door’s handle, eager to leave this place behind, but it sticks. Damn. I turn it harder, pressing my weight against the wood. Nothing.
“Let me,” Jacquetta whispers.
“There’s no room.”
She maneuvers herself into the narrow space anyway. The smell of juniper tickles my nose. Jacquetta extracts a pin from her hair and shoves it into the lock, then wriggles it back and forth. Where did she learn to do that? Evidently, she didn’t learn very well, because nothing happens.
“Why isn’t it working?” She jiggles the handle, frustrated.
“Maybe the lock is too complicated.”
“It shouldn’t matter. The pick is enchanted.”
She’s using magic again after what happened last time? “You’re going to get us caught.”
“No, I’m not.” She wriggles the pick harder. Too hard. There’s a brittle snap and then part of it falls to the floor. “Shit.”
She tosses the rest away, mumbling more curses.
“Don’t just leave it,” I scold her. “Someone could find it.”
I bend to collect the slender pieces of metal, which I assume are runed. Spirits help us if anyone recognizes those markings. But as I root around, Jacquetta bumps against me and I stumble, tripping over the hem of my impractical costume. I flail about for something to catch myself and wind up tumbling backward—directly into the giant tree.
The massive prop groans as it pitches forward, the poorly secured limbs snapping free of their bindings. Flimsy branches smash against the stage and glass pops as the ruby-like apples shatter. Screams echo against the high ceiling and the stage rumbles with the cadence of fleeing feet. I watch in horror as several players barrel headlong into other props, which promptly careen to the ground. By the time everything settles, most of the set is completely destroyed and the only two players left standing—in full view of the audience—are Jacquetta and me.
“What is the meaning of this?” Master Foulton is the first to break the thick silence, brandishing his cane like a weapon as he picks his way through the debris.
My heartbeat thuds against my eardrums. “I—”
“Girls.” The Sanctress blusters over. “I warned you. Your Majesty, I am so sorry.”
She curtsies low, her gray robes billowing around her.
Majesty?
In all the commotion, it hadn’t occurred to me that the king would attend the pageant. I scan the crowd, searching for a monster wearing a crown. Instead, a player dressed in orange robes pushes himself to his feet near the front of the stage. He tugs his hood down, revealing a pair of quicksilver eyes. Recognition flashes cold in my veins. This is the man from earlier—
He is the king.
Time itself seems to slow as the man’s—the king’s—gaze finds mine. Instantly, that feeling starts again—something stirring behind my left ribs. There’s no denying it exists now. I may not fully understand what it means, but I know that it is dark and sinister and wrong. Instincts crash together in my mind—run, hide, do something. But I can scarcely breathe.
A slow clap interrupts the moment. A man with dark-brown skin and a roguish slash of a smile climbs onto an upturned prop. “That was the most memorable Longest Night pageant I’ve seen in years. Well done, Foulton.”
“No one solicited your opinion, Sir Weston,” a woman counters.
Judging from her costume—a blue gown littered with jewels—I assume she represents the false goddess. The king offers her his hand to help her to her feet. Even after her fall, the woman’s raven-feather hair is swept elegantly over one shoulder, and her light-brown skin is luminous, like she bathed in crushed pearls. Given what I’ve experienced of the wealth of this court, she probably did.
“But I am the Lord of Misrule, my good Lady Marion.” The man, Sir Weston, feigns being wounded. “My opinion is always solicited during Longest Night.”
He winks and the audience laughs. The king, however, does not join them. Instead, his attention returns to me. Yet again, something nudges against the inner side of my left ribs, more insistent now. I grit my teeth against it, willing the sensation away.
“Mistress Ayleth,” the king says. “We meet again.”
Dread pools in my belly. I wish we’d never met at all.
“Did you say Mistress Ayleth, Sire?”
Courtiers trace the sign of the Eye over their chests as a set of flame-colored robes cuts through the crowd—the High Priest. By the Spirits, this night just keeps getting worse.
“This is the Follower I was telling you about.” The ruby Eye pendant glimmers on its chain. “The Order Sister who intervened during the accident with the statue.”
I cut a scathing glance at Jacquetta and think I might detect the hint of a flush creeping up her cheeks. Good. I hope she feels guilty. This is her fault.
“Well, it certainly seems the lady has a penchant for attracting falling objects.” Sir Weston gestures at the disaster of the tree, earning another round of laughter.
I shift on my feet, hating this.
“Is that so, Perseverance?” The king brushes one finger lightly against my sash. Even that indirect contact causes the pressure behind my left ribs to build and expand, like something straining to break free. What is it?
“I’ll return them to the Sanctum at once,” the Sanctress announces, sinking into another curtsy. “Again, I cannot apologize enough for—”
“For providing the best entertainment I’ve seen all season? Nonsense.” Sir Weston snatches up a wineglass. Burgundy liquid sloshes over the rim. “In fact, given that this Ayleth saved our esteemed High Priest from certain peril, I say she should be rewarded. Let her stay as maiden in the queen’s household.”
I don’t know what it means to be part of the queen’s household, but I can tell from the audience’s reaction that it’s the last thing I should do. They gasp and clap, gobbling up this proposal like it’s one of their tarts. A few exclaim at what a wonderfully absurd idea it is. Everyone, that is, except Lady Marion.
“Absolutely not,” she says flatly. “The queen’s service is an honor, not an extension of the princess’s menagerie.”
Sir Weston gestures in my direction. “And does she not deserve to be honored? She saved the life of our High Priest, the representative of Meira.”
Why did I have to do that?
“The queen isn’t even present tonight,” Lady Marion argues. “Shouldn’t it be Her Majesty’s decision?”
“This is Longest Night, is it not? A time for the world to turn upside down. When even kings and queens must dance to the beat of someone else’s drum. My drum.” Sir Weston seizes the crown from the player who represented Braxos and places it on his own head.
Several people cheer. This situation is spinning out of my control, and I resent the fact that I’m being spoken about like I’m an object and not a person. Like my voice doesn’t matter. It’s exactly the way Mother treats me. Rage climbs up my throat and my next words tumble out before I can reel them back.
“Shouldn’t it be my decision?”
The attention of the audience lands on me like an iron weight. Damn my impulsive tongue. The king steps even closer, near enough now that I can smell him—wine and smoke and the deepest, most dangerous part of the forest. That unnerving feeling behind my ribs intensifies with each of my shallow breaths.
“And what do you say, Mistress?”
I say I want to run and never look back. This was a mad, reckless plan and I have no hope of succeeding. But I clench my fists against the marks on my palms—Rhea’s marks—and can hear my sister’s voice in my mind.
You have to be strong now.
Strong enough to get the Bloodstones anyway. And then I’ll have her back. Much as I detest the idea of remaining among these awful people, I know I’ll never get this chance again.
“I’ll stay,” I say, hardly feeling the words leave my lips.
The king smiles, wolfish. “Excellent.”
“Your Majesty.” The Sanctress’s voice cuts cautiously between us. “I beg you to consider—Ayleth belongs to the Order of Light. It would be improper for her to remain alone at the palace.”
“Surely you do not question the integrity of my court, Sanctress?”
A beat of silence passes. She blanches. “No, of course not. I only—”
“I’ll stay with her.”
My attention whips around. Jacquetta. By the Spirits.
Absolutely not, I scream at her with my eyes. She ignores me.
“There you have it.” Sir Weston snaps his fingers. “It’s settled. They’ll both stay.”
Both of us. Here at the White Court, hiding among those who will burn us if they discover what we are. And Jacquetta has already demonstrated how careless she intends to be with her power. As if she can sense my thoughts, Jacquetta finally looks at me. An impish smile tugs at her lips.
I hate her even more.
After a stern—and infuriating—lecture from the Sanctress regarding our decorum while we’re in the queen’s service, Jacquetta and I are escorted to the area of the palace where the queen’s maidens reside. Our room—because of course we have to share—is small, but infinitely nicer than the one in the Sanctum. Flames crackle in the fireplace, filling the chamber with pleasant warmth. There are four beds, two on opposing walls, each dressed with thick counterpanes and expensive-looking fabric. Small wooden chests rest at the foot of each one. Curtains shield the tall windows, patterned not with the sigil of the crowned apple, but with a crowned pomegranate instead. It must be the queen’s symbol.
“Someone will be along shortly with nightclothes,” the maid who guided us here explains. She, like everyone else, hasn’t stopped ogling us since we left the pageant. “And your things will be sent up as soon as they arrive from the Sanctum.”
After another few moments, in which she clearly expects us to say something, the girl reluctantly slips out. As soon as she’s gone, Jacquetta heads for the nearest trunk and starts rifling through its contents.
“What are you doing?”
She pulls out a book and flips through it. “What does it look like? I’m getting acquainted with our new roommates. They’ll do the same to us.”
“Yes, and what will they find?” I jerk my chin at the door. “She said they were bringing our things from the Sanctum. What if they search yours?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“No, you couldn’t.” I cross my arms. I’d had the common sense to leave anything related to our craft at Stonehaven. “I don’t have any lockpicks or whatever else you brought.”
Jacquetta tosses the book back into the trunk, maddeningly unperturbed. “I don’t see why you’re still fixated on that. No one would have recognized it.”
Does she think I’m daft? Maybe she does. After all, I believed her lies easily enough before.
But not again, that voice whispers.
“That pick had to have been runed. I saw you with the High Priest. You’re a Caster.”
She digs out a hand mirror, considering her reflection in the glass. “Am I?”
I should have used the baneweed on her when I’d had the chance.
“What are you even doing here? Have you come to take another shot at the High Priest? Don’t expect me to rescue you this time.”
Jacquetta lowers the mirror and looks at me. The blue of her eyes is touched with gold from the firelight, and I despise myself for the tiny thrill that runs through my blood.
“We might be stuck here together, but that doesn’t mean I owe you answers—or anything else, for that matter. Let’s just stay out of each other’s way, shall we?”
Yet again, her dismissal stings far more than it should. Jacquetta wants it to hurt—I can see it in the twist of her lips. But I won’t let her watch me bleed again. I lift my chin, matching her stony expression.
“I’d like nothing more.”
“Good. Then—”
The door opens and someone else walks in. Jacquetta drops the mirror back into the trunk, but she’s not fast enough to avoid being caught.
“Oh,” a young woman says, her brow furrowing as she registers Jacquetta and the trunk. She’s a little person, with bright-green eyes and auburn hair braided into an intricate arrangement on top of her head. “I’m afraid those are my belongings.”
“Sorry, I…”
Jacquetta scrambles away, tugging on her wide sleeves—a nervous habit I’d forgotten she possessed. A highly satisfying flush climbs up her neck. Serves her right.
“No harm done, I’m sure.” The young woman smiles, far more gracious than I would be. “I don’t blame you for being curious. I’m Joan.”
“Ayl—” I start.
“Ayleth, yes.” Joan laughs, setting her armful of linens that I assume to be our nightclothes on one of the beds. “And Jacquetta. The whole court is buzzing about you both.”
Wonderful.
“Those beds are free.” She indicates the two on the other side of the room, which are—predictably—next to each other. I suppress a groan.
“Are you all right?” Joan goes on. “That tree might have flattened you.”
At this point, I would hugely prefer if it had.
“I’m fine,” I say, though my head is pounding. The torturous headdress isn’t helping, and I try to wrestle myself free of it.
“Here, let me.” Joan crosses the room. Her fingers deftly loosen the fastenings. “I’m so glad they placed the two of you in here. Please do come to me if you need anything—headdresses or otherwise. I’m sure we’ll be great friends.”
Jacquetta makes a face that says she’s sure we will not, then starts yanking at the laces of her costume. One sleeve slips down her arm, revealing the olive skin of her bare shoulder and the delicate ledge of her collarbone. Heat prickles in my cheeks and I can’t help but recall the incident earlier, when the man—the king—had been bothering me before the pageant. Jacquetta had reached for me, like she wanted to…
A log collapses, sending sparks dancing up the chimney.
Don’t let her in, that voice warns.
I know full well what will happen if I fail to listen.
* * *
—
“No—not that one,” Duchess Poole corrects in a syrupy tone the next day. “Try again.”
Metal clacks as I set the fork back down. Duchess Poole, the queen’s Lady of Honor, doesn’t notice—or ignores—my frustration, smiling benignly at us from her perch on a silk-upholstered chair. She’s a tall, middle-aged woman, with a rich black complexion and a long, slender neck. A plate of cheeses and fruits waits on a table beside her. She has not offered us any of it.
“This one?” Jacquetta selects a slender fork.
“Yes. That’s it.” Duchess Poole nods, approving. “A utensil designed specifically for picking between the delicate bones of fish. His Majesty is fond of elaborate dishes. You may even be lucky enough to sample cockentrice during your stay.”
My brow furrows. “What’s a cockentrice?”
“It’s His Majesty’s invention,” the duchess explains. Jewels sparkle in her elaborate crown of braids. “The upper half of a pig sewn onto the bottom of a capon. All roasted and gilded—with edible gold, of course.”
I stare at her, my stomach rolling at the unnatural image. Then again, I suppose I’m not surprised that the White King would conceive of something so macabre.
