Two Dark Reigns (Three Dark Crowns #3)(66)

Katharine laughs, her head so far into a particularly deep shelf that the sound echoes. “If there had been such a poison, I would have nowhere near as many scars.”

“Kat,” Pietyr whispers, so suddenly close that she startles and hits her head. He is always so silent. She should make him start wearing more of that cologne she likes, so she can tell when he is coming.

“I am starting to find passages on the queens. So many different texts, it is difficult to keep track of them all, and I am only taking the volumes I most need to avoid suspicion.”

Katharine carefully extricates herself from the cabinet and looks into his excited eyes. Over his shoulder, Genevieve is not listening, occupied with an open book of poison notes in one hand and a bottle of yellow powder in another.

“There are passages about the dead sisters?”

“Not many. I did not really start to gain ground until I looked past them, into cases of spiritual possession.”

“Spiritual possession!” she hisses, and pulls him down low.

“That is, in essence, what they are.”

“They are more than that, Pietyr. They are queens.”

“Yes, but separating them from you may work in much the same way—”

She squares her shoulders and returns to her cabinet.

“I cannot entertain this right now.”

“But I thought we agreed—”

“Yes, but . . . not now, Pietyr! With a rebellion rising under Jules Milone? I cannot let them go right when I might need them.” When he starts to argue further, she reaches up and takes his face in her hands. “Not now. Not yet.” Then she looks away before he can begin to doubt.

“Very well, my love.” He steps away, voice terse. “Another day. Today, however, you should be wearing an apron. And better gloves than these. Borrowed gifts or no, some of the poisons in this room could still mean your death.”

“This reminds me,” Genevieve calls from across the study. “We should have the poison room at the Volroy restocked. Even some of these here in Natalia’s private collection are better than what the castle has on hand.”

“Not a terrible idea.” Pietyr pulls one of Natalia’s journals from her desk. “Though there are more pressing things to deal with just now.”

“Yes, yes, nephew. Like raising more soldiers for the royal army. But Rho Murtra is seeing to that. And a poisoner should never settle for substandard poisons. Most of the restocking we could pull from the inventory here at Greavesdrake. Our poison room has always been better anyway.”

Katharine touches the bottles affectionately. Most of the labels were written in Natalia’s own hand. Some contain Natalia’s own special concoctions.

“I should have a cabinet made specifically for Natalia’s creations. With silver fastenings and a glass door. The last poisons of a great poisoner.”

She and Genevieve smile at each other. Pietyr turns and taps a page from the notebook.

“It says here that Natalia once crafted a poison that induced an agreeable delirium.”

“That might work.” Katharine turns to the shelves as Pietyr comes to scan them. He plucks it from near the top: a tall purple bottle. “Is it preserved?”

“If it was not, she would not have kept it.”

“Does the delirium outpace the agreeable portion?” Genevieve asks. “What do the notes say?”

“She designed it specifically for interrogation.” He gives the murky liquid a gentle shake and removes the stopper to sniff. “Sharply herbal and very alcoholic. With a fungal note, right at the end.”

“There is so little of it left,” says Katharine.

“But I think she would want you to use it. She would want them used for you and for some important purpose.” He looks back down at Natalia’s notes. “I would say we could try to duplicate the recipe, but that is risky. We have only one chance to administer it.”

“Why? It does not result in immunity?”

“No,” he says. “It results in death.”

The next morning, Katharine, Pietyr, and Genevieve ride back to the Volroy together after a night spent at Greavesdrake. It was refreshing, to have a whole evening in quiet, with familiar, discreet servants and warm cups of Edmund’s mangrove tea. A whole night with Pietyr in her old bedroom.

The carriage crests the hill, and Katharine looks upon the massive twin spires. Once, it was a true fortress, the capital not much more than the palace and what could fit inside the border wall. Now Indrid Down stretches far inland, north, west, and east to the harbor. What remains of the wall is barely visible at this distance, so low and worn down and overgrown with moss. Its stone torn out long ago and used to build up other things.

When they arrive through the large open gates, Katharine knows that the oracle has arrived. It is the only reason she can think of for Rho to meet the carriage.

“They have brought the oracle,” Katharine says as she steps out.

“Yes.”

“How long ago?”

“Two hours, perhaps,” Rho answers. “Her journey was long, so Luca ordered her housed in the East Tower with a hot meal and a bath.”

Genevieve snorts. “Not to the cells, then?”

“It is Theodora Lermont,” Rho says by way of explanation. “An elder. Respected by all in Sunpool. They say that visions bubble forth from her like water in a brook.”