One Dark Throne (Three Dark Crowns #2)(74)

“But he’ll be her king-consort, won’t he? And if I stay dead, I won’t be able to . . . run away with him . . . anywhere.” She looks down. “I was supposed to be able to let him know, Jules.”

“I know it’s hard. But you can’t be seen. What good would it do? We just have to get Mirabella through the duel and then we can decide what to do next.”

“All right,” Arsinoe says, and lets Jules lead her through the dark streets of the capital.

Katharine’s eyes narrow as she watches Mirabella. Her pretty sister, so easily beloved by the island. So easily gifted. Everything for her so easy but never earned. Never deserved.

Beside her, Nicolas keeps feeding her bits of this and that and commenting on some of the stranger fashions. He is a fly, buzzing in her ear. Katharine crushes a grape in her gloved hand. But the cloth is so thick to cover her poisoning scars that she cannot even feel the juice.

“Make her look at me again,” Katharine whispers. “Make her care.”

But Mirabella does not. She goes on dancing with the Chatworth boy, as rigid as if she were strapped to a pole.

“What did you say, Queen Katharine?” Nicolas asks.

“Nothing,” she replies. The entire ballroom is focused on Mirabella. The Arrons have never seen so many turned backs.

“Traitors,” she whispers.

Katharine pushes her chair away from the table and stands. She is of so little consequence to the crowd that she could move across the floor unnoticed.

So she does.

Katharine appears out of nowhere and slips in between Mirabella and Billy like a snake, so fast that neither can think to act. Everything stops. Bows drag to a halt on musicians’ strings.

“Play,” Katharine commands. She wraps her gloved hands around Mirabella’s wrists and drags her to the middle of the emptying floor.

The music is an awkward plucking.

“What are you doing?” Mirabella asks, her eyes wide.

“Dancing with my sister,” replies Katharine. “Though I would not call your movements dancing, exactly. Are your legs made of wood?”

Mirabella clenches her jaw. She grabs on to Katharine’s gloved wrists.

“You are so afraid.” Katharine smiles prettily. “The chosen queen would not be so afraid.”

“I am not afraid. I am angry.”

Katharine draws Mirabella in close as they spin slowly past the tables, past the gaping mouths of the guests and servants frozen with trays raised in the air. After they pass the Westwood table, Luca stands and walks quickly toward Natalia’s chair.

“This is not done, Katharine.”

“Then how are we doing it?” Katharine grins. She tilts her head to consider Mirabella’s face and hair.

“You are beautiful, sister. Hair so carefully brushed. Cheeks so flawless and free of paint and powder. No scars and no rashes, even after all the presents I sent. Tell me, has even one found its way to you?”

“It found its way to a priestess.”

Katharine clucks her tongue.

“The poor girl. But that is your fault, for letting them intervene in our business.”

She steps back and whirls Mirabella around. Theirs is the only movement in the room, and the music plays clumsily, as even the violinists are staring.

“Do you know what I think?” Katharine asks. “I think you are a shame. I think you are a waste.”

Her fingers trace Mirabella’s veins, envying her unblemished skin.

“You are the strongest,” she says. “You could be the one. But up close, you are such a disappointment. Your eyes are wary as a kicked dog’s, when you and I both know you have never been kicked in your life. Not like me, who has been kicked down with poisons and popped blisters and made to vomit until I weep.

“That is why I am going to win,” she goes on as they twirl. “I may be the weakest, but I am a queen, through and through. All the way down to my dead blood and bones.”

“Katharine, stop this now.” Mirabella’s voice is pitiful. And she shudders when Katharine leans close.

“Do you know what they do with the dead queens, sister?” Katharine asks. “Do you know what they do with their bodies?”

She stops the farce of a dance to stand still in the center of the floor and jerks Mirabella toward her until they are chest to chest and eye to eye.

“They throw them into the Breccia for the island to eat. And may I tell you a secret?”

Katharine’s lips press to Mirabella’s ear, almost like a kiss.

“They are tired of it.”





THE BRECCIA DOMAIN





Pietyr walks his mare slowly through Innisfuil Valley. She is tired. So is he. He traded his silver armband for her at the last coach stop before the mountain pass and has not slept since getting out of the coach. Nearly two solid days of fast travel, by coach and on three horses, but he made it. Or at least he thinks so. He has only come to Innisfuil for Beltane, and without the glut of black and white tents, the place looks completely unfamiliar.

Pietyr rides along the edge of the southern trees. He is hesitant to plunge in. Despite sunlight so bright it is near blinding, the valley does not feel safe or peaceful. It feels watchful, and overeager for visitors.

When they enter the trees, the mare shies and he dismounts. If she were to spook when they reach the Breccia, she could send them both plummeting over the edge. He leads her slowly and pats her muzzle. She does not like these trees empty of birds, these woods empty of sound, any better than he does.