The Queen's Assassin (The Queen's Secret #1) - Melissa de la Cruz Page 0,25

deep blues, and light pinks.

“Which colors do you prefer, dear?” Missus Kingstone asks me, holding up the book. From her friendly tone, I know she assumes I must be thrilled about the silks and laces, but I can barely muster an opinion. Mostly I give her a tight smile, point at one or the other. She pats my leg. “Nervous, are you, dearie? Don’t be, you’ll be perfect,” she says, more to my aunts than to me.

My aunts match the woman’s cheer and fuss over the beautiful material, but I can tell it’s forced. Their exclamations are high-pitched and overdone; a show. “Oh!” they coo. “Would you look at this one, Shadow? Absolutely exquisite!” They never speak that way. It’s as if they’re lying to my face. I’d rather they say, “Shadow, we know this isn’t what you wanted, but there’s nothing we can do about it. It’s out of our hands. So just pick the fabrics and get this over and done.”

When the seamstress finally packs up her cart and heads back into town to begin making my fancy, unwanted finery, I help my aunts clear the table. Aunt Moriah tries to initiate conversation. “I adore that blue on the tea gown. It was a good choice. Reminds me of winter nights, when the moon is full—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I snap. From the corner of my eye, I see her exchange a knowing look with Aunt Mesha, who opens her mouth to speak but shuts it when Aunt Moriah shakes her head slightly.

“I’m going outside,” I tell them. Neither responds.

I stomp down the pebble path away from the cottage. I sense a hare chewing on bark before he sees me coming. They’re always out here trying to get into the vegetable garden. Usually, I slow down so as not to scare them, but at the moment I don’t care. He freezes, then hops off toward the field.

I clench my fists so hard my nails dig into my skin. I’m going to miss all this. The gardens, the beehives, even selling honey at the marketplace and bickering with my aunts.

But my future is no longer mine to decide. Resignation washes over me in a wave, so I start back toward the cottage. Everything— from the cozy house itself, with its patchy roof and the peeling picket fence around it, to the lanterns lit in the kitchen, and all the grounds surrounding it—seems shrouded in my sadness. I’m reminded of something I overheard my mother say to my aunts when I was younger: A dramatic little thing, isn’t she. I remember it exactly that way: a statement, not a question. Over what, I don’t recall, though I believe it was about a meal I didn’t want to eat. Something so simple, so common that children do, and my mother’s response was, “A dramatic little thing, isn’t she.”

The memory fuels my indignation for the next minute or so as I walk up the cobblestone path to the house. I’m snapped out of my self-pity when Aunt Moriah’s voice drifts out of the kitchen: “If the boy can’t do it, then what?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t know,” Aunt Mesha says. “I wish I could say otherwise.” And then something muffled.

“ . . . not what Cordyn wanted. Not at all,” Aunt Moriah is saying. They’re talking about Caledon’s father, the former Queen’s Assassin. I hear cupboards opening, closing. Dishes being put away.

“It would come down to Montrice, wouldn’t it?” Aunt Mesha says. “But who?”

More muffled talking. But clearly, no blocking spell. Maybe they didn’t want to take the time. Or forgot. Ever since they announced my departure, my aunts have seemed more and more distracted. I stop walking and listen more carefully.

“ . . . another Montrician spy has been discovered . . . sent up to Deersia this week . . .” Tidbits of their hushed conversation float on the air and I can feel my heart start to race.

Another prisoner is being sent to Deersia. That means another prison transport will be traveling up there very soon.

“It's all much too dangerous,” Aunt Mesha agrees. “And we’re supposed to send her anyway, as if none of this is happening? We could be dealing with anything. Anything! There’s no knowing what evil the Aphrasians are capable of unleashing. Shapeshifters, demons even.”

I can’t see inside the house, but I can picture Aunt Moriah’s frustrated hands emphasizing her words, and then smoothing back her blond hair when she’s finished speaking.