The Crimson Crown, page 31
It must be undone.
Rhea wouldn’t have said that if she didn’t want me to bring her back. She wouldn’t have given me our marks, or protected me from the Nevenwolf, if she wished to remain beyond the Veil. Even so, Jacquetta’s words will not leave me alone.
The covens drained her.
Did they? I always assumed that Rhea wanted to be Second. She was so talented, a natural leader. Everything I’m not. But while tossing and turning between nightmares, I begin to wonder how much I truly knew my sister. Could Jacquetta be right?
You’re letting her get too close, that voice warns.
As the days drag on, I avoid the other witch as much as possible, our deal burned to ashes. I spend most of my time back at the library, slogging through useless texts. But there’s no point in attempting another visit to the archives. The pages from the Dwarvian records are gone, and I have no idea who might have stolen them. Was the theft recent? Did the person know what I was looking for? Are they watching me? The uncertainty sets my skin crawling, leaving me jumpy and irritable.
On the day of the banquet, the queen’s rooms are closed so that we can prepare our costumes. There’s little for me to do, seeing as Marion will be sending mine. Unable to stand the thought of another mind-numbing hour in the library, I pass the morning in bed. At some point, I hear Jacquetta leave. What will she do now that she’s evidently given up on the Bloodstones?
It doesn’t matter, that voice whispers. Forget her.
I’m trying, but I can’t seem to banish the lingering scent of juniper.
A knock shortly after four bells interrupts my sulking. Joan answers the door.
“Oh, thank you. Just put them there,” she says. Then, “Ayleth. Your gown arrived.”
Just what I need. With nothing better to do, I kick my way out of the bedclothes. Joan is already investigating one of the costumes, tossing a mouse’s mask unceremoniously on the floor.
“Poor Jacquetta.” She clicks her tongue, examining a swath of gray fabric. “Perhaps I can salvage it.”
“Don’t bother,” I advise. Jacquetta deserves to wear the hideous thing.
But Joan is already committed to the task, ripping what I take to be a tail off the dress. I lift the lid of the other box, expecting to discover a snake’s mask, as Marion promised. But the gown inside is a stunning arrangement of orange, red, and yellow silk, softer than any material I’ve ever touched. Bewildered, I lift it up. The bodice is studded with rubies, and the undersleeves are black, so that it appears as though the dress itself is flame rising from coals.
“That’s gorgeous!” Joan gasps. “Marion can’t have sent that.”
No, she couldn’t have. Was it the queen, taking pity on me? But it seems unlikely that Queen Sybil would have sent a gown for me and not one for Jacquetta too.
“A phoenix,” Joan determines, fussing with the folds. “I admit, it’s a bit unusual for the theme, but it is Longest Night.”
The gown is unusual. And wildly ostentatious. Everyone at the banquet will assume I chose it on purpose to stand out. Who had sent me this? And why?
Phoenixes burn, that voice inside me whispers.
And so do witches.
The Great Hall is encased in glass.
Huge panes line the sides of the room and form a domed ceiling overhead, a near-exact replica of the princess’s menagerie. The doors are thrown open, revealing what could be a scene from an enchanted winter forest. Columns are dressed as arching trees, brushed with a glittery powder that gives the impression of fresh-fallen snow. White and gold ribbons wind around frosted garlands. Candlelight dazzles on crystal goblets and shines on life-size ice sculptures of fawns, antlered stags, and other animals. A troupe of minstrels plays in a corner, the jubilant melodies of the lute and harps mingling with the courtiers’ already slightly drunken chatter. Their costumes are even more elaborate than the decorations. One woman wears a gown entirely comprised of feathers. Another is dressed as a peacock, with thousands of jewels sewn into her train.
“I told Mother I needed to visit the dressmaker,” Joan mumbles, fussing with her own costume, which is meant to be a swan—and it’s lovely. The cut is flattering, and the bodice is crisscrossed with ribbons, giving the illusion of feathers.
But despite Joan’s talent with a needle, her efforts are lackluster when compared to the others. Would that I could say the same. Just as I feared, my own gown is garnering far more attention than any costume Marion could have devised. Courtiers whisper as they pass us, their gazes lingering in a way that makes me wish I’d kept the mouse’s head that came with Jacquetta’s costume—at least then I’d have something to hide behind.
And where is Jacquetta now? She still hadn’t returned to the room by the time we left. Maybe she’s not coming, which is fine with me.
“Well.” A too-familiar figure emerges from the crowd. “Mistress Ayleth.”
Marion sails over with her cadre in tow. Her gown is a gleaming silver brocade, embellished with vine-like designs stitched in pearl thread. The sleeves and train are furred in white. A snouted mask with pointed ears covers the top of her forehead. I suspect she’s meant to be a snow wolf—a creature as beautiful as it is deadly.
“I must admit that I’m surprised at such cunning.” Marion’s gaze rakes over my dress. “A phoenix. It’s a bit brazen for my taste, but I suppose you would need something flashy—to distract from your other features.”
The ladies standing behind Marion smirk. A flush smears across my cheeks, one I scold myself for feeling. It doesn’t matter what Marion thinks of me. But her talent for digging just so under someone’s skin is as uncanny as it is despicable. Again, that deep part of me rises up, urging me to dig back. Wound her.
“And what features might you be concealing?” Joan inquires, feigning innocence.
Marion looks at the other woman as if surprised to find her there.
“Me? Why, none at all. I dressed to complement His Majesty—at his request.” Her dark gaze returns to mine, glittering with malice. “Enjoy the banquet. And good luck during the contest. I’m sure this court will judge you fairly.”
With that, she disappears into the crowd.
“Good riddance,” Joan mutters. “Dressed to complement His Majesty. Really. Her arrogance knows no bounds. If I—”
She stops short and motions behind me.
“Look!”
Joan points to another courtier near the front of the Great Hall. But no—not a courtier, I realize as the person turns so that I can see their face. It’s Jacquetta.
For a few moments, the noise of the crowd dulls. Joan worked wonders on Jacquetta’s gown. The gray color is striking against her olive complexion. The neckline scoops low enough to display the delicate ledges of Jacquetta’s collarbones. The sleeves drape gracefully over her arms, showing off her wrists. A pearl silk ribbon is woven through Jacquetta’s braided hair, and there’s a band of matching jewels along her forehead. The pale gems bring out the blue of her eyes, which widen slightly as they land on mine. My foolish heart stutters.
“Come on,” Joan says, tugging me through the crowd and toward Jacquetta.
“Oh,” I protest. “No, I should—”
But the rest falls away as we draw close. Joan circles Jacquetta, admiring her own work.
“You look beautiful,” she says. “It turned out better than I hoped.”
“You did this?” Jacquetta asks, brow creasing.
“Of course.” Joan adjusts a fold in Jacquetta’s skirt. “I couldn’t let you come wearing that awful thing Marion sent.”
She throws a dark look behind her, presumably in the courtier’s direction.
“I…thank you.” Jacquetta’s attention twitches to me. “Did Joan fix yours as well?”
We haven’t directly spoken since our argument, and I shift on my feet, unsure what to do with myself. “No. I don’t know where it came from.”
“Perhaps the queen,” Joan chimes in. “But she does look stunning, doesn’t she? The color really suits her.”
Joan nudges Jacquetta’s elbow, but Jacquetta only mutters unintelligibly before becoming fascinated with a nearby decoration.
You don’t care about her, that voice in my mind insists.
No. But then why is my pulse racing? Why can’t I stop noticing the exposed area of her chest, just before her skin disappears beneath her neckline?
The blast of a horn mercifully shatters the moment.
“Presenting His Majesty, Defender of the Light, King Callen!” a herald announces at the front of the room. “And Her Majesty, Queen Sybil.”
Applause swells at the royal couple’s entrance. The queen is dressed in white. Silk roses are sewn into her gown, and a pair of delicate antlers grace her headdress, suggesting that she’s a deer. But the king…
I suddenly understand what Marion meant when the courtier said she dressed to complement him. King Callen wears a black doublet littered with jet-colored gems. A snouted mask, similar to Marion’s, is pushed up to the king’s forehead. But this mask is not that of an ordinary wolf. Its eyes are set with crimson jewels. The Nevenwolf.
Dread winds between my bones in oily ribbons. As if pulled by some sinister force, the king’s gray gaze locks with mine. The place behind my left ribs shudders. The king dips his chin in greeting, and a horrible sensation blooms in my belly—that I am prey.
* * *
—
Dinner commences shortly after that. Dish after dish surfaces from the kitchens. Glazed turkeys and entire hens. Whole fish and meat pies and—as Duchess Poole promised—a cockentrice. The gilded half-pig, half-capon is paraded about on a golden platter to overwhelming applause. Its eyes have been plucked out, replaced with cherries—red and bulbous and wrong.
My appetite instantly dies, not that I had much of one to begin with, seeing as Jacquetta is sitting beside me. The air between us might as well be a wall of ice, but I refuse to be the one to break it. For her part, Jacquetta ignores her food. She drains her wineglass, though, and continually flags down the passing servants to request more. By her third cup, however, the boy pretends to stop hearing her and she pushes herself up, wobbling slightly as she chases after him. Concern winnows through my resentment. Is she attempting to drown herself in wine because of our argument? Or is there something else?
She’s not your problem, that voice admonishes.
And it’s right. Let Jacquetta drink herself into oblivion if that’s what she wants to do. I just hope she doesn’t expect me to help her back to our room later.
“Did something…happen between you two?” Joan asks carefully, pointing her fork in Jacquetta’s direction.
“What?” I ask, flustered. “No.”
“Are you sure? Because I’ve had conversations with rocks that said more than you two did just now. And I thought I heard voices out on the balcony a few nights ago.”
Damn. “We just…we had an argument.”
“I’m sorry.” Joan spears a quail egg. “You know, some people say I’m good at giving advice, if you want to talk.”
I should keep it to myself. But snippets of my exchange with Jacquetta flow back to me and, against my better judgment, I swallow a mouthful of wine. Luckily, there doesn’t seem to be any thornapple in it—this time.
“She thinks I’m someone I’m not,” I tell Joan, keeping my answer vague. “And she’s punishing me for things that aren’t my fault.”
Do you know what I felt? The words roll around my skull. Relief.
Did she mean that? Was she glad to walk away? I drown the questions in more wine.
“I am sorry, Ayleth.” Joan frowns. “But are you certain she’s punishing you? I don’t know Jacquetta well, but that doesn’t sound like her.”
I huff a laugh. “You don’t know her at all. And neither do I.”
“You wouldn’t be this upset about someone you didn’t know.” Joan slides me a look. “Or didn’t care about.”
“Jacquetta makes it impossible to care about her. She’s stubborn and insufferable and…” I run out of words and stab at a boiled potato.
Joan is quiet for a few moments. Another dish is carted into the hall—a towering pastry dessert fashioned to look like a blooming apple tree, with marchpane fruit dangling from the limbs. Amber-colored filling oozes like sap down the trunk.
“I met someone like that once,” Joan says, pitching her voice beneath the applause. “There—beside the flowers.”
She points her knife toward the other side of the room. Near a huge vase of white roses, a woman is seated beside several other members of the queen’s household. Like Joan, the woman wears a swan costume, though hers is much more elaborate. Her white gown is speckled with gems. A gauzy, winglike cape flutters from her shoulders.
“Lady Anora,” Joan says. “We dressed to match. Swans mate for life, you see.”
Understanding clicks into place, followed by surprise. They’re a couple. I look to Anora and back to Joan. “I’ve never even seen you two near each other.”
“And you won’t.” Sadness shines in Joan’s green eyes. “Such relationships were common before the war. Now two women together are close enough to a—well, you know.”
A coven. Rage kindles in my chest. “That’s not fair.”
“No,” she agrees. “But there’s little to do about it. I wanted you to know, though, in case you were feeling alone.”
“Feeling…” The purpose of Joan’s story registers. She thinks Jacquetta and I…
“We’re not!” I insist. “I mean—the two of us aren’t—we could never.”
Not anymore, anyway.
Joan laughs and holds up her hand. “It’s all right, Ayleth, I promise. I won’t say a thing.”
“But we really aren’t.”
She arches a skeptical eyebrow. “Well, whatever is between you, you deserve to be happy. We all do.”
What would make me happy? When I came to the White Court, I thought the answer was Rhea. I press my thumb into one of my sister’s marks. Is that still the case? Or do I crave something else? Someone else?
Close off your heart, that voice warns.
“Attention!”
Sir Weston’s booming voice rises above the laughter and clink of silver on plates. He clambers onto his chair, tapping that needle-like dining utensil against his wineglass. His doublet is rust-colored, and a pair of golden ears peeks out from his unkempt hair. A bushy tail—one that is probably real—swishes where it’s fixed to the back of his waist.
“As the Lord of Misrule, I declare that our contest must commence.”
The court cheers, and I drain the rest of my cup.
“In just a moment,” Sir Weston proceeds, “the men will begin circulating around the room, bestowing their favors upon the lady they deem fairest.”
“My favor cannot be so publicly bestowed,” someone shouts. The hall erupts into laughter and the pressure in my head increases.
“Then I suggest you keep the vile thing to yourself,” Sir Weston calls back in mock reprimand, earning a storm of hoots and gasps. “Ladies, I urge you to be your most charming and beguiling selves. For she who earns the most favors at the end of the night will be crowned fairest of them all—just like our goddess.”
Sir Weston snaps his fingers, and a servant hurries up, carting a box. He lifts the lid and extracts a crown. Candlelight catches on the jewels, and every muscle in my body stills. The stones are a deep red—the same color as our cloaks.
Bloodstones.
Are they real? Surely not. They’re likely the same useless replicas that I saw at the pageant in the city. But what if I’m wrong? There’s only one way to find out.
Sir Weston replaces the crown in its box. Music begins, fast and lively. Dancers form two rows down the hall, hopping and skipping to its tempo. Before Joan can ask any questions, I push back from the table and jostle my way through the room, avoiding men who try to examine my costume. The box that held the crown is sitting at the High Table. All I have to do is—
A figure steps into my path, and I’m met with a pair of glittering red eyes. The force behind my left ribs jolts.
“Mistress Ayleth,” the king says. “You must do me the honor of a dance.”
For a few panicked moments, the crowd blurs around us, as if it is only me and the king in the Great Hall. Just as at the card game, I sense that unsettling tether—Malum—pulling taut between us. It pulses faintly with a heartbeat that is not my own. Is it his?
“I can’t dance,” I say, praying the feeble excuse is enough to throw him off.
“You can shoot, you can rob everyone blind at Castles, but you cannot dance?” The teeth affixed to the snout of the king’s mask gleam white.
Damn everything. “I don’t—”
“One dance, Mistress,” the king insists, extending his hand. “Surely you can grant as much to your king.”
He is not my king. But this is not a request. And, like Joan said about my invitation to the High Table, I’ll draw far more attention by refusing.
A single dance, I tell myself. You can survive it.
Fighting the sense that I’m a rabbit caught in a snare, I allow the king to lead me among the other dancers. My skin crawls at the brush of their whispers and envious glances. The music changes, becoming slow and sinuous.
“Like this,” the king says, moving behind me.
His hands rest on either side of my waist and I close my eyes against the sensation of that tether shortening, like it had in the forest with the Nevenwolf—dragging me toward the Veil.
I watch the other couples, trying to distract myself in finding a pattern to the steps. It doesn’t help. The women are always reaching in the opposite direction of their partners, always leaning out of an embrace—relentlessly pursued. Possessed. Controlled.
