a necklace of three vibrant red-orange stones hanging from a short silver chain. Even on the table in the winter light they seem to burn.
“I would like this one,” she says, “for the night of the Quickening.”
After the purchases are made, they return to the carriage. Mirabella holds the fire necklace on her lap in a velvet case. She cannot wait to show it to Luca. She is sure the High Priestess will like it. Perhaps after the Quickening is over, Mirabella will make a gift of it to her.
“Now that that is finished,” Sara says when the cart starts moving, “there has been some news. From Wolf Spring, if you can imagine.”
“News?” Bree asks. “What news?”
“It seems they are housing a suitor there. His delegation has arrived early.”
“But that is not allowed,” says Mirabella. “Does the temple know?” She looks to Elizabeth, but the initiate only shrugs.
“They do,” says Sara. “It is his family’s first delegation. They are being given special treatment for a perceived disadvantage. To let them find their way here, on such unfamiliar ground. And to repay them for fostering Joseph Sandrin during his banishment.”
“It has been a long time since I have heard that name,” Mirabella says. She used to think of it often. Whenever she thought of Arsinoe. He was the boy who tried to run away with her. Who tried to help her escape. When they were caught, she heard that he spat at Natalia Arron’s feet.
Now he brings Arsinoe a suitor. It must have been hard to do, when he had so much love for her himself.
“I think you will meet him,” Sara says.
“Joseph?”
“No. The suitor. Before Beltane. We will arrange for him to come here. Under the eye of the temple, of course.”
“It seems a shame,” says Bree. “All those suitors and you can choose only one. But still, all those suitors.” She shivers with pleasure. “Sometimes I wish that I was a queen.”
Mirabella frowns. “Do not ever say that.”
Everyone in the coach quiets at the tone of her voice.
“It was only a joke, Mira,” says Bree gently. “Of course I do not wish that. No one really wishes to be a queen.”
GREAVESDRAKE MANOR
The great shadowy library of Greavesdrake is one of Katharine’s favorite places. The large fireplace casts warmth everywhere except into the very darkest corners, and as she grew, the tall shelves and massive leather chairs provided many places to hide from Genevieve’s slaps, or from poison practice. Today though, the fire burns low, and she and Pietyr sit out in the open. They have pulled back three sets of curtains from the eastward-facing windows and huddle in the brightest shaft of light. Warmth from the sun feels better somehow. Gentler, and less hard-won.
Pietyr hands her a bit of bread, smeared with soft, triple-cream sheep’s milk cheese. He has assembled a picnic on the carpet of the finest untainted food he could find. A sweet gesture, even if it is mostly intended to fatten her up.
“You ought to try the crab soufflé,” he says. “Before it gets cold.”
“I will,” says Katharine.
She takes a bite of the bread and cheese, but it is difficult. Even the best foods taste like mud when accompanied by nausea. She touches the small bandage on her wrist.
“What was it this time?” Pietyr asks.
“Some kind of snake venom.”
It was nothing she had not been poisoned with before. But the cut used to apply it was worse than necessary, thanks to Genevieve’s still-held grudge from the night of the Gave Noir. Pietyr has looked at the wound already, and he did not like what he saw.
“When you are crowned,” he says, “there will be no more reason for that.”
He serves her a small plate of scrambled egg with caviar and soured cream. She takes a bite and tries to smile.
“That is not a smile, Kat. That is a grimace.”
“Perhaps we should put this off,” she suggests, “until dinner.”
“And let you miss two more meals?” He shakes his head. “We have to recover your poisoner appetite. Try a pastry. Or some juice, at least.”
Katharine laughs. “You are the best personal attendant I have ever had. Even better than Giselle.”
“Am I?” He raises an eyebrow. “I have had no practice. My house in the country is well-fortified, and well-run by Marguerite, though I am loath to admit it. I have spent my whole life being waited upon.”
“Then perhaps you have learned by example,” Katharine says. “You care very much that I am crowned. But so does every Arron.