Five Dark Fates (Three Dark Crowns, #4)(64)

As she works up her nerve to march up the flagstone walk, the front door opens and a man steps out. She recognizes him as Gilbert, the oracle who foretold the opportunity for Mirabella’s rescue. She remembers the way his fingers broke the surface of scrying wine that seemed like blood, and now, after how badly things went in the capital, the sight of him brings a sour taste to her mouth.

‘Hello,’ she says. ‘Did you foresee me coming?’

‘No. But I did see you standing at my gate.’

‘Of course.’ She walks up the slate-gray stones to shake his hand, but he keeps them folded and instead bows slightly. Then he steps aside and welcomes her into the house. Once inside, she does her best not to gawk. The oracles have such an enigmatic reputation. But the interior of the Lermont house is like any other. There are no garish runes painted on the walls, no bones or beads strung from the ceiling. The fortune-telling shop she found on the mainland had a stranger feel. The only thing that sets Lermont House apart, so far, is a small marble pedestal set near the window in the sitting room.

‘Do you use that to scry out of?’ she blurts, then hunches her shoulders apologetically.

‘Yes,’ Gilbert replies. ‘Though it is easier to use the ones in the sight garden. Here we tend to use a simple bowl of water. Would you like me to take you to him?’ He laughs when Arsinoe’s eyes widen. ‘It does not take a seer to know why you have come. It is this way.’

He leads her through the first floor of the house and up a set of stairs.

‘Are you the only one awake?’

‘Except for the guards.’

‘Guards?’

‘You missed them. They knew who you were, of course, and let you pass. Here.’ He stops beside a window and draws back the drape to point out a guard positioned behind the hedge, armed with a spear. A bow and a quiver of arrows rests beside her in the snow. ‘And there, the edge of his shoulder.’ He points across the yard. Arsinoe had not had any hint of the guards when she walked by. ‘Mathilde has gone to her room to bed, and when she wakes, she will likely return to the castle. I think she is satisfied now that Master Renard is safe with us.’

In the hall, he opens the last door on the right and steps back so that she may enter first. Arsinoe walks in and whistles.

‘Safe with you and very comfortable.’ The room where Pietyr rests has to be one of the finest in the house. The drape is floor-to-ceiling lace, all white, and the bed is hung with white curtains. Beneath her feet, the floors shine brightly, and crystal vases, bowls, and candlesticks adorn nearly every flat surface. The air smells of sugared lemons. She hopes they did not oust one of their own just to accommodate an unconscious poisoner.

‘Don’t worry. This room was unused. It was hastily prepared but well, I think.’

‘You can read minds?’ Arsinoe asks warily. ‘Sometimes. Just now it was easy enough. But do not worry. Scrying is the only reliable aspect of my gift.’

‘I wasn’t worried. I mean, maybe a little. But it’s impressive.’

‘I am the strongest one left now that Theodora is gone.’ Arsinoe nods and tries very hard not to think about masking her thoughts while simultaneously trying to think quietly. In the bed beside the broad wall of windows, Pietyr Renard lies motionless beneath thick white blankets. Next to the bed is a chair stuffed with gray pillows, a yellow throw slung over the arm. It must have been where Mathilde sat, all night, keeping watch.

‘And there has been no change?’

‘Nothing,’ Gilbert replies. ‘He is now as he was when we laid him down.’

Arsinoe frowns. It was what she expected to hear, but just once, could not things be easy? ‘Maybe if I slap him across the face,’ she says in a bright, quick voice.

Gilbert snorts. ‘Somehow I do not think so. But in his state, he will probably not mind if you give it a try.’

Arsinoe approaches the bed. She reaches out and touches his hand, folded over his other atop his chest. His skin is warm, his pulse steady if not strong. He looks pale. Though that could be the effect of all of the white, and the intense light blond of his hair.

She touches his face and tilts his head back and forth. He does not stir. No twitches or movement, even beneath his eyelids. And according to every rumor they have heard, he has been this way since returning from the botched trade for Madrigal at Innisfuil.

‘I would say he was poisoned,’ she murmurs. ‘Except how do you poison a poisoner?

‘Gilbert,’ she says suddenly. ‘Can you see? Can you . . . sense anything with your gift? Any thoughts inside his head? Or anything about what was done to him?’

‘Perhaps it was only an illness. A natural illness.’

‘Where my little sister is concerned, I doubt it.’ She gestures to the bed. ‘Please.’

With a deep breath, Gilbert comes closer and lays his hands on Pietyr: one across his forehead, the other across his eyes.

‘Nothing. I’m sorry. There is simply nothing there to read, he—’ Gilbert’s arms stiffen all the way to the shoulders, and his words cut off so fast that Arsinoe hears his teeth clamp shut. Whatever passes through him leaves him gasping. He sinks onto the chair and wraps himself tight in the yellow blanket.

‘Gilbert? What was that?’

‘Nothing good,’ he says, staring at Pietyr’s sleeping face. He takes a moment to swallow. ‘I saw a chasm. And blood. I heard the voices of queens.’