The Crimson Crown, page 48
“There is something I desire,” I say to the king, inhaling his scent of leather and smoke.
“Anything.” He tilts his face to mine. “Name it and it’s yours.”
I bend so that my next words brush his lips. “Your heart.”
And then I sink my knife into his side.
Runed as it is, the blade doesn’t make a sound as it tears into his flesh. The king bellows, crumpling into himself. His hand flies to the wound and he scrambles away from me, stumbling toward the stairs, but it will do no good. The blade struck true—the single promise Mother kept.
The king reaches the staircase and staggers up the first few steps, blood pouring from his side and staining the stones. His boot slips on the slick red and he falls, crying out as he tumbles to the ground. I take my time approaching him, darkness following me like the train of a gown. The shadow women glide after me, eager to deliver their justice.
“Wait,” the king begs, lifting his scarlet-stained hands. Blood drenches his shirt and is streaked across his face. “Please.”
But the time for pleading is over. The shadow women surround the king, pinning him down.
“Ayleth,” he manages, flailing against them. “Don’t. This isn’t who you are.”
Not that long ago, he might have been right. I was weak then. Afraid of what lay inside me, as Mathilde accused at her reading. But I am done being afraid. Done with letting others dictate who I am. From now on, my voice is the only one that matters.
Fueled by the memory of Marion and the queen and every other woman who’s had the misfortune of crossing this man’s path, I plunge the blade again into Callen’s chest. Warm blood spatters my face, tasting of copper. A final scream rips from the king’s lungs, and then his gray eyes—those that have haunted me since the day I set foot in this palace—roll back into his head.
I don’t have time to waste. My enchanted knife carves easily through Callen’s tendon and bone. Still, it is gruesome, horrible work as I wrench open the king’s chest and reach inside the cavity. My stomach rises at the sensation of hot, slick flesh against my fingers as I feel my way through the web of veins and muscle. But I swallow the bile in my throat, refusing to let myself stop until I locate the king’s still-beating heart. The shadows writhe around me, urging me on, as I sever the cords of its arteries, grimacing at the sucking sound the organ makes as I extract it.
Blood dripping from my arms, I carry the king’s unmoored heart to the mirror. Its glass ripples as I approach. The shadow women look on, still and silent witnesses as my hand slips beneath the surface and, an instant later, the weight of Callen’s heart is lifted. When I pull my hand free, all the blood and gore and bits of his flesh have been washed clean. Behind me, the shell of Callen rises. His flesh has knitted back together. There’s not even a hole in his shirt, or a drop of blood on the floor. And his eyes are a glassy silver—just like Marion’s. I’m not sure how I’ll hide the unsettling change from the court, but that’s a problem for later.
For now, I return to the mirror.
As I’d watched Mother do a hundred times, I slit the skin of my palm, then press my hand to the glass. But I don’t utter the words of the waking spell—I don’t need to. The mirror chooses to obey me, its surface swirling as a face appears. Callen. The real Callen. I’d always wondered if Mother’s raven knew it was trapped behind glass. Now I get my answer. The White King pounds the inside of the mirror with his fists, gray eyes blazing. This time, however, I do not sense the tether. It’s snapped—our fates at last fulfilled.
A smile curls my lips and I run my fingertip down the line of the king’s face in the glass. “Tell me, Your Majesty, how do you like your menagerie?”
He rages back at me. But that’s all he can do—watch and bellow—as I bleed his realm dry.
Shadows dance through the chamber, stirring a draft. At first, I think it’s the wraithlike women, celebrating the king’s fall. But then I catch the reflection of tiny bits of red flying through the room. They gather above my head like a swarm of bees and start to spin. One flits close enough that I recognize it—the shard of a Bloodstone. Dozens of them swirl around me, the shadows knitting them together until they form—
A crown.
Ayleth, I hear. Ayleth.
As I stare into the mirror, a drop of red rolls from one of the jagged bits of Bloodstone and down my forehead. Another. Faster and faster, until my face is coated in a mask of glistening crimson. A mask—a crown—of blood. Of vengeance, against everyone who has wronged me, mortals and witches alike. Even her. They will see the witch they rejected, and they will kneel at my feet.
Because the time for covens—or for kings—is over.
Let the reign of the Witch Queen begin.
“Mirror, mirror on the wall,” I say, the words pulled from my lips like a spell. “Who is fairest of them all?”
The story of
The Crimson Crown
will conclude in book two,
The Witch Queen.
Some books are easy to write. This was not one of them. I’ve honestly lost track of the number of drafts, let alone words, I’ve written for this story. The first iteration came to me way back in 2018, but I didn’t fully find its heart until 2023—two years after it sold. I have, very literally, cried, sweated, and bled over this book. For so long, I was sure that it would never be finished. But despite my perpetual doubt, the book exists. I survived it (for now). But I certainly wouldn’t have done so without the help of an extraordinary team of people.
First, to my incredible agent, Laura Crockett. Laura, you snatched the earliest version of this story from your slush pile and have never wavered in your certainty that it would find its way to shelves. Thank you for believing in Ayleth—and in me.
To my sorceress of an editor, Tricia Narwani. No matter how many times I turned in a tangled mess of a manuscript, you never doubted that we’d reach the end (the real one). Your patience, encouragement, and impeccable insight have been my north star throughout this process.
I also owe a huge debt of gratitude to the whole team at Del Rey—there are too many of you to name, but thank you to every person who helped make this book the gorgeous, gothic wonder that it is. Thank you also to my friends at Barnes & Noble (especially the real Blodwyn, who knows who she is). Books like mine—LGBTQ, in particular—have historically been suppressed, ignored, and erased. But these teams have championed my work in ways I never dreamed possible.
And I never would have found my way to the end of this book without the support of my friends and family. To my mom, dad, and brothers, thank you for proudly bragging about your author daughter/sister to literally everyone. Thank you to Ashley, Bentley (coolest kid ever), Kristin, Tom, Liam, and (most especially) the real Fitz, for always being there to celebrate or commiserate, depending on how the writing was going. Thank you to my author friends, including Saara, Tasha, and Chloe, for cheering me on even when I was ready to burn this book. And thank you to Andrew (aka Nettle), who was always ready to listen to me complain about my plot holes with an air of profound boredom.
Most important, thank you to readers. New books are never guaranteed in an author’s career. The support I receive is directly because of your enthusiasm. Thank you for championing my books, buying them, checking them out from your libraries, and raving about them to your friends. Thank you to every librarian, bookseller, and blogger who has put my books in the hands of readers. Your influence on my career cannot be understated. It has been the highlight of my life to share stories with you. I hope to keep doing it for a long time.
And thank you, with my whole entire heart, to Lindsey. I’m not always a nice person when I write books. You love me anyway.
Heather Walter is the award-winning author of The Crimson Crown and the Malice duology. She holds degrees in both English and library science.
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Heather Walter, The Crimson Crown
