Five Dark Fates (Three Dark Crowns, #4)(13)

‘I know you wish Natalia was here,’ Genevieve says. ‘That even Pietyr was here, rather than me.’

‘Do not sound so pitiable. Why would I wish for you? Of all the Arrons . . . I like you the least.’

To Katharine’s surprise, Genevieve does not pout. Instead, she smiles.

‘Why should you like me at all?’ she asks. ‘When I was cruel. When I was ashamed of you, and resented you, as the weak queen we were left with. From the moment you set foot inside Greavesdrake, I knew you would be nothing but an embarrassment. But I was wrong.

‘You are a good queen, Kat. All those times I thought you were cowering, you were actually listening. Learning. I was wrong about you, and I am sorry.’

Katharine stops. She studies Genevieve suspiciously in the dark, the courtyard lit only by small lamps and the torches of the queensguard. ‘I half expect that now you will throw a bag of angry snakes at me.’

Genevieve shows her hands. Empty.

‘Then what are you after?’

‘Only a word. I know you never listen to me. That you have no reason to value my advice. But I would caution you against allowing Mirabella to fight back the mist. She is already a legend to the people, and such an act is queenly. They will love her more.’

Katharine frowns. ‘You think I have not thought of that? She is too beautiful, too strong.’ She balls her hands into fists. The dead queens raise their heads to sniff like hunting hounds at the mere mention of Mirabella. Even they . . . even they would choose her were they given the chance. ‘But what else am I to do?’

‘I do not know. The mist must be dealt with; the port must reopen. I only know that Mirabella will steal the island even if she does not steal the crown.’

Genevieve dips her head and says good night. The queensguard moves aside to let her pass back into the castle.

Alone again, Katharine paces the length of the courtyard. Genevieve’s caution did nothing to ease her unrest, and her feet carry her through the dark, off the castle grounds. She does not really know where she is going until she smells the salt air rising from the harbor.

Now the queens scurry through her veins for another reason. They fear the mist and so fear the water—with every step closer that she takes, they pull against her skin. She takes a torch from one of the queensguard and motions for them to stay back. They do not need to be told twice.

‘Stop,’ she says to the dead queens as her heels echo against the wooden dock. ‘What do you have to fear? And why does she not fear it at all? What is so great within Mirabella that is not also great within you? Or within me?’ She reaches the end of the dock and holds out the torch. The flame illuminates only a few paces in every direction, but the moon over the water is still mostly full and shows the mist clearly as it stretches toward her.

It curls around the dock, so thick she could use her dagger to slice it into sections. On the shore, the queensguard shifts like nervous horses.

‘You are no use to me afraid,’ she says to the queens, and they, obedient wraiths for once, slip to the surface. They rise to stand with her, and she feels them layering upon her skin like armor. Wisps and tendrils of mist surround the dock on all sides. It is horrifying up close—much worse than it was in the clearing at Innisfuil. It is as if she can see ghosts of shapes inside it. And sometimes, when it thickens, she would swear she senses a solid form.

‘You see? It is like it was in the valley. It does not touch us. We are all of the blood. Even you. The old blood.’

She reaches out with a gloved hand, expecting the mist to shrink back. Instead, her hand disappears inside it. At first all she feels is mild surprise. A dull ache, as if from cold. And a sudden sense of sadness. Then she starts to scream.

Inside the mist, her hand is torn apart. She hears the snap of her index finger—the sharp pop as her thumb comes out of its joint. At the sound of her cries, the queensguard charges the dock.

‘Stay back!’

She bares her teeth, gritting them. She calls to the dead queens, ‘Help me, stop it,’ but they do nothing but screech. The sensation of them weakens as if they are leaking out of her with every fat drop of blood that splashes against the wood and falls into the water. Finally, she grasps her arm at the elbow and wrenches herself free, then runs toward shore as fast as her legs will carry her, where her queensguard waits just long enough to swallow her up before running alongside. Only when they reach the top of the hill does she dare look back, and sees the mist still gathered around the dock, still churning and searching for her, and in the dark, she hears splashes, like fish feeding in the water.

‘Queen Katharine!’

The soldiers stare openmouthed. Their torches put the injuries to her hand in plain view, the broken, misshapen fingers, the red flesh mixed together with the black fabric of the glove. Blood soaks her to the elbow. It looks like she has been gnawed upon.

Katharine’s chest heaves as she pulls her injury close, cradling it.

‘Say nothing of this,’ she orders. ‘And find me a healer. A discreet one.’





SUNPOOL




Arsinoe wakes with a start and strikes out with her fists. ‘What—what is it?’ Billy asks groggily, jerking awake himself.

Arsinoe exhales and rubs her hands roughly across her face. ‘Nothing. Just a nightmare.’

‘A Daphne nightmare?’