Queens of Fennbirn (Three Dark Crowns 0.5)(10)

“Already the city loves her,” says Miles. “There are so many offerings now at the temple. So many lit candles. She will have all the support she needs. We do not need the Black Council. And we do not need to fear the Arrons.”

“We all need to fear the Arrons. Westwoods, elementals, down to the last—we ought to fear them. They are too strong now and dug in like ticks. We have the chosen queen, but they will not give way easily. I would not be surprised if it costs more than queensblood to place Mirabella on the throne.”

The smiles fade from Bree’s and Mirabella’s faces. They have come at a bad time. Sara’s voice is unhappy and serious, and Uncle Miles is not his usual lighthearted self.

“Whatever the cost,” says Miles, “it will be worth it. The poisoners have had their way for too long. Choked us with taxation and mainland tariffs. Rolanth was the jewel of the island in Grandmother’s time. And when she fought their injustices, they put her in a cell. Poisoned her in the dark with one of their concoctions.”

“I have not forgotten, Miles.”

“No one has. But it will stop now. Queen Arsinoe and Queen Katharine . . .”

Mirabella freezes at the mention of her sisters’ names.

“They are weak. Mirabella will kill them easily. Quickly. Certainly faster than any of these poisoner queens have managed to kill their sisters.”

Mirabella looks at Bree. Bree’s eyes are wide, but out of fear, not of surprise. Mirabella’s world tilts as she half listens to Sara going on about unclear oracles and quick deaths, death by lightning bolt or death by fire. Kill Arsinoe and Katharine. It is so terrible that she almost laughs. She must have misheard. How could anyone ever think to kill Arsinoe and Katharine? How could anyone ever think that she would?

The tray of raspberry cake clatters to the floor, the icing smearing across the deep blue rug like sea foam. Sara and Uncle Miles leap to their feet.

“Queen Mirabella! Bree!” Sara glares at her daughter. “What in the world are you doing?”

“We brought you cake,” Bree answers, and begins to cry.

Neither adult moves to comfort her. They stare at Mirabella, afraid.

“You want me to kill my sisters?” she asks, and neither replies. Bree cries harder. Bree is a child. A little girl. But though they are the same age, Mirabella is no child. She is a queen. An eldest triplet.

“Mirabella,” Uncle Miles says. “Why worry about such dull, grown-up business? And now we have frightened you and ruined this sweet surprise.”

“No. What you were saying before,” Mirabella says, undeterred. “A queen is to kill her sisters?”

“Mirabella—”

“Tell me!” When Mirabella shouts, a crack of lightning rattles the house, and even Sara flinches.

“You should not have heard this,” Sara says. “There is plenty of time for such difficult things when you are older.”

“But it is true,” says Mirabella, and outside the rain starts. It pelts the roof and the sides of the house, harder and harder, turning to hail, and thunder booms against the cliffs of the Blackway, growing louder until Bree covers her ears.

Sara reaches for the queen, but Mirabella screams and sends the flames in the candles high, scorching the walls. “Miles! Bree! Put them out!”

Little Bree is too afraid to move, but Miles clenches his teeth, pitting his gift against the queen’s. He is older, and more practiced, and the candles snuff to smoke. But neither he nor Sara nor anyone else can stop the ferocity of the storm.

“Queen Mirabella, please!”

Shutters tear loose from the house. Windows rattle and threaten to shatter. Lightning strikes so close that the foundation shakes, and every elemental inside feels the electricity through the bottoms of their feet.

“I will not!” Mirabella screeches. “I will never, I will never, I will n—”

The storm eases when she falls to the floor, after Miles leaped behind her and used a heavy lamp to strike her on the back of the head.





GREAVESDRAKE MANOR

Queen Katharine walks through the hallways of Greavesdrake Manor, holding tight to the seam of Edmund the butler’s pant leg. The great house that the Arron family occupies is easy to get lost in and makes Katharine feel even smaller than she already is. Last week in the library she had to fight her way out of the folds of a curtain. And the ballroom is so large that the entire Black Cottage could fit inside.

As they go down the halls, their footsteps echo, and Katharine keeps glancing behind them, sure that Miss Genevieve is lurking about, ready to jump out and frighten her. The game was funny at first, but grows less so due to its frequency, and Miss Genevieve pinches hard enough to leave marks.

“There is no one back there, little queen,” Edmund says. He looks down and winks at her over the top of his silver tray. “Miss Genevieve is already in the courtyard with the others. They have been playing croquet.”

“She must like that game very much,” says Katharine. “Since it lets her use such a big mallet.”

Edmund chuckles, and she giggles back, though she does not know what is funny. Genevieve would like things with big mallets. She seems to like anything that allows her to hit.

They wind through the rear kitchens and step outside to make their way to the courtyard. The Arrons had erected black-and-white tents; more shade for visiting family than the alder trees could provide. Edmund leads her to the largest tent, where Natalia sits, watching her sister, Genevieve, and brother, Antonin, play a round with the younger cousins.