Five Dark Fates (Three Dark Crowns, #4)(8)

‘Naturalist, poisoner . . . ,’ Emilia grumbles. ‘You wear whatever hat suits you at the moment.’

Arsinoe sighs. ‘They’ll be fine on their own. They’ll figure it out,’ she says, and the man nods.

‘No,’ says Emilia. ‘Place them in the vacant wing of the Lermont estate and whoever does not fit in the empty servants’ quarters adjacent. We need them rested and comfortable if they are to fight.’

‘They aren’t to fight,’ Arsinoe whispers.

‘Some will fight. More than you think.’ Emilia gestures with her chin, and the man bows to her and leaves to see it done. Arsinoe waits for her to leave as well, but to her extreme displeasure, Emilia does not.

‘Is there anything else?’

Emilia looks past her to the partially open door where Jules lies. She has not told anyone besides Mathilde about Mirabella’s defection, and Arsinoe knows why. Emilia does not want the rebellion shaken. Not before their Legion Queen is well again.

It is something to be thankful for, she supposes, and then immediately hates herself for thinking it. She looks at Emilia with a softer expression and tries to remember the hours the warrior has spent by Jules’s side.

‘Emilia, I—’

Emilia’s eyes flash to hers, full of contention, setting Arsinoe’s teeth back on edge immediately. But before either can hurl another insult, a large, brown hound comes bursting through the door, followed by Jules’s Aunt Caragh, with a baby slung around her middle.

‘I had a feeling you two wouldn’t get on,’ says Caragh as her brown hound sniffs happily at Arsinoe and goes to whuffle around Camden.

‘Caragh,’ Emilia says, and embraces her. She wiggles a finger before the baby’s face. ‘And little Fenn. Welcome.’

‘Caragh,’ Arsinoe breathes. She banishes the flicker of annoyance that Emilia greeted her first and hugs her heartily, careful to keep from jostling Jules’s little brother. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I missed my sister’s burning.’ Her voice drops. ‘But I won’t be kept from Jules. And I had to bring Fennbirn Milone here to meet his father.’

‘Yes,’ Arsinoe says. ‘Matthew is here.’

‘I’ve seen him. And I’ve seen my mother. And convinced her to give you this.’

Caragh reaches into her coat and produces a glass jar with a length of blood-soaked cord inside. It is the color of rust, and beside it rests a yellowed, folded piece of paper.

Arsinoe recognizes the cord and the blood. It is a low-magic spell.

‘It’s all Madrigal left us about the binding. She never was much of a writer.’ Caragh taps the glass. ‘Only a page and a half, but it’s all there. All she knew.’ She pushes them farther into Arsinoe’s hands. ‘And now I’m giving them to you.’

‘Cait wasn’t going to give them to me?’

‘Maybe she was angry. Maybe she was blaming you. But if she was, she is over it now.’ Caragh bounces the baby on her hip. ‘And she was wrong to.’

‘What might that do?’ Emilia asks, peering into the jar.

‘Maybe nothing,’ Caragh replies for her. ‘Maybe it’s too late. Or maybe you can still find something in there to help.’





THE VOLROY




Mirabella wanders through the king-consort’s apartment with a morbid fascination. Nicolas Martel died before he could spend even one night inside, but the rooms still feel like his tomb. She runs her hands over the bright brocade of the chairs, and reaches out to touch fresh lace that drapes across a small table. The rugs are soft and new. All of these furnishings, selected by Katharine for her dead husband.

It is a sad thought, made sadder by the silence, though as she looks around the walls, she sees nothing that seems personal or particularly sentimental, no portraits or remembrances of Nicolas Martel. That is no real wonder, she supposes. Such a tragic beginning would have been hastily brushed aside in any reign. The faster forgotten, the better. Still, she wonders how Katharine feels. Everyone knows that she has been in an affair with Pietyr Renard, and long before meeting Nicolas Martel. But for a queen to lose her chosen partner so soon . . . It must have caused her pain, whether she loved him or not.

Or perhaps not pain, Mirabella thinks, remembering the sight of Katharine and Nicolas together, how darkly and coldly they shone. Perhaps only disappointment.

The door opens, and Mirabella straightens. Katharine has not sent the clothes that she promised, and she is still wearing her stained, blue mainlander dress with the ragged, hanging lace.

The woman who enters is one of the loveliest people Mirabella has ever seen. Her light blond hair is streaked with gold, and the violet of her eyes brings life to her otherwise statuesque face. Even beautiful Bree, who comes in behind her, is somehow less impressive by comparison.

‘Bree!’ Mirabella brushes past the woman to embrace her friend, who is practically vibrating with excitement.

‘You are here,’ Bree exclaims. ‘You are really here!’

‘I am.’ She touches Bree’s cheek, as if to test Bree’s realness as well. ‘Forgive us,’ she says to the woman behind them. ‘We have not seen each other . . . often.’

‘Of course, Mirabella,’ she replies. ‘Take all the time you need.’