The Queen's Assassin (Queen's Secret #1) - Melissa de la Cruz Page 0,27
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. I’m certain she is closing her eyes and shaking her head at that very moment. “Oh, Mesha. This again? The king is dead and has been for centuries!” says Moriah. “Those are just fairy tales meant to scare children.”
“We can agree to disagree,” Mesha says. “Until I’m proven right, of course.”
“Well, for our sakes, I hope not,” Moriah says, putting an end to the conversation. “Shadow should be back any minute anyhow.”
After that all I hear is the sound of pots being put away and water from the kitchen pump filling the sink. I’ve never heard them speak this way before—I always thought such creatures were old wives’ tales—myths born from whispers and shadows in the forest. I wait, hoping they say more about monsters, or about the prisoner. My mind races. There will be another prison cart headed to Deersia . . . where they are keeping Caledon. Suddenly, a plan begins to form in my mind . . .
I stay outside long enough to keep them from knowing I eavesdropped, and then walk up the porch steps loudly and open the back door.
“Feeling any better?” Aunt Mesha asks me.
I just shrug. I don’t want the energy buzzing through my veins to be mistaken for newfound willingness.
“Maybe we all need a good night’s sleep,” Aunt Moriah says. She sets a cup of chamomile and cream in front of me. “What do you say we all turn in early and start fresh again in the morning?”