Queens of Fennbirn (Three Dark Crowns 0.5)(40)

“This is coming along nicely,” he said when he reached her, and bowed. He ran his hand along one of the interior walls, up the arch of the doorway to squeeze the keystone with his fingertips. The door led to a large chamber with several windows. “Will this be yours?”

“You could say the West Tower will be all mine. All of the queen’s apartments contained within.” She peered with him into the new space, still dusty from construction. “But no. My personal chambers are a floor below. Already complete. Perhaps I’ll give these to my king-consort. Or perhaps not. I’d rather not hear him creeping past my floor on his way to . . . somewhere or other.”

“In any case, the king-consort’s rooms should be beneath the queen’s.”

Elsabet smiled. “What have you brought me?”

At the question, Jonathan ran back into the hall and returned with the covered canvas. He studied the light quickly before placing the easel to catch the soft afternoon sun. Then he uncovered the portrait.

Elsabet could hardly take it all in. It was as if he had taken Midsummer and made it tiny, such was the exactness of his rendering. The food piled high on the banquet table looked good enough to eat. And she even remembered seeing those exact familiar-dogs, brown-and-white with curling tails, a pair of them seated with great composure to one side, awaiting scraps.

The Volroy rose up in the background, a dark, majestic giant, even as the black stones were kissed with summer light.

“You have placed me down among them, not high up on a dais,” Elsabet said.

“I thought you would prefer that. It—it suited the composition.”

She nodded. It was the most accurate representation she had ever seen of herself. No great beauty. He had not embellished or softened her features. Yet somehow he had captured the air of her, the spirit. He made her eyes warm and sparkling, her expression confident and capable. She was, in his eyes, a handsome queen.

“The Volroy is unfinished, as you can see. I wanted to await your instruction, on how it should be depicted.”

“Good,” she said. “In due time. There is no hurry.” Her fingers floated above the canvas. He did not need to ask whether she was pleased. She had not smiled so broadly in weeks.

“My queen, there was something else.”

“Please, Jonathan, call me by my name. I give you leave.”

“Queen Elsabet,” he amended, and blushed. “There was something else. Have you . . . Has there been any noticeable weakening of your sight gift?”

“What?”

“Forgive me,” he said quickly. “It is just that I have been evaluating the ingredients of the tonic you take, and I believe it may be harmful to you. And your gift.”

Elsabet turned away from the painting. “That’s not possible. The tonic comes from Gilbert. I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

“Of course. Though perhaps he is as well? He is not a poisoner; he would not know. Do you know where he got it? Would you allow me to investigate the matter further?”

Elsabet blinked. It made no sense, what he was saying. Gilbert would never harm her. Her gift was sacred to him. And he was her foster brother. Her only family. “There must be an explanation.”

“Of course.”

“And my gift is not gone,” she said, lowering her voice. “I had a vision, not long ago. Well, not a vision, I suppose. But a dream.”

“A dream? Is that common?”

“No. But it has proven true, and that is all that matters.” She watched him from the corner of her eye. “I dreamed of you, Jonathan Denton. I knew you before we met.”





INDRID DOWN

When Rosamund opened the door to her family home, she found Catherine Howe, her head covered by a dark hood.

“Is the maid here already?” Catherine asked as Rosamund motioned for her to come inside.

“She is. Though we didn’t expect you to be so quick.”

Catherine took her hood down and shook out her pretty brown-gold curls. “When someone asks for information from the Howe spies, it is never long in coming.”

“Very well,” said Rosamund. “Bess is waiting down this way.”

They had taken only a few steps when three little girls ran squealing past, batting at each other with small wooden swords, and knocked Catherine up against the wall. They were so frenzied and focused on their battle play that they clogged the narrow hall, and Rosamund had to scoop up the smallest one and put her on her shoulders in order to let them pass.

“My apologies,” Rosamund said, and then laughed as the little girl beat her about the head with the wooden sword butt. “It is often this way in an Antere house.”

Catherine squinted up at the little girl as she bashed Rosamund’s skull. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

“A little.” Rosamund reached up and prodded the child in the ribs until she surrendered in peals of laughter. Once they cleared the hall, the girl slipped down and tore off in the other direction to rejoin the game. Rosamund gestured through a doorway. Inside, Bess was already waiting, seated at a table before a bottle of whiskey and three cups.

“Shouldn’t you close the door?” Catherine asked, looking behind them.

“Are you so afraid of a few little warriors?” Rosamund chuckled. “Never mind about the door. My mother is resting and my brothers are deep into a card game in the kitchen with their wives. And besides, all are loyal.”