The Queen's Poisoner (Kingfountain, #1)(50)

It hurt to be forced like this. But he gave way, as part of him knew he must. “I will,” he mumbled with a hint of regret. Why did she have to make things so difficult? “I promise you, Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer, that I won’t come here alone. This is our secret place.” Then he smirked. “I won’t tell your grandfather, either.” She seemed to grin and frown at the same time, which he knew was not possible, and added a shove as well.

“I promise,” he finished.

He stared into her eyes, those strange bewitching eyes.

Part of him wanted to go to the North with her to see the waterfalls she had described. To stand on the bridge overlooking the drop. What would it be like, he wondered, to go over the falls? It was a punishment given to those who broke sanctuary or broke troth to the king. His brother Jorganon had likely perished this way. He thought of the river rushing past Our Lady and the tumultuous falls just beyond. What would it feel like . . . ?

“Thank you,” the Mortimer girl said, and then leaned forward and kissed his cheek. She took his hand in hers.

“Can I call you something else?” he blurted out.

She looked confused. “Something else? What do you mean?”

He wasn’t sure how to say it, exactly, and he worried she would get upset. “It’s just that . . . well . . . your name is so long.”

“You don’t like my name?” Her eyes were wide with growing surprise.

“I love your name. I just don’t like saying it all every time I want to talk to you. You call me Owen. That’s short. I thought maybe I could call you something short, too. Just between us.”

She stared at him, her lips pressed tight, and he could see her consternation. “Like what?” she asked.

“I don’t know. It’s just an idea. I know you like your middle name, so maybe something that mixes it with your first? I was thinking . . . Evie.”

Her expression changed into a pleased smile when he said the name. “Evie. It’s a girl’s name, first of all. It means ‘lively.’ Do you think I’m lively?”

He couldn’t think of a better word to describe her and nodded eagerly. He hadn’t known the origin of the name before suggesting it. She was smarter than him that way.

She tapped her chin, thinking about it, as if it were the biggest decision in her life. “Well, I don’t think I’d mind too much . . . but I’d only let you call me that. A pet name.” She sat a little straighter, even though her clothes were sopping wet and her hair was scraggly. “Very well, Owen Kiskaddon. You may call me Evie.”

She continued to hold his hand as they walked back to the window from which they’d come. It was still ajar, still waiting for them. Owen helped her climb up, and after she listened at the tapestry for noises, she knelt on the ledge and helped him climb up. They scooted down and shut the window behind them, keeping the secret.

The desire to go back to the cistern and swim for the treasure was fading as they walked. She started chattering about something, her dark hair stringy and damp, her boots squeaking as they walked.

Turning the corner, they collided with a huge, fat man, and the impact nearly knocked them both down.

It was Mancini. Owen’s heart startled with fear, but he also felt a thrill—they had not been caught at the cistern.

“What are you doing over here?” the fat man asked in a chuffed voice. “Why are you so wet?”

“You know us, Mancini,” Evie said, grabbing Owen’s hand and swinging his arm. “We love to play in the fountains!”

“It’s disrespectful to play in fountains,” he said, his eyes narrowing.

“You did it,” Owen rebuffed, reminded of Mancini’s game with the pigeons at the sanctuary. The boy startled. He had spoken to an adult, to someone he normally feared.

Mancini stared at him as if he had suddenly sprouted a second nose. “Have you decided to start speaking at last, Master Kiskaddon? Is Lady Mortimer’s banter contagious?”

“It’s Elysabeth Victoria Mortimer,” Owen said challengingly. He felt a little naughty, defying a grown-up.

Then he gripped her hand and pulled her away before Mancini could ask any more questions.





The kingdom of Ceredigion has an interesting method for burying the dead, involving its rivers and waterfalls. When a person dies, they are not laid in a tomb or a sarcophagus—they are laid in a narrow boat or canoe with a few worldly possessions and set loose into a river near the falls. According to superstition, they are transported to the world of the Deep Fathoms after tumbling off the falls. This is why coins are tossed into fountains. They petition the dead for miracles in our world. Not only are the dead handled this way, it is also a form of justice for capital crimes. Someone guilty of treason is tied up in a canoe and shoved into the river. Vigilante justice dispenses with the boat altogether. If someone survives the fall, they are deemed innocent by the Fountain. You can imagine that only a few ever survive such an ordeal. I heard from Ratcliffe that Lord Asilomar failed his test of loyalty to the king and he, along with his children, will be “disembarking” from Our Lady tomorrow at noon. There is always a crowd at such events.



—Dominic Mancini, Espion of the Palace Kitchen





CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


Pinecone