One Dark Throne (Three Dark Crowns #2)(72)

“But I like you so much in that outfit.” He tries to grab her, but she steps away and whips his arms with her cotton apron.

“Just poison that elemental brat, will you, and stop playing about!” She turns and leaves amid his laughter, to sneak back onto the docks and return home unnoticed.





THE QUEENS’ BALL





Jules spins out of the way as a servant with a tray of wine nearly crashes into her. He calls her an imbecile, and she grits her teeth and curtsies. She must keep her head bowed. Joseph’s orders, as he said her two-colored eyes made her far too easy to notice, even with Camden safely hidden away in a nearby stable.

“There’s a bounty on your head,” he said. “And the city is crawling with guards. You shouldn’t go at all!”

But Arsinoe could not rest easy without at least one set of eyes on Mirabella, so here Jules is.

Jules lowers her chin and walks through the corridors bordering the kitchen nearest the northern ballroom. Many guests are already inside, and more rustle through the doors every minute. Close to the entrance, there are too many searching glances gawking at the finery and hoping for a glimpse of the queens. But those will lessen once Mirabella and Katharine make their entrances and draw away all of the attention.

Jules turns down a hall, the heels of her boots loud against the floor. The stone of the Highbern Hotel amplifies everything, and though the passageways are wide and well-aired by the opening and closing front doors, to Jules they are suffocating. Nothing in the capital is open enough, and she misses the fields and docks of home.

She turns and pretends to move a vase as another servant passes by.

“Nothing will happen here, anyway, with all these people and priestesses milling about,” she mutters before realizing Camden is not there to mutter to. She should have stayed with Joseph and Arsinoe or gone with Aunt Caragh and Madrigal to the dueling arena. She is about to do just that, when a black cloak catches her eye, passing the kitchens.

“What’s this now?” she whispers, before following it down the corridor.

Mirabella and Billy wait on the staircase outside of the ballroom’s eastern entrance, two still statues in the midst of chaos as attendants put finishing touches on Mirabella’s makeup and straighten the fall of her gown and Billy’s coattails. Mirabella’s fingers rest in the crook of Billy’s arm. On some other staircase, she does not doubt that Katharine’s rest similarly in Nicolas Martel’s.

Billy looks over at her. His choker of black gems sparkles at her throat, and he smiles. Her future king-consort. Her suitor now, for real.

On the other side of the large wooden door, sounds of the ball grow quiet and she hears Luca’s muffled voice announce her entrance.

“It is time,” Sara whispers over her shoulder, and the door opens.

“Are we supposed to smile and nod?” Billy asks. “How do we play to the crowd when more than half of them want you dead?”

Mirabella laughs. It breaks the spell of silence, and the guests begin to whisper among themselves. They murmur about her dress. About her jewels. About how lovely she and the suitor look together. Billy helps her up the steps to the Westwood table, and they stand behind their chairs to wait for Katharine.

They do not have to wait long. When she appears, the guests muffle, poisoners and non-poisoners alike. Katharine’s skirt flares out with her long strides, her hair in shining curls. She does not seem small anymore. She does not seem at all like the pale, pinned-tight girl she was atop the cliffs when Mirabella was first reunited with her at the Disembarking.

“The Undead Queen,” they whisper. But she has never seemed more alive.

“She wants it more than I do,” Mirabella says, watching Katharine’s lips curl as she turns to whisper into Nicolas’s ear.

“It doesn’t matter,” Billy replies stiffly. “She still won’t get it.”

Before Katharine and her suitor take their place amid the Arrons, dazzling in their snakes and scorpions, Katharine cocks her head at Mirabella and winks. Nicolas smiles at Billy and discreetly spits onto the floor.

Billy’s jaw tightens.

“You are right; it does not matter,” Mirabella says, and squeezes his hand.

“Fine,” he says as they sit. “But if he takes part in the Hunt of the Stags this year, he’ll find my boot in his back in the middle of the woods.”

She has no doubt that is true. Billy is so like Arsinoe was. What a fine match they would have made had she lived. Thinking of Arsinoe, she watches Katharine intently until the Highbern is rattled by a great, cold gust of wind. Inside, the guests shudder and duck.

“Tomorrow,” Bree says out of the side of her mouth. “Save it for the duel!” She stretches her long leg past Sara’s skirts to kick Mirabella beneath the table, and Mirabella tears her eyes away from her sister so the wind will quiet.

Yes. Tomorrow.

The musicians begin to play. Servants circulate small bunches of dark purple grapes and cups of wine. There is excitement in the air. The people are joyous, celebrating, and if there is any undercurrent at all, it is of relief. One queen has been killed, and two stand ready to claim the crown. Things are as they should be.

Bree pushes away from the long table and takes both Mirabella and Billy by the hands.

“Come, let us dance!”