One Dark Throne (Three Dark Crowns #2)(90)

“I cannot,” Natalia says calmly. “She is the queen. And we had to proceed quickly. We are in a precarious place—”

“Undo it.”

“I said I cannot.” Natalia grimaces, tired of his breath and his mainland concerns. His normally clear, handsome eyes are squinted and swollen. She does not like him like this. Though perhaps this is what he truly is underneath. Angry, and ugly, and small. “They are wed. He is on his way to her bedchamber now.”

“What does it matter? She can sleep with him and then marry Billy later. Your queens are not ladies. None of you are fit to be true wives. My son will have to teach her.”

“He will not teach her anything,” Natalia snaps. “Now leave, William. You are drunk.”

But Chatworth does not leave. His face turns red and spittle flies from his lips.

“I’ve spent years feeding Joseph Sandrin to get Billy a place on Fennbirn. To get him a crown. I poisoned the elemental. And before that, the girl in Wolf Spring.”

“We will not forget it.” Natalia turns her back. A mistake, perhaps, but she cannot bear to look at him any longer. “You will have as much of our trade as I can manage; I do not think Nicolas’s family will be overly diligent. All that you lack is the title, and for that, you get to keep your son. That must please you, surely.”

He falls quiet, and Natalia begins scribbling on her letter again. His hands wrapping around her neck from behind are such a surprise that she does not even cry out.

He is strong and so angry that it is only moments before Natalia’s vision swims. Her hands claw at his fingers and then at her table for anything to help her. All she has is a glass paperweight, a pretty, lilac thing, rounded and not very large. A gift from Genevieve. She picks it up and twists as far as she can to smash it against the side of his head.

The blow is glancing but makes him stumble, and she falls to the ground, gasping. She tries to call for help, but her voice comes out a croak. Then William kicks her in the stomach, and every muscle in her body clenches tight.

He hits her. And hits her. Without a sound. She stares into his drunken, bloodshot eyes, hearing nothing but her heartbeat and his labored breathing.

I cannot end like this, she thinks. I am Natalia Arron.

She puts her arms up to fight, clawing wildly.

“Kat,” she gasps. “Katharine.”

And then Chatworth’s hands close around her throat again, and Natalia’s world goes dark.

Rho steps into the threshold to find the mainlander standing over Natalia.

“This is your fault,” he is muttering, and spits at the motionless body. “You should have done what you were to—”

His words cut off abruptly when Rho enters. She sweeps past him in her white robes and kneels to feel for Natalia’s pulse even though she knows she will not find one. Her neck is crushed. Her eyes are red with burst blood vessels.

“Clean it up,” the mainlander says. “Clean it up, and find me someone else to deal with.”

Rho stands. She looks him in the eyes. And without a word, she draws her serrated knife and sinks the blade deep between his ribs. The expression on his face as she carves him up from lungs to heart is delicious to her old war gift. Were it not for the vows she took to the temple to leave her gift behind, she would push him with her mind. Throw him up against the wall so hard he bounced.

“You . . . ,” he gasps. “You . . .”

“You should not have touched her, mainlander.”

She yanks her knife free. He staggers backward, his hand fluttering at the blood pouring from his side. Then he drops to the rug, dead even before he lands.

Rho cleans the blade on the black band of her robes. The blood can remain there for who knows how long, invisible, her secret badge. She calls out for aid, and two initiates come running.

They moan and clap their hands over their mouths when they reach the door.

“Roll him up in a rug,” Rho says. “And dispose of him in the river.”

It takes them too long to respond for her liking, but they are new, so she tries to be patient.

“What about . . . Mistress Arron?” asks the taller when she finds her voice.

Rho stares down at Natalia’s body. So much trouble she has caused them over the years. But Natalia was of the island. Of the Goddess, like Rho herself is. And at the end, she died an ally.

“Go and find her sister. Bring her here and tell her what has happened. Tell her gently.”





THE VOLROY CELLS





“I still do not understand,” Mirabella whispers. “So Katharine really did shoot you with the poisoned bolt?”

“Right,” Arsinoe says, lying on the floor of their cell, still pretending to be poisoned and dead.

“But you did not die of poison because you cannot die of poison. . . . Were you really wearing thick leather armor underneath your clothes?”

“No.”

“Then how did you not die of the bolt wound?”

“Just be glad I didn’t,” Arsinoe whispers. “Now go on weeping.”

Mirabella glances over her shoulder. Unlike Arsinoe, Mirabella was not born for the stage. Her fake cry sounds like a harbor seal Arsinoe and Jules found beside the cove once, with a bellyache and horrible gas.

“Not so loud,” Arsinoe hisses. “We don’t want them to give you all night to mourn! Just enough so they can hear you. And believe that I’m dead.”