of the girl is missing, including her head. Her other half, with one arm and one leg still attached, lies twitching in the dirt.
“Do you still think Mirabella is in this mist?” Pietyr asks. He grabs her by the shoulder and shoves her toward the girl’s body. “This is what is spread upon the battlefield. This is what will cover the entire island! Right now, somewhere behind us or in front of us or around us, everyone you know—it could be happening to them!”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” She jerks away and hits him hard, the back of her fist against his chest. “I know that!”
“Then do something about it! Get us out of here! But do not let go of me.” He tightens his grip on her hand. “I think you are the only reason I am not”—he nods to the body at their feet—“in pieces.”
“What would you have me do?” Arsinoe asks. “Mirabella was the one who could face the mist. She was the elemental; I’m just a poisoner like you. So why don’t you do something?”
His icy eyes snap to hers.
“You are not just a poisoner, Arsinoe. Nor are you merely a naturalist. You are a queen.”
She takes a deep breath. Queen she may be, yet the mist presses in on her like a weight. At any moment, Pietyr will be snatched away from her into the white, and she will be alone.
“I know the mist,” she says quietly. “And I know who made it. And I am a queen, though not like any queen the island has seen before. We none of us were.” She reaches for her small sharp knife. She remembers Mirabella’s last letter.
Me to face down the mist. Katharine to be the vessel. And you to banish them with low magic.
“There was only ever one thing that I was good at.” She links her arm through Pietyr’s and draws the blade across her hand. “And I won’t be ashamed of it anymore.” She holds her hand before her face and lets her blood drip down her wrist as her voice grows louder. “The dead queens started this fight. But it is the living ones who will finish it.” She bares her teeth and slams her palm into the soil.
A great wind rushes down, and Pietyr ducks close, trying to cover her. The mist churns, and voices and cries echo from inside it. Perhaps it is Illiann. Maybe it is Daphne. But though she strains, she does not hear Mirabella.
She closes her eyes and presses her hand harder into the ground, and suddenly the air is light. She opens her eyes. They are in the courtyard beyond the front gates of the Volroy.
“How?” Pietyr asks, rising slowly.
“Don’t ask questions. It’s where we were meant to be.” Arsinoe rises and runs ahead, into the fortress.
Katharine is in her room beside the fire when she hears Arsinoe call her name. It has been so long since she has heard her voice, and she is surprised to find that the sound is a relief.
The castle is nearly empty; there will be no members of the Black Council and no soldiers to impede her. All that remains is to choose the place.
Katharine touches the knives at her waist, her dear, poisoned blades. Though against Arsinoe, the poison does not matter.
The dead queens who remain with her slither furtively into her blood. They prod gently, meek without the strength of their numbers.
“Hush,” Katharine whispers to them. “It is almost time for you to face my sister.”
THE BATTLEFIELD
Emilia lies frozen in place as she watches Jules and Rho Murtra circle each other. Arsinoe was right. Jules is beyond her. There is nothing she can do, to help, to protect, to stop what is coming.
“Emilia!”
She looks to her right and sees Mathilde. The oracle has taken an arrow to her shoulder but fights on bravely, shoving soldiers back and waving her sword arm to signal rebellion flags. At her order, the reserves come, spilling from the northwest hill like ants. Watching them, Emilia feels a tightness in her throat. They are so brave. Despite the mist and despite the monster the Undead Queen sent for them, they do not flee.
“Mathilde!” Emilia struggles to her feet. Mathilde is unhorsed, and her yellow cape is stained dark with mud. Many of the oracles have fallen, their colors easy to see in the dirt. But a few still fight on.
“We have to hold the line,” Mathilde shouts. “Draw the western flank of