One Dark Throne (Three Dark Crowns #2)(23)

“I cannot wait for the feast. Stewed apples and pork . . . berry tartlets . . . All this business of poison and tasters. I’m so afraid of my plate most days that I barely manage a mouthful.” She points to a gap between her dress and her armpit. “Look at this bodice! My breasts have shrunk!”

“Bree,” Elizabeth says, and giggles. “They have not.”

“Easy for you to say, with the pair that you have. If they were not trapped under temple robes, no one would look at me twice.” She swishes her skirt back and forth. Despite her words, the dress is very becoming, embroidered with bright blue hydrangeas.

“And what young man do you have your eye on now, daughter?” Sara asks.

“Mrs. Warren’s glassmaking apprentice,” Bree replies. “The tawny-headed one. With good shoulders and freckles.” She turns. “Mira, if we fall in love, you must promise to appoint him to your royal guard. And then you must promise to get rid of him when we fall out of it.”

“Bree,” Elizabeth objects. “She can’t dismiss someone just because you’ve finished with them! If you turn around one day and find that Mira’s guard is filled with your old lovers . . . then that will be your own fault.”

Mirabella tries to smile. They have worked hard to cheer her since Arsinoe and her bear escaped in the Ashburn Woods. Mirabella had searched and searched, but it was as if her sister and the bear had vanished.

“There will be whispers,” Mirabella murmurs. “They are saying I ran home with my tail tucked between my legs.”

“But we know the truth,” Elizabeth protests. “It was Arsinoe who ran, not you.”

Arsinoe had run. But why? The bear had caught Mirabella completely by surprise. It could have torn her wide open. She does not understand why it did not. Why Arsinoe did not fight back.

The pavilion in Moorgate Park has been decorated with wreaths of flowers and long, trailing white and blue ribbons. The temple means to present William Chatworth Jr. to her there. As though he is a gift.

“So many people have come,” Mirabella whispers as their coach draws to a halt. All of Rolanth must have emptied, from the sheep farms in the south to the northern stalls at Penman Market.

Mirabella takes a deep breath. The air smells of baked apple pies and fragrant spiced smoke from the roasting fires.

“Mirabella! Queen Mirabella has arrived!”

Those near to the coach rush toward it. Mirabella, Bree, and Elizabeth get out and are quickly jostled into the center of nine guardian priestesses. Some in the crowd are into their cups and push too close.

“Get back!” Bree shouts as the priestesses grasp the handles of their serrated knives.

“We should have brought Rho,” Elizabeth says.

“Rho is with Luca,” Mirabella replies.

“And besides,” Bree adds, “who likes to bring Rho anywhere?” But Elizabeth is right. If Rho were there, they would not have to worry about trouble from the crowd.

“Do you hear that?” Elizabeth mutters. Mirabella does not hear anything except the noise of the people, and the music from the players beside the pavilion.

“Hear what, Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth cranes her neck toward the green-leafed branches casting shade onto the path.

“It is Pepper,” she whispers. “He’s agitated. He recognizes someone.”

“I think I know who,” Bree says. Beside the fountain, Luca and Rho stand at the head of a band of priestesses. Kneeling at their feet, his head down so she can see only the top of his sandy hair, is the suitor, William Chatworth Jr.

And to his right is Joseph Sandrin.

Mirabella wants to shout but she does not react. She has been raised a queen and feels every eye on her. She cannot ask what Joseph is doing there. She cannot even reach out to squeeze her friends’ hands.

“Queen Mirabella,” William says. “I have come to serve.”

“You are most welcome,” comes her distant reply.

William raises his eyes, and she forces herself to smile. Has Joseph come to stay? Is this the way he has found to be near her?

“Come, Mira,” Bree whispers, and escorts her to the banquet table. Elizabeth bows, and leaves to dine with her fellow priestesses.

They seat Joseph on the other side of William Chatworth, who is seated to Mirabella’s left. At her right, High Priestess Luca signals the musicians to play, and dancers and jugglers fill the space in the grass before the table.

When a novice priestess brings Mirabella the first cut from the haunch of a roasted boar, Chatworth takes her knife and fork before she can even touch them.

“Not yet, my queen,” he says. “This is my lot. To chew and swallow and see if I will die so you won’t.” He takes a little of the meat and a section of apple pastry. Then he washes it all down with wine from her goblet.

Mirabella waits. He drums his fingers.

“No cramps. No burning. No blood from my eyes.”

“Do you think it safe, then, William?”

“Call me Billy,” he says. “And yes, I think it’s safe. Safer anyway than what you did to Arsinoe in the forest.”

Mirabella’s eyes flash to his. They are squinted at the corners as though smiling, but that is not real. Underneath, they are hard as stone.

“There is no suitable apology for that,” she says. “So I will make none.”