The Crimson Crown, page 15
And food is the least of my worries. This morning was a nightmare. We were roused at sunrise and practically dunked into washtubs. The water was warm, a small mercy, but I was scrubbed so thoroughly that I’m likely missing a layer of skin. After being flayed, we endured the horrendous experience of a gown fitting, a process that involved much fussing and pinching and some tortuous device called a corset—the main function of which I assume to be preventing women from properly breathing. Once we were unceremoniously strapped inside such contraptions, we moved on to etiquette, a practice I’m now convinced is the actual definition of insanity. Apparently, at the White Court, there is a correct manner of walking and sitting and even passing an object to another person. If that weren’t ludicrous enough, each rule evidently varies depending on the rank of the person with whom we’re interacting. How anyone keeps such details straight—or why anyone even cares about them—is utterly baffling.
“Now,” the duchess goes on, dragging me unhappily back to the lesson, “do you recall the utensil I showed you for dessert?”
“I thought it was this one.” I hold up a spoon.
“No.” The duchess laughs, high and condescending. “That utensil is for jellied dishes. You wouldn’t want to use it for anything else. That would be…”
“Ridiculous,” Jacquetta mutters.
I entirely agree.
“Precisely.” The duchess nods. “Now, try again.”
Sunlight glints against the polished cutlery. Each piece is slightly varied, some curved and others serrated. I can’t even begin to guess the purpose of a long, needle-like utensil sitting above my plate. Perhaps I might use it to gouge out my own eyes.
“This?” Jacquetta lifts a fork with three tines.
“Very good, Mistress. You’re a quick learner.” The duchess grants her a rare smile, one I find immensely irritating. Why is Jacquetta so much better at this than I am? “As I explained, there are many delicacies to be enjoyed at court. But you must both guard against over-consumption, especially where sweets are concerned. Above all, it is important that the queen’s maidens appear modest in all areas, even with food.”
I inwardly roll my eyes, immediately resolving to eat as much dessert as possible. Perhaps exclusively.
“Let us discuss your schedules.” The duchess plucks a piece of cheese from her plate. “The majority of your time will be spent in the queen’s rooms, or wherever else Her Majesty sees fit to send you. Queen Sybil is fond of the arts. Do you play any instruments?”
Some of the witches in Stonehaven were skilled with a lute, but I was too busy with Mother’s lessons to indulge in any creative pursuits. “No.”
“No, Your Grace,” she corrects, wrapping a strand of grape-sized pearls around her long fingers. “What of singing?”
I can’t carry a note to save my life. Jacquetta shakes her head as well, which is odd. I’ve heard her sing. She possesses a rather pleasant voice, in fact—low and resonant.
And she used it to lie, that other voice whispers.
“What a shame.” The duchess clicks her tongue, as if our lack of talent has personally let her down. “But no matter. Perhaps you could read aloud to the queen. And there’s plenty of sewing to be done—especially during this season. Her Majesty donates linens and shirts to the poor. I’m sure women of your station would enjoy such meaningful endeavors.”
Enjoy is a strong word. But I don’t care what chores we’re assigned. As soon as the fuss about our placement dies down, I plan to ignore these inane duties as much as possible and scour the palace for the Bloodstones.
“Since it is Longest Night, however,” the duchess goes on, “our days will often be interrupted by festivities. Jousts are popular, as well as banquets—whatever the Lord of Misrule organizes to honor our goddess. Sir Weston is quite the expert at inventing amusements. Like the pageant where you were…discovered.”
“We’re amusements?” The question surfaces before I can think better of it.
The duchess’s dark eyes snap to mine.
“You are being honored.” Her brocade skirts rustle as she rises, each step slow and deliberate as she crosses the room. “While I’m aware that this court owes you a great debt for your service to our High Priest, even you must understand that many women go to great lengths to secure a position within the queen’s household. It is a privilege.”
What she’s really saying is that we don’t belong here. We should be grateful for the scraps we’re thrown from her table. Anger, the same I felt with Mother, flickers behind my sternum. I clench my back teeth, tamping it down before I say something else I’ll regret.
“And who knows,” Duchess Poole goes on, fussing with her pearls again. “Perhaps the two of you might even attract the eye of a gentleman. A lesser noble, of course. One who won’t mind overlooking your…unique backgrounds.”
Those men would do well to keep their distance, which is exactly what I intend to do—especially when it comes to the king. My hand travels surreptitiously to my left side, fingertips brushing my rib cage through my bodice. I haven’t sensed the ominous feeling since my encounter with King Callen. Perhaps it really was my imagination, heightened by the anxiety of the night. Still, it can’t hurt to remain as far from the White King as possible.
“But I must warn you.” The duchess’s train whispers against the floor. The pomegranate-colored fabric is embroidered in gold thread, miniature swallows flitting among a design of flowers and branches. “Not every man at court is worthy. Do not be led astray by empty promises and flattering lies. Do you understand? It is up to you to protect yourselves when a man gets…carried away.”
“What are we supposed to do?” Jacquetta reaches for the mysterious, needle-like utensil. “Use this if someone gets too close?”
Duchess Poole gapes at her. “Absolutely not. This court does not condone violence.”
Except for the murder of witches.
“Just…remain with the rest of the maidens or ladies at all times. And do not stab anyone. With anything.” She swallows a mouthful of wine, presumably to fortify herself.
Jacquetta reluctantly replaces the utensil, not having promised a thing.
“Now.” The duchess smooths her bodice. “I’d like to see a demonstration of your dancing skills. You may use each other as a partner.”
“No!” Jacquetta and I answer at the same time.
I flush, an uninvited memory rushing up—Jacquetta and I spinning in the forest until we fell down, dizzy. Her body pressed against mine.
You taste like roses.
“Sisters aren’t permitted dancing,” I say, inventing the lie as a way to smother the image.
I may be forced to eat gilded pigs, but I will never be compelled to dance with Jacquetta. Judging from her icy silence, the other witch feels the same.
Any hope that our new uniforms will curb the court’s unceasing attention instantly dissipates the moment that Jacquetta and I step out of our room the next morning. The White Court evidently harbors the opinion that the two of us are living dolls or pets, brought to the palace for their own amusement. Gawks and condescending smiles follow us as we navigate the halls. Even the false goddess’s glittering Eyes seem to track our every step, like they know what we are—that we don’t belong here. The stiff fabric of my gown is too confining and I continually tug at my bodice, desperate for a real breath.
But nothing is real in this palace—it’s all like a manufactured dream. Wealth oozes from every crevice. It’s early winter, but vases teem with huge white roses. Jewels sparkle and silks shine in the light of the apple-shaped orbs dangling from marble tree branches. Women parade about in elaborate headdresses spun with what’s probably real gold. One wears what appears to be a red-tailed fox draped around her shoulders. We pass several card games, the tables piled carelessly with stacks of coin. Clusters of people—called courtiers, according to the duchess—are clumped in front of the arched, stained-glass windows. It’s morning, but the smell of wine mixes with that of the various cloying perfumes, making it even more difficult to breathe.
For her part, Jacquetta doesn’t seem affected by our surroundings, or even bothered by the attention thrown our way. She glides silently along beside me, her gaze fixed straight ahead. We haven’t directly spoken since the night of the pageant. No matter how fiercely I command myself to focus on my own plans—or lack thereof—my traitorous mind keeps drifting back to her. Why is she here? The question refuses to be squashed, along with another—Where has she been? And, most uncomfortably, Why didn’t she come that night?
Pointless though it is, I find myself sifting through the years Jacquetta and I spent together at Stonehaven. There aren’t many. Jacquetta was young when the Hunt raided her first coven. After that, she and her mother, Nerissa, wandered the realm alone. According to what they told us, it took them years to find Stonehaven. I first spoke to Jacquetta in the library, after I discovered her tucked away in a corner, absorbed in my favorite novel. Maps were her real passion, though, and we’d lose hours tracing the boundaries of Riven or the other realms, inventing stories about what life might be like in different parts of the world. When we weren’t buried in our books, I taught Jacquetta a few tricks from my arsenal of pranks. She was especially talented in trapping toads, which we slid into other witches’ boots. I liked that about her—that she preferred to spend the day in the forest rather than in lessons. Like me.
She wasn’t like you, though, that voice reminds me.
No—not in the end. And now I wonder how much of our time together was a total fabrication. Did Jacquetta ever care about me at all? Or was I just a distraction, like what she said to the other witch?
Jacquetta notices me looking at her. “What?”
“Nothing.”
And it is nothing. We’re different witches now. The Jacquetta from Stonehaven is gone. And the witch I was died in the clearing, like that barren tree where we’d carved our initials. A question unspools in my mind: Were we the ones who killed it? Our initials, carved together into its bark, were poison.
Even the forest knew we were cursed.
* * *
—
The low current of chatter dies as soon as we enter the queen’s chambers. A dozen faces swivel in our direction and a wave of cold washes over me, like when I broke out of the wards at Stonehaven. This situation, however, is far more perilous.
They’ll see right through you, that voice promises.
“Ah, here you are.” Duchess Poole bustles over. She circles us, inspecting our uniforms. “You look…acceptable.”
Judging from my previous interactions with the duchess, I assume that such is the highest compliment we’ll ever receive from her.
“Come,” she beckons. “We don’t keep the queen waiting.”
Rustling skirts and raised eyebrows greet us as we pass through a set of double doors and into the next room. I do my best to ignore the sidelong stares, concentrating instead on the surroundings to distract myself. Like the rest of the palace, the queen’s suite is extravagantly furnished. The crowned pomegranate, the same symbol embroidered on the front of our gowns, is molded into the eaves and patterned into the thick rugs. Colors of pomegranate and gold are reflected in cushions and chairs and drapes. Tall windows grant a view of the palace’s manicured gardens, the steely winter sky streaked with thin clouds.
Rich tapestries and gilt-framed paintings crowd the walls, but I’m surprised to find that they don’t portray scenes from the Order’s lore—or even Riven’s history. Instead, these works depict women, and not the typical mortal women I’ve come to expect. Rather than wearing ornate gowns or gaudy jewels, these women are dressed in armor. One is even brandishing a sword as she charges toward enemies on horseback, her mouth screaming a battle cry. Such scenes remind me more of the stories of the Ancients than any episode in mortal history. Why had the queen chosen to display them?
There’s no time to puzzle it out as the duchess herds us into the innermost room of the suite. “Your Majesty. I present your additional maidens.”
Duchess Poole sinks into a curtsy, watching us askance to make sure we’re following suit. Queen Sibyl smiles at us from where she’s seated in front of an enormous stained-glass window, a stunning rendering of an apple tree in full bloom. Pomegranates are scattered at the base of the tree, sparkling in the sunlight. Like the duchess, the queen is a middle-aged woman, perhaps even a bit older than the king. Where most courtiers clearly pride themselves on their appearance, the queen is refreshingly…ordinary. Instead of being piled into an ornate, and doubtless painful, arrangement, her waist-length, dark hair is loosely braided and threaded with jeweled pomegranates. Her white skin is etched faintly with fine lines, especially around her eyes and mouth. But the queen does not disguise the signs of age with powder or paint. In fact, the only real indication of this woman’s status is the crown of intricately woven white-gold branches resting on her head. Tiny garnet apples glimmer among the metalwork like drops of freshly shed blood.
“Mistresses Ayleth and Jacquetta, if I’m not mistaken. Of the Order.” The queen sets her embroidery on her lap. It’s a raven stitched in black thread. Like the paintings, I find the pattern another surprising choice, given a raven’s association with witches. “I’m so pleased to have you both joining us, Mistress Ayleth in particular. I learned of your recent service to the High Priest. We are very grateful to you.”
“It was nothing,” I reply automatically.
“Nonsense. Such bravery indicates strong character. We should all—”
A series of high, yipping barks interrupts the queen, followed by the frantic patter of tiny feet. Ladies yelp and leap from their seats, yanking their skirts out of the way as a blur of brown fur carves a haphazard path through the chamber.
“By the Light, what is this?” the queen asks.
She gets her answer when an animal careens between us, still yipping.
“It’s a…dog!” Duchess Poole cries out, barely managing to dodge as the creature zooms around her skirts.
“Where did it—”
“Oh, here you are! Naughty thing.”
Another woman emerges from the cluster of babbling ladies and promptly scoops the dog into her arms. Immediately, I recognize the raven hair and stunning features as belonging to the player who represented the false goddess in the pageant. The woman who vehemently protested our placement with the queen.
“Lady Marion.” The queen’s tone is kind, but I catch the hint of an edge beneath. “As you are aware, pets are welcome in my chambers, but they must be well behaved.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty.” Lady Marion bobs a curtsy. The dog growls, its little ears laid flat. “I’m afraid I’ve not yet had the opportunity to train him. He’s a recent gift, for Longest Night, you see. From a very dear friend.”
So quick I almost miss it, a muscle in the queen’s jaw twinges. “Indeed. Well, please make sure the dog—”
“Fitz, Your Majesty.” Marion scratches between the dog’s ears. “I’ve named him Fitz.”
Startled gasps ricochet around the chamber. The queen’s face shades momentarily paler. Why would a dog cause such a reaction? Marion, it seems, understands what she’s done, her sharp-toothed smile widening as she coos at her dog.
“A generous gift,” the queen says at last, regaining her composure as she settles herself back on her seat. “Though I would encourage you to take him to the kennel master for training as soon as possible. The dog clearly has a penchant for running off. I wouldn’t want you to lose such a valuable gift.”
The words are spoken innocently enough, but tension hums like a plucked cord. Marion adjusts the egg-shaped sapphire at her throat.
“Thank you for that advice, Your Majesty. And speaking of animals…” Her attention pivots to us. “Our guests should be sure to visit the princess and her menagerie during their stay at the palace.”
Menagerie. I vaguely recall Marion mentioning that word before, at the pageant, but I still don’t know what it means. I’d bet my life that it’s nothing good, especially given that several ladies near Marion fail at holding back their laughter.
The queen, however, brightens. “What an excellent suggestion. Blodwyn would greatly benefit from the acquaintance of such unspoiled maidens.”
Marion’s eyes glitter, but she sweeps another curtsy and melts away, her growling dog struggling to free himself from her grasp. As the room returns to normalcy, the queen turns her attention back to Jacquetta and me.
“For now, I’ll allow the two of you to acquaint yourselves with the rest of my retinue.” She indicates the other women. “I’m certain that everyone is eager to make you feel welcome.”
Welcoming is not a word I would ascribe to this viper’s pit, especially not after the exchange I just witnessed. But Duchess Poole signals for us to curtsy again, then steers us back into the main chamber. Embroidery needles pause mid-stitch and books thump closed as we stand at the threshold. My nerves hum. I glance at the doors to the suite. They’re not far. If I run, would they chase me? Probably not. I could just—
“Are you the new ladies?” Someone steps into my path, a woman with dark-brown skin and freckles smattered across her nose. “From the Order?”
“Who else would they be?” Another woman interrupts, her white cheeks heavily rouged. “Aren’t they adorable in their little uniforms?”
It’s the same uniform everyone else is wearing, but the women begin to circle around us, murmuring about our clothes and our hair and how wonderfully odd it is that we’re here. Jacquetta appears as uncomfortable as I am, constantly edging away from the onslaught of attention. But no matter where we turn, we’re immediately boxed in by more ladies.
