Two Dark Reigns (Three Dark Crowns #3)(30)

“Time and distance do not mean the same things within the mist. Nothing means the same thing within the mist. As much as we would like to know what befell your searchers, we will probably never know.”

And with that the High Priestess bows and walks away.

“She is an irksome old thing,” Genevieve says after Luca is gone. “But I think she is right. Better to put this incident behind us. The people see the mist as the guardian of the island. For it to behave so alarmingly . . . We are lucky it has been quiet since then. And who knows? This story the High Priestess spins about the mist bringing the bodies home to you, maybe it will work. Maybe it is even true.”

“In case it is not,” says Katharine, “I would learn more about the mist. Perhaps even about the Blue Queen who created it. Will you look into it for me, Genevieve? Discreetly?”

“If you wish it.” One of the bees hovering near the roses buzzes too close to Genevieve’s hair, and she waves her hand at it. Then she cries out when it stings her on the finger.

“Now you have killed it.”

“It stung me!”

“And how many times did you sting me as a child? Stop being such a baby about it.”

Genevieve bows and stalks out of the garden, sucking on her wounded finger. As a poisoner with a strong gift, the venom from the bee’s sting will not even cause swelling. It will not be more than a momentary pain.

Katharine looks back at the roses. The dead naturalist queens always make her feel the calmest, drawing her into the flowers or urging her toward the stables to ride. But the talk of the mist has put all the dead sisters on edge.

“You know as well as I do,” she says to them. “The mist is not finished.”





THE MAINLAND




In the morning, Arsinoe and Mirabella get ready for the governor’s wife’s birthday party.

“We must try to be polite,” Mirabella says as she stands behind Arsinoe at their vanity table, trying to pin Arsinoe’s short black hair to the sides of her head. “We must try to smile at Mrs. Chatworth and Miss Jane.”

“I’ll try.” Arsinoe coughs as Mirabella puffs loose powder over the redness of her scar, but when she is done, it only looks like a powdered scar. Her mark of the bear refuses to hide.

“We are here on their goodwill. On their charity.”

“I know. It’s just . . . harder to move on for some of us.”

In the mirror, Mirabella’s face falls. “I didn’t mean that,” Arsinoe says. “I just meant you’re better at pretending to be one of them in a crowd.”

“Only because I am already used to wearing dresses. We should hurry and choose yours. Not the gray. It looks like a potato sack. What about the blue? With the black ribbon at the hem?”

“No,” says Arsinoe. “No dresses. A jacket and vest will do.”

Mirabella sighs and stops fussing with Arsinoe’s hair. “What did you dream, last night? Do not lie.”

“I dreamed of arranging secret meetings between Henry Redville and Queen Illiann. To give him an advantage before she meets the other suitors at the Disembarking.”

“Met,” Mirabella says with a frown. “Met. This is all in the past. None of it can be changed. It is only some trick of the island, some lingering grasp it has on us. And you were the girl again? Daphne?”

“I was.” Arsinoe squints at her sister in the mirror. “Did you know there are secret passageways hidden behind tapestries hanging in the Volroy?”

“How would I know that? I have never been there, except for the cells. Nor have you.”

“Except that’s how I snuck Henry through undetected.”

“Was there anything else about this dream?” Mirabella asks. “Anything important? Did you see hints of why the Blue Queen would send you these visions? You said you thought Daphne in love with Henry herself. But we know he becomes Queen Illiann’s king-consort. Did it seem that Daphne would try to betray Queen Illiann?”

“No. She and Illiann are already close friends. Is that why Illiann is giving me the dreams? Is she teaching me a lesson?”

“I do not know.” Mirabella turns away to dress herself. “But until the governor’s party is over, let us try to forget it.”

Governor Hollen’s mansion is just outside the city, a large estate surrounded by trees. As their carriage makes its way up the long circle drive, Arsinoe is reminded of the Black Cottage. The buildings have similar white exteriors and dark timbering, though the brick of the Hollen foundation is a bright red-orange.

“Not bad,” she says, and whistles.

“Hush.” Mrs. Chatworth reaches across the carriage and slaps Arsinoe’s shoulder. She has not spoken to her since she came down the stairs wearing trousers and a black vest.

“She was paying them a compliment, Mother,” says Billy. He takes Arsinoe’s hand.

“Just keep her to the rear. Show Miss Mirabella to the front. At least she knows how to dress decently.”

In ivory lace and green ribbon, Mirabella hardly looks like a queen at all. But that is what mainland fashion demands. The only thing Mrs. Chatworth complained about was her hair. She wanted ringlets, but Mirabella refused to use the hot metal iron. With her weakening gift, she could be burned, and Arsinoe imagines that for a girl who used to dance with fire, there could be nothing worse.