Two Dark Reigns (Three Dark Crowns #3)(21)

“No thank you,” Bree says. “And please do not go to any similar trouble. I doubt if I will ever trust this council enough to eat anything that is in this room.”

The chamber falls silent, except for Antonin, who makes a disgusted sound.

“How then are we supposed to govern together?”

“Reconciling a new council with the old is always difficult,” High Priestess Luca says.

“Or so you have heard,” says Rho. “The poisoners have grasped on to it for so long, who can really remember?”

For a moment, Katharine wishes she had not dismissed Margaret Beaulin, so she might see war gift against war gift and Rho’s face smashed into the table.

“It is so dark in here.” Bree flicks her wrist, and the flames on every candelabra flare, so high that Genevieve must move a vase of pink roses so they will not scorch. “And so still, without any windows.”

“There is a window.” Katharine looks upward, into the shadows of the high ceiling, where windows were cut out of the stone to circulate the air in case the doors were to be sealed.

“Well, it is so far up that it hardly matters.” Bree slips her summer wrap off her shoulders. Her dress is deep blue embroidered with black, and very elemental, the skirt swaying with movement. The V in her bodice is so deep that Pietyr must be careful to keep from looking.

“If someone else . . .” She pauses. “Someone with a gift for weather were here, perhaps—we could draw in a decent breeze.”

Katharine notes the delicate pulse in Bree’s throat. She notes the largeness of her eyes. The open V of the bodice exposing her heart like a bull’s-eye. So many places to sink a knife. Bree Westwood is foolish indeed to speak so when the dead queens are there to hear. To see. They boil so high inside Katharine that she can almost taste their rotten flesh on the back of her tongue.

Quiet, quiet. To kill another queen is one thing. To kill a member of the council . . . Well, she must truly earn such a punishment.

“Shall we to actual council business?” Pietyr cocks an eyebrow. “There has been unrest amongst the people concerning the bodies of the traitor queens. We keep expecting them to wash ashore, though I have heard some priestesses say it is more likely that the Goddess will keep them.” He looks at Luca, whose mouth has set in a grim line.

“That may be true,” Genevieve says, all too happy to pick up this line of conversation. “Still, would it be too much to ask for the legion-cursed naturalist to wash ashore? Or the mainland suitor? I would even settle for a few pieces of the Wolf Spring boy.”

“I would settle for the cougar,” Antonin says, and the old Black Council laughs.

“That is enough,” Katharine interjects. But she cannot stop herself from smiling. “If it will put the people’s minds at ease, arrange for boats and small crews to sail out of the harbor to search. Pay them well, and offer an extra reward to any who return with evidence. Whole or in pieces.” She turns toward Luca and Bree. “Now. Shall we plan your welcome banquet?”





BASTIAN CITY




That night, Emilia takes Jules to a pub, promising that it will remind her of home and that she could even venture to bring Camden, as the proprietors are loyal to the Vatros clan. But the moment that Jules enters, through an entrance down an alley, her hackles rise. It is less a pub than an underground room of stone with a partial dirt floor, and in the many weeks that Jules has been in Bastian, Emilia has never mentioned it. Yet she is obviously a regular, touching the shoulder of nearly everyone she passes and nodding to the two men behind the bar.

“What is this place?”

“We call it ‘the Bronze Whistle,’” Emilia answers. “Try the chicken and the wine. Stay clear of the ale, unless Berkley pours it.”

Jules glances at the bartenders. She could not guess which one was Berkley, though both look nice enough, sweating a little and working hard. The tall one with the slight reddish beard catches her watching and gives her a wink.

“They have food here?”

“Of course! Takes a while to get it. We’re underneath a manor house. They let us run through their halls and use their kitchens, for a fee.”

“So this is a club, of sorts?”

“Of sorts.”

Emilia leads them through the room, lit a bright gaslight yellow. It is quieter now than when they came in, as people stop talking to gawk and mutter about her cougar. Camden yowls happily at the smell of chicken and jumps onto a tabletop. The girls seated there shout, “Oi,” and move their mugs out of the way of her sweeping tail.

“Sorry,” Jules mutters, and they cock their eyebrows. She coaxes Camden down and follows Emilia to a corner table, untucking the short hair behind her ears so it can swing past her face. She has not had so many eyes on her since the day in the arena at the Queens’ Duel.

“What will you have?” Emilia asks. “I mean, besides the chicken?”

“The good ale, I suppose.”

Emilia slaps her palms down on the table and turns to a server. “Three dishes of the chicken and two mugs of Berkley’s ale. And a bowl of water, for the cat.”

Camden, never one to skulk on the floor, hops onto the wall bench to wait for dinner. Still so many eyes on them, and just as many watching Jules as the cougar.

“When will they stop staring?”