Queens of Fennbirn (Three Dark Crowns 0.5)(6)

“Then we will never see Kat again. She will never be tall.”

“And you will never be smart!” Katharine hisses, and Mirabella laughs. They are so different, in character and in feature. Arsinoe’s scowl was apparent from the age of two. When Mirabella lost her baby cheeks, her fine bones and slender neck made her look every bit the oldest. And Katharine’s large, heavily lashed eyes were impossible to miss. Willa has not needed to use colored cords or buttons to tell them apart since they could crawl.

“What if we do not like them?” Katharine asks. “The people who come to take us?”

“You will,” Mirabella says. “You are going to Indrid Down. The capital city! Someday we will visit you there, and you must show us all around it.”

Willa turns to leave them alone. The families will arrive soon, and she must still get ready herself. The young queens’ laughter rings out and follows her down the hall.

“Have this, your last day as sweet girls,” she whispers. “For when you next meet, you will remember none of it.”





THE CLAIMING

Jules follows Aunt Caragh down the seldom-used path through the Greenwood that leads to the Black Cottage, where the queens are born. The path is not well-groomed, and brambles and prickers catch on the hem of her black skirt, and scratch against the leather of her boots. When they get back to the carriage, she will have to pick bits of plant from Juniper’s floppy ears and the pads of her paws.

“Keep up, Jules,” says Aunt Caragh, and Juniper turns and woofs. Jules does her best, a small girl on small legs—nothing like her aunt or even like the photos she has seen of her mother, Madrigal. Everyone in Wolf Spring talks about those Milone girls, with their shining light brown hair and swaying limbs like a willow’s branches. It makes Jules wonder who her short, dark father was and resent him a little.

In the carriage, Caragh had changed into her best black dress, the modest one with the high collar and shining buttons. She anointed her wrists and forehead with oil and swept her hair high off her neck, and though the rest of the family says that Madrigal is far prettier, to Juillenne, Caragh is very beautiful. Jules tried to do her hair like her aunt’s, but it was too wild and wavy. It fell out of its pins, and Jules feels ugly, and tied tight by the fastenings of her dress.

“Why didn’t we take the carriage to the Black Cottage?” she asks.

“Because the claiming is held in the high meadow,” Caragh replies. “And because this is queen business and all ritual. We must come from different directions and take them away in different directions.”

“That’s stupid.”

“Aye, and you’re not the only one who thinks so.” Caragh turns and smiles out of the side of her mouth. “But hold your tongue when we get there. They’ll be angry enough as it is that it’s you and I who have come, instead of your grandma Cait.”

Jules nods. She tries not to think ahead to the Black Cottage and what they will find there, instead daydreaming about returning to Wolf Spring, getting out of the hot, scratchy dress and into the cold, fresh water of Sealhead Cove, near Joseph’s house. On bright days she can see clear to the rocky bottom.

“Caragh!”

They turn to see a tall boy following them down the path, shaking leaves out of his hair and brushing dust off his vest and slacks. It is Matthew, Joseph’s brother, older than him by a full eleven years. Jules shouts his name and runs up the path to jump into his arms, and he tickles her belly until she is breathless.

“Matthew!” Caragh exclaims. “What are you doing here?”

“I missed you. So I waited a day and followed on horseback.”

“But you aren’t supposed to be here. And put my niece down. She’s had too much Sandrin influence already, cavorting with Joseph.” Despite her tone, Caragh goes and kisses Matthew’s cheek.

“She’s not the only Milone with a weakness for Sandrin boys,” he says.

“What’s ‘cavorting’?” asks Jules.

“Nothing,” both adults answer together.

“What are you doing here, Matthew?” Caragh asks. “I mean really.”

“I really did miss you,” he says. “And I couldn’t let you show up alone. Not with the grand crowds and caravans the Arrons and the Westwoods will be towing.”

“So Jules and I together is a shame, but you and I and Jules is not?”

“One Sandrin makes all the difference.”

“You know, there’s always the chance we could miss them. I didn’t push the horses to hurry through the mountains.”

Matthew shakes his head. “The sisters leave at the same time.” He bends down to Jules and makes a face. “Pulled apart screaming, like they’re pulling clots from wet wounds.”

“Matthew, that’s only a story,” scolds Caragh as Jules giggles. “And a terrible one.”

“Jules can handle it. She has picked her share of scabs. And if you wanted to shield her, you shouldn’t have brought her.”

The wind picks up and rushes through the trees, cold from coming down the face of Mount Horn and through the glen. It rattles branches and sends leaves flying past Jules’s cheeks.

“Seems like the Westwoods are just arriving.”

Maybe it is the elemental gift, or maybe it is only a spring breeze, but it makes Jules feel very insignificant suddenly, and she tugs on Caragh’s long, flowing skirt.