Queens of Fennbirn (Three Dark Crowns 0.5)(9)

She tries to catch Sara’s attention again, to show her that she is a queen, that she has been raised as one and knows how to behave. At the cottage, with her sisters, Mirabella never felt small, and as the oldest, she never felt young. But she feels both very small and very young in the carriage full of Westwoods. Finally, after a long time of silence, she falls asleep, curled up into the seat with her legs tucked into her skirt.

“Queen Mirabella.”

She wakes to a hand on her shoulder.

“You slept a long time. We are here. Home, at Westwood House.”

Mirabella opens her eyes. They have been many days in the carriage and only stopped to change horses, never to sleep in a proper bed. In between griping about the Arrons, Sara had muttered about the preciousness of the queen and how important it was to get her back to Rolanth quickly. But as Mirabella steps out of the carriage on wobbly legs, she does not feel like a queen at all. Only dirty and hungry and faintly ashamed.

She looks up, blinking in the bright light, at Westwood House. It is indeed a grand place, at least twice the size of the Black Cottage. The carriage is stopped before the front steps, parked on a stone-paved drive that circles a tall, gurgling fountain.

“You are most welcome here, Queen Mirabella,” Sara says, seemingly more at ease now within the confines of her property, high in the hills above the city proper and surrounded by evergreens.

“It is red,” says Mirabella, and Sara raises her eyebrows.

“Ah. Yes. Old red brick. Perhaps you expected the limestone white and marble of the rest of the city.”

She had not known what to expect. She moves off the drive and up the walk to the house, where the small staff of servants stands assembled to greet her. On the end, a little girl about Mirabella’s age is straining against the hand of one of the maids. She wriggles with silent ferocity until she pulls free and races to stop before Mirabella and Sara.

The girl is so excited she is about to burst, yanking on the ends of her bright brown braids.

“Mother,” she groans finally. “Introduce me!”

“Queen Mirabella, this is my daughter, Bree.”

Bree reaches out immediately and takes Mirabella’s hands.

“I am going to be your foster sister,” she says. “Our rooms are very close. On the same floor. I always wanted Mother to have more babies, but so far she has not, but I am so excited you are here!”

“Give the queen some room to breathe,” Sara says, and Bree quiets. She does not let go of Mirabella’s hands, only drops one and moves to the side. Mirabella tries to listen as they take her through the vast house, and Bree is kind, and it is nice to be looked at again and called by her name. But when they finally leave her alone in her new, richly furnished bedroom, she sinks down beside the bed and hugs her knees. Bree wants to be a good foster sister, but she is no replacement for Arsinoe and Katharine.

“Be brave,” she says to herself. “Do not cry.”

For many weeks afterward, Mirabella does her best to appear cheerful and to be good and dutiful, for Willa has taught her that being a queen is about serving as much as it is about ruling. She goes where she is told to go and wears what she is told to wear. She compliments the Westwoods’ household, their cooks, their city, and their fashion sense. She keeps her own room tidy and tries to help Bree to tidy hers (though that may truly be a lost cause) and impresses Sara with her grasp of the estate accounts.

For a while it seems that all will go as planned. The Westwoods are pleased, and parade her about Rolanth like a new and prized horse. She makes appearances at the best stalls in Penman Market and at the best shops in the high street. She prays to the Goddess every evening before the altar in Rolanth Temple. And everywhere she goes, the people of the city gawk. They stare and they whisper, and the bravest of them touch her clothes: the edge of her sleeve or the hem of her skirt. They ask questions about her, but never of her: “Is it true that her gift came when she could barely walk?” “Is it true that she has command of all the elements? And even the weather?” “I heard rumor that she has a temper, but she seems perfectly sweet and docile. . . . What chance does a docile queen have, even with a gift as strong as hers?”

Always, Sara answers for her with confidence, though Mirabella does not understand why they are shocked that she is strong or why her chances must be good. She wonders about it, but does not worry, for Sara seems to wave it off, and it must be something far away.

For a time, it seems that it may all be well, until one afternoon when Mirabella and Bree sneak into Sara’s sitting room to surprise her with some raspberry cake.

The girls steal into the room like thieves, each holding one side of a silver tray. They duck down behind the arm of the sofa, and Bree presses her lips tightly together to stifle a giggle. The cake is not much to look at, but they iced it themselves with swirls of raspberry frosting, and the taste is very good; not too dry and not too sweet. Sara will like it. She will press her palms to her cheeks and close her eyes on the first bite. Then she will gather Bree and Mirabella in her arms so they can help her eat the rest.

They bring her so many surprises like this that Mirabella wonders how she can still be so surprised every time.

“It is a long time until the Ascension,” Sara says to Uncle Miles, who is seated across from her in the green chair. Sara’s sitting room is full of the swirling blues and blue-greens that she favors, and often being in it feels to Mirabella like being underwater. It is a calming room. An elegant space. And she and Bree are mischievous dolphins.