he closes his eyes. “Katharine,” he says. “Sweet, foolish, Katharine. I do not know what I am doing.”
He rolls onto his side and then grasps her chin. “Do you remember the way to the Breccia Domain?” he asks.
“Yes, I think so.”
“It is there,” he says, and points through the tent in the direction of the southern woods. “Through the trees behind the five-sided tent with white rope. Straight back from there until you reach the stones and the fissure. You have to cross the stream. Do you remember?”
“I remember, Pietyr. You lifted me over the water.”
“But I will not, tomorrow night. I will not be able to.”
“What do you mean?” Katharine asks.
“Listen to me, Kat,” Pietyr says. “Natalia thinks that she has this all in hand. But if she does not . . .”
“What?”
“I will not be there tomorrow night at the Quickening,” he says. “If it goes wrong, I could not bear to watch it.”
“You have no faith in me,” she says, hurt.
“It is not that. Katharine, you must promise me something. If anything goes wrong tomorrow night, I want you to run. Straight to me, at the Breccia Domain. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she says softly. “But Pietyr, why—”
“Anything, Kat. If anything goes wrong. Do not listen to anyone. Just go there. Do you promise?”
“I do, Pietyr. I promise.”
THE QUICKENING
THE WESTWOOD ENCAMPMENT
Elizabeth drapes the black cloak over Mirabella’s back, and Bree ties it before her chest. It hangs carefully over the wet, herb-soaked black cloth wrapped around her hips and breasts. It is all she will wear for the Quickening Ceremony, except for the fire.
“Your young man will not be able to take his eyes off you,” Bree says.
“Bree,” Mirabella says, and shushes her. “There is no young man.”
Bree and Elizabeth exchange conspiratorial smiles. They do not believe her, since they found her at the edge of the meadow after the Hunt, flushed and breathless. But Mirabella cannot bring herself to tell them about Joseph. He is a naturalist, and loyal to her sister. That may be too much for even Bree to understand.
Outside, the light turns orange, on its way toward pink and blue. The ceremony begins on the beach at sundown.
“Have you seen Luca yet?” Mirabella asks.
“I saw her heading to the beach late this afternoon. She will have much to do. I don’t know whether she will make it back to see you before it is time.” Elizabeth smiles reassuringly. Yes, the High Priestess must be busy. It is not that she is furious with Mirabella for interfering with Arsinoe’s execution.
“You ought to be angry with her, anyway,” Bree says.
“I am,” says Mirabella. She is, and she is not. Luca has been dear to her all these years. The strife between them these past months has not been easy.
“What are these priestesses about, Elizabeth?” Bree asks, peering out from between the tent flaps. “They are all acting strangely. Huddled together. Muttering.”
“I don’t know. I am one of yours now, and they know it. They tell me nothing.”
Mirabella cranes her neck to look. Bree is right. The priestesses have not behaved normally all day. They are even more hard and aloof than usual. And some seem afraid.
“There is something in the air,” Bree says, “that I do not like.”
THE MILONE ENCAMPMENT
Arsinoe buttons another vest over another black shirt and straightens the ribbon on her mask. Behind her, Madrigal fidgets in a soft black dress.
“Did Jules tell you?” Madrigal asks. “That she saw me with Matthew?”
Arsinoe stops. She turns to Madrigal, surprised and disappointed.
“Matthew?” she asks. “You mean Caragh’s Matthew.”
“Don’t call him that.”
“To you and to all of us, that’s who he is. I imagine that Jules was not too happy.”
Madrigal kicks at a pillow and tosses her pretty chestnut hair.
“No one was happy. I knew that you wouldn’t be. I knew just what you would say.”
Arsinoe turns away from her again. “If you knew what we would say, then our words must not matter much. You did it anyway.”
“Do not fight with me today! You need me.”
“Is that why you told me now?” Arsinoe asks. “So I couldn’t give you the tongue-lashing you deserve?”
But she does need Madrigal. On a small circular table sits the beginnings of the spell—a small stone bowl of water that has been boiled and cooled, scented with herbs and red rose petals. Madrigal pouts as she lights a candle and warms the edge of her knife in the flame.
“I haven’t seen Jules yet,” Arsinoe says, changing the subject. “If she doesn’t make