The Crimson Crown, page 40
The morning of the queen’s funeral is gray and snowy.
Jacquetta and I spend our final hours in the suite combing over every detail of our plan, repeating it back to each other as we eat and dress and stuff our satchels.
“We go to the funeral as expected,” I say, balling up a skirt. “And then the feast, but only long enough to be seen. Then we slip out one at a time.”
“And meet back here,” Jacquetta finishes.
But the lines around her mouth are tight. In the two days since we scried with our mothers, her anxiousness has only seemed to worsen. I’ve watched her fold the same shift three times now. And she only picked at her breakfast.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” I ask, cautious.
“Of course,” she replies, too quickly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
I huff a short laugh. “Because we’re about to attempt the most insane plan two witches ever dreamed up. Between your mother and mine, we might come to regret this meeting.”
I’d meant the comment as a joke, but Jacquetta doesn’t laugh. She fidgets with a pair of stockings. There’s something more she wants to say—I know there is. Why doesn’t she tell me?
She keeps things from you, that voice whispers.
I shove it down. I’m done listening to its poison. Jacquetta isn’t the witch I thought she was, and neither am I.
Bells begin to toll, signaling the funeral.
“Time to go.” Jacquetta shoves the stockings into her satchel and fastens the clasps.
A pathetic whine leaks from under the bed—Fitz. The poor thing hasn’t stopped whimpering since sunrise, likely aware that we’re about to leave.
“We can bring him,” I tell Jacquetta.
Whether she wants to admit it or not, I know she cares about the dog. But she only shakes her head. “It will be hard enough traveling with your demon of a cat.”
Nettle trills. I try to scratch between her ears, but she swats me away. She’s been agitated all morning. “Don’t go wandering. When I come back, we’re leaving.”
She swishes her tail, golden eyes fixed on Jacquetta as the other witch stashes our satchels in the wardrobe for later.
“That’s it, then,” she says, shutting the cabinet. “Are you ready?”
No. But there’s nothing more I can do to prepare. Giving my bodice a last tug, I head for the door. Jacquetta pulls me abruptly back.
“What’s—” I start.
The rest is lost in the pressure of her lips against mine. My bones soften as the taste of roses fills my mouth, so intoxicating I’m almost dizzy with it.
“I love you,” she whispers.
It steals my breath. I’ve felt those words in her touch and in the way she looks at me, but hearing them…
“I love you too.”
She kisses me again, soft and slow and not nearly long enough before she breaks away, my blood still humming with that word—love.
But as we leave the suite and enter the hall, instinct prickles between my shoulder blades. It reminds me of the feeling I experienced before my Ascension, like the fabric of my world is splitting apart.
No, I tell myself firmly. That’s just nerves. The only thing that matters now is Jacquetta and the future we will build together.
* * *
—
Hundreds of candles blaze in the throne room, their light lapping against the queen’s glass coffin. Within it, her remains are covered by a gold cloth—which I find surprising. Given the decimated state of her body, I assumed that Queen Sybil would be laid to rest in stone, as was done with the prince. A sea of lilies surrounds the casket, likely intended to mask the scent of rot, but their heady perfume only mixes with that of decay. The sweet and fetid smell, coupled with the closeness of their air, aggravates my already knotted stomach.
Each minute seems to stretch an hour as Ignatius preaches about the perils of Malum and the threat of witchcraft. Courtiers slide each other suspicious glances and whisper behind their hands, the sound hissing against the high ceiling. I’m convinced they’re talking about me—us. Jacquetta must feel the same way, for she discreetly hooks her pinky around mine.
I love you.
The words bloom like midnight flowers behind my sternum. I hold them close, each one a jewel far more precious than any Bloodstone. Love. That’s all that matters now. We just have to reach for it, like Mother’s mirror said. Is this what it had meant? Had it seen the two of us together? Known that, if Jacquetta and I learned to trust each other again, we could forge a new world? If it did, I owe the mirror an apology for all the years I spent despising it.
At long last, Ignatius’s eulogy ends, and the court rises for Blodwyn, who approaches the queen’s coffin with a single winter rose. Tears stream down her face as she lays the white petals on the glass. My heart clenches. Grief has aged the princess. She looks nothing like the carefree girl who chased hedgehogs around her chamber.
Help her, the queen had begged. Guilt needles my conscience, but I can’t do anything for the princess—not here.
When the ceremony concludes, Ignatius himself leads the procession out of the throne room. The king is second in line. Unlike every other instance in which he’s been near, I hardly feel that place behind my left ribs. In fact, all manifestations of Malum—the shadows and nightmares and the creature that’s been stalking me—have calmed since the night the queen died. Is that a coincidence? Or was I right when I sensed that the ominous force was sated? Had it fed off the queen’s soul? If so, how long until it returns for mine?
I shove the thorny questions down. Jacquetta and I join the other courtiers as they file toward the Great Hall. The rules of mourning have been somewhat suspended for the occasion. Music is absent, but there’s plenty of food—and wine, which is good. Jacquetta and I are counting on the nobles being too drunk to notice we’ve gone.
“I’ll slip out first,” she says.
“I won’t wait long after that.”
She nods and I brush my hand against hers, earning a tight smile before Jacquetta melts into the crowd. I smooth my skirts and keep to the edges of the room, attempting to attract as little notice as possible until I can leave.
“Ayleth.” An arm loops through mine—Joan’s. “What an awful day. Did you see the princess? I can’t imagine what she’s going through.”
Neither can I. Guilt twists again at my leaving the princess alone in a court that will swallow her up. But I’ll be strapped to a pyre if I remain here. What help would I be to Blodwyn then? Unless…an idea feathers in my mind. I might be leaving, but Joan isn’t.
“Will you promise me something?” I ask her, steering us away from the tables.
“Of course. Anything.”
“Would you…” I struggle for the words to phrase the request so that it doesn’t sound suspicious. “Could you look after the princess? Make sure she’s all right?”
“Can’t you look after her?” Joan asks, puzzled. “I know she’s fond of you.”
Joan isn’t trying to make me feel worse, but I do.
“After I leave,” I say. Then realize how it sounded and amend, “After Longest Night.”
“Oh.” Disappointment tugs at the corners of Joan’s mouth. “Right. Of course, I’ll do what I can for her, Ayleth. But do you really think you’ll have to leave after the season? I was rather hoping you would stay. We’ve become such good friends.”
We have. Joan is one of the best people in this wretched palace—probably one of the best I’ve known my whole life, witch or otherwise. A fresh pang of guilt knocks in my chest. Here is yet another person I’m abandoning to the whims of this gluttonous court.
“I think I’ll have to,” I tell Joan. “But I want you to know that I appreciate your friendship much more than I can express. You’re kinder and cleverer than all of these vultures.”
I gesture around the room and Joan’s eyes shine.
“Well, there’s no need to say our goodbyes now.” She blinks, waving me off. “There’s still a few weeks left of Longest Night.”
Not for me. I scan the crowd, searching for Jacquetta. Has she already left?
My attention grazes the High Table, and the force behind my left ribs kicks. After days without feeling it, the sensation is a thousand times worse than it ever was. I gasp, my hand going to the spot as if I might feel it straining beneath my skin.
Joan grips my elbow. “Are you all right, Ayleth?”
No. Not when I discover King Callen’s gray gaze fixed on mine. It’s not hungry or desirous, as it was in the hedge maze, but harder. Dangerous. The king holds what looks to be a piece of parchment in one hand. As he stares at me, he crumples it in his fist.
That ominous force rumbles.
“Ayleth.” Joan gives me a shake. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I think I have—mine.
Mumbling an excuse, I fight my way through the clusters of courtiers and out of the Great Hall, dodging servants as I race back to our chambers. I don’t know what was written on that parchment, but I know it’s time to leave.
“Jacquetta!” I call, flinging open the door to our suite.
Fitz barks from where he’d been curled by the fire. Other than that, there’s no answer. Had she not left the hall yet? I rush into our bedchamber, but it’s empty except for Nettle, who trills a question from her place on the coverlet.
“Have you seen…”
My cat meows, insistent, and paws at something beside her. A scrap of parchment. I snatch it up. Two words stare back at me.
I’m sorry.
Sorry? The word stretches, long and thick in my mind. Sorry for what? Unless—
“No,” I whisper, comprehension winnowing through my skull. “She wouldn’t.”
I drop the note and throw open the wardrobe. My satchel is still there, but Jacquetta’s is gone. She is gone. Shock rolls over me in waves. This must be a mistake.
I love you, she’d said. And she meant it. I know she did.
Not enough, that menacing voice supplies. You could never be enough.
It’s wrong. This is all just—
Hinges rattle as the door to the main chamber bursts open. Relief floods my veins.
“Jacquetta?” I call, racing to meet her. “Where—”
It’s not Jacquetta. Fitz growls and flattens his ears as guards trample into the suite. Without a word to me, they fan out through the rooms.
“Wait!” I call. “What are you—”
The rest dies in my throat as a set of flame-colored robes sweeps through the doors. Ignatius. A high note of panic rings in my ears.
“Ah. Here she is, Sire.”
Instinct urges me to run, but I’m frozen. Trapped. The king strides into the chamber, every thud of his boots matching the pulse of the horrible tether as it unfurls from behind my left ribs. For a long moment, King Callen only looks at me. The gray of his eyes is like steel, twin blades that will carve me up.
“This was left for me,” he says at last, extracting a piece of parchment from his doublet. It’s the one from the Great Hall. The king smooths it so that I can read the words.
The witch you seek is already in the palace. Search Mistress Ayleth’s rooms.
My blood turns to ice. Not because of what is written, but because it’s the exact same handwriting as the note that was left on the bed. It’s from Jacquetta.
No! my mind screams, the word looping over and over. No, no, no. What has she done?
The same thing she did last time, that voice hisses.
“It’s not—”
“Here, Your Illuminance.” A guard tromps in and passes a book to the High Priest.
Ignatius thumbs through the pages and sighs. “I had hoped this was an empty accusation, Your Majesty. But I fear she’s deceived us all.”
The king snatches up the book. I catch a glimpse of diagrams and drawings. Is that a grimoire? Had Jacquetta left that? By the Spirits, I’m an utter fool. No wonder she’d been so preoccupied the last two days. She’d been planning to frame me. Despair settles in my stomach. Even with the evidence right in front of me, I try to convince myself it isn’t true.
You know it is, that voice again. You knew what she was.
“The rise of Malum.” King Callen throws the book at my feet. “The comb, the Nevenwolf. It was all you.”
It wasn’t. But I wish that it were, for that would mean I had power. I might be able to save myself. But I can’t. I’m helpless. And Jacquetta saw that. She knew. That’s why she did this. Because it would be easy. Because I’m nothing.
“Take her,” Ignatius orders, tracing the sign of the Eye between us.
And I’m too shocked and stunned to resist as the guards drag me off. In fact, I don’t feel anything at all, save for the scalding shame of my own stupidity. I trusted Jacquetta. I listened to my wretched heart.
And now I will burn for my mistake.
Time in the dungeon is swallowed by darkness. The only indication that the hours are passing at all is the few instances in which a portion of dry bread is tossed through the bars of my cell. I don’t eat. I don’t sleep, either. Sooner or later, they’re going to come for me. I probably won’t even get a trial—just a pair of hot iron shoes. But I don’t even care about that. All I can do is huddle against the gritty stone walls of my cell, breathing in the scent of dampness and rot.
Jacquetta.
Her name alone is like a spell, sparking both fire and ice in my veins. Flashes of our nights together emerge at random, each one like a knife digging into my flesh.
I love you.
Lies. Exactly like her promise that she wouldn’t let me share the same fate as Marion. Here I am, perhaps even in the same cell as the fallen courtier. I pace from one side of the narrow space to the other, combing over the last weeks and spinning tangled webs of theories.
How long had Jacquetta been plotting this? Did it stretch back to when we met at the Sanctum? Before? But that doesn’t make any sense. I watched Jacquetta attempt to kill the High Priest, and then the king. Why would she take such risks if that wasn’t what she came here to do?
Unless she wanted you to see her try, that voice whispers.
Could that be right? Had those incidents merely been distractions? Revenge would have been the perfect cover for Jacquetta’s presence in the White Palace, believable enough that I wouldn’t ask questions. And I hadn’t, not even obvious ones. Like, if Jacquetta actually intended to murder the king, why hadn’t she done it? She summoned the lightning strike in the forest easily enough. She didn’t need to waste an arrow on the king. Had she been crouching in the bush, wanting me to see her? But I still don’t understand why. Why pretend? And why go along with my plan to find the Bloodstones? Why agree to the meeting with the Heirs at—
“Stonehaven.” The word rattles between my bones.
Jacquetta left right after I persuaded my mother to summon the Heirs and meet with Nerissa. That’s what she wanted—access. And to gain such access she needed to earn my trust. Feed me enough lies that I would convince my mother to summon the Heirs and allow Nerissa through our gates. But there’s not going to be a meeting, I realize dully. Because the one thing I know Jacquetta never lied about is her disdain for the Ancients and their Heirs. What better way to dismantle the hierarchy than to destroy those at the top?
I slump against the damp wall, rage and despair coursing through my veins. The more I put the pieces together, the more I’m certain that I’m right. Nerissa and her coven aren’t going to Stonehaven to talk. They’re going to kill Mother and the Heirs, just like the Hunt did at the start of the war. Only this time, I’m the one who let them in.
The chill of the dungeon seeps into the marrow of my bones.
I was protecting you, Mother claimed.
She was right all along. Fresh shame burns in my lungs as I think of how easily I’d played into Jacquetta’s hand. Of how little it took for her to gain my trust—a few kind words. A kiss. What a stupid wretch I am. I slept with the witch who will murder what’s left of my family—opened the damn door for her to do so. I might as well have handed her the knife. How many other witches will die because of me?
Rage pounds in my wrists and that deep urge rises up, hungry for vengeance. For blood. This time, I do not tamp it down. I don’t care if it’s connected to Malum. If I get out of this, I vow, I will find her. I will hurt her the way she’s hurt me.
That place behind my left ribs twinges, as if in anticipation.
Blinding light cuts through the cell. I wince, shielding my eyes. Is it the guards? Am I to be taken to the pyre? Fitted for a pair of iron shoes? My panicked mind summons images of Eden and Willa and even Mother. I won’t get the chance to warn them about Jacquetta.
I failed you, I tell my sister, digging my fingernails into our marks. I’m sorry.
“Well, well.” A familiar voice resonates against the stone. “If it isn’t Mistress Witch.”
I blink, squinting against the brightness. Gemstone-colored eyes gleam at me from the other side of the cell.
“Roland?” His name croaks from my dry lips. But I must be hallucinating.
“Guess you decided to extend your stay at the palace after all. Wouldn’t be my choice of accommodations, but to each their own.”
He’s real. I scramble to my feet. “How did you find me?”
“Thank this one.” He nods to where another shape lopes through Roland’s door—one that meows in what is unmistakable reproach.
“Nettle.” I gather her up. She struggles, but I don’t let her go, burying my face in the comfort of her fur. “I never thought I’d see you again.”
Roland grunts. “Aye, I expect your beast shared that opinion. Heard it yowling from your rooms and went to investigate. I could guess what happened from there.”
