Five Dark Fates (Three Dark Crowns, #4)(6)

‘We have much work to do.’

Katharine goes from the throne room to the Black Council chamber and shuts herself inside. The moment she is hidden from view, she begins to tremble as she hugs herself and paces.

She had been face-to-face with Mirabella again, and she had done well. The black crown emblazoned across Katharine’s forehead had acted like a shield, giving her courage and lending righteousness to her words. It had been hard not to shout. Not to strike out preemptively. Everything about Mirabella put her on the defensive: the way she stood in the throne room, beautiful and regal, even in that hideous wreck of a dress; the lingering bonds of affection she still holds with many members of Katharine’s Black Council.

Perhaps it was a mistake to bring her here. Perhaps she is falling right into Luca’s trap.

Even the dead queens, as they hissed and sniffed around her, also tugged against Katharine’s edges, drawn to the strength of the elemental gift that flowed off Mirabella in waves.

‘You would leave me for her.’

Never, they whisper. You are ours. We are you.

But Katharine feels them pull against her skin. She feels them rise up and nearly slip out of her mouth. The dead queens had a taste of being outside her, of moving through another person when they left her to rush into Pietyr. And they liked it.

We are with you, always.

‘Always,’ says Katharine as a plan begins to form in her mind. She could be free of them, and free of them for good, if she is careful, and if she is more clever than they are.





SUNPOOL




Wolf Spring arrived in time for Madrigal’s burning. Cait and Ellis Milone, their backs straight and rigid as knives. Luke, cheeks wet, in a deep crimson vest and coat he was sure to have sewn himself. And much of the city came with them. Madrigal burned, in the salt spray and wind, atop the chest-high pyre of wood that the workers of the rebellion had built. The priestesses of Sunpool had wrapped her in crimson cloth and covered her in crimson petals. The rebels left offerings of wreaths and colored shells. Birds’ eggs to crack and sizzle in the heat.

Together Wolf Spring and the rebellion watched as the pyre blazed, turning to ash the body that was not really Madrigal Milone any longer but merely the very pretty shell that could barely contain her.

Madrigal, Arsinoe thinks now, in the echoing whispers of Sunpool’s great hall. Madrigal was the sum of her actions. She was a laugh in a quiet room. In life, she had never liked for anything to be easy, and in death she was the same.

‘I thought you were dead, too.’

At his voice in her ear, Arsinoe turns and grasps Luke around the waist. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, over and over, and only lets him go when his black-and-green rooster, Hank, begins to flap and spur holes into her only good pair of trousers. They sit down together at the nearest open place.

‘Where’s your boy?’ he asks.

Arsinoe gestures to Billy in the crowd, where he spoons meat and gravy onto plates. All through the burning he let her lean on him without being seen to be leaning. When the flames touched the crimson cloth, he held her close.

‘Getting you food, eh?’ says Luke. ‘He knows you well.’ Then he lowers his eyes. ‘The funeral was well attended.’

Arsinoe nods. ‘You would think she was someone important.’ Luke clears his throat, and she knows that Cait and Ellis are there.

‘We wanted to wait,’ she says to Cait. ‘But we didn’t know if you would be able to come.’

‘Your letter reached us,’ Cait says. ‘That is what matters. What of her sister? Has no one told Caragh?’

‘I sent a letter to the Black Cottage, but—’ Arsinoe shakes her head. ‘Maybe travel is slower . . . with the baby . . .’ She closes her mouth and looks to Ellis. Cait will be all right. She was made to bear. But Ellis—gentle, scholarly Ellis—he has doted on Madrigal since the day she was born.

In the crowd, Arsinoe spots a slew of familiar faces. A few of the Paces, and the Nicholses. Shad Millner and his seagull. Even Madge, who sold the best stuffed fried oysters in the Wolf Spring market. And Matthew. Of course Matthew.

‘Matthew,’ she says when he sees her, and he walks forward and scoops her up, almost like he did when she was a child.

‘Hello, kid,’ he says, and sets her back down on her feet. He wipes a tear from her cheek with his thumb and adjusts the knot of her crimson scarf.

Billy returns to the table with food and greets them all, especially Matthew, who he views as extended family through his connection to Joseph. His eye lingers on the crow on Cait’s shoulder. ‘Is that Aria?’ he asks, speaking of Madrigal’s familiar.

‘No,’ Cait replies. ‘This is Eva. Aria flew away from the smoke. Where is Jules? In your letter you said she was unhurt but still unwell. What did you mean?’

Arsinoe rises. ‘I’ll take you to see her. But only you two,’ she adds when Luke and Matthew move to join them. It would be too difficult for Luke to see her in that state, and Matthew—Matthew looks too much like Joseph. She does not want to think about how Jules would react if she opened her eyes and saw Joseph’s face. As Arsinoe and Billy escort Cait and Ellis from the hall, she stiffens with sudden realization.

‘He doesn’t know.’ She grasps Billy’s arm. ‘Matthew and the Sandrins, they don’t know about Joseph. They don’t know that he’s dead!’