around their necks.”
“And their bare chests,” says Bree.
“We can put these two back at their posts when we return,” Elizabeth says. “Perhaps they will wake and be too ashamed to admit they fell asleep.”
There is a dagger and slingshot tucked into Bree’s belt, and a crossbow slung over Elizabeth’s shoulder. Not for game but for protection. Mirabella’s eyes dart to her friend’s missing hand. She will need help, to reload.
“All right,” she says, and slides into the cloak. “But quickly.”
Jules hears the bear before she sees the den dug into the side of the hill. She moves her torch so the light falls across the entrance, and he looks back at her with bright, firelit eyes.
He is a great brown. She was not seeking him. She was on the path of a stag and would have caught up with her quarry over the next rise.
The bear does not want trouble. He has most likely retreated back into his winter den in order to avoid the hunters.
Jules draws her knife. It is long and sharp and can go through a bear’s hide. But the bear will still kill her if he decides to fight.
The bear looks at the knife and sniffs. Part of her wants him to come. She is surprised by that, by the heat of her anger and the weight of her despair.
“If you are looking for the queen,” she says, “you came too late.”
It is not necessary to see the elementals or the poisoners to know that the naturalists will have the largest cache of meat. So many hunters flood the trees, and there are so many shouts of victory. Most who Mirabella sees have game tied to their belts: rabbits or nice fat pheasants. No one who attends the naturalist feast will be eating field-raised goat; that is certain.
She and Elizabeth and Bree have run far with the hunters. Perhaps farther than they meant to. But the parties move so fast. It is nearly impossible to keep from being caught up in their current.
“The naturalist gift grows strong,” Mirabella says, thinking of Juillenne Milone and her mountain cat.
“I have heard whispers,” says Elizabeth, “of a girl with a cougar for a familiar.”
“They are not only whispers,” says Mirabella. “I have seen her. In the forest that day, with my sister.”
“With your sister?” Bree asks. She sounds alarmed. But in the dim light of the moon, she is only a shadowed shape.
“What?” Mirabella asks. “What is the matter?”
“Did you not wonder if the naturalists had grown clever as well as strong? That perhaps they had hidden Arsinoe’s strength all this time and that cougar is truly hers?”
“I do not think so,” Mirabella says.
“And besides,” adds Elizabeth. “Mountain cat or no, Arsinoe is gone.”
Mirabella nods. They ought to be heading back to the encampment. The poisoned priestesses will soon wake. But before she can say so, another hunting party comes upon them and sweeps them up into their run.
“Jules!”
It is only a harsh whisper, scarcely able to be heard above the cries of the hunters and Bree’s and Elizabeth’s laughter.
“Jules!”
Mirabella slows and then stops. Bree and Elizabeth run on without her.
“Joseph?”
He is alone, holding a low-burning torch. There are black marks on his face and on his shoulder. But it is him.
When he sees her, he freezes.
“Queen Mirabella,” he says. “What are you doing here?”
“I do not know,” she says. “I probably should not be.”
He hesitates a moment and then takes her by the hand and pulls her behind a broad tree trunk where they will not be seen.
Neither knows what to say. They grip each other’s hands tightly. Joseph’s jawline is smeared with blood, just visible in the light of the dying torch.
“You are injured,” Mirabella says.
“It’s just a scratch,” he says. “I tripped over a log when the Hunt began. Lost my party.”
Lost Juillenne, is what he means. Mirabella smiles slightly. “It seems you are injured often. Perhaps you should not be allowed out alone.”
Joseph chuckles. “I suppose I shouldn’t. Since I’ve been back here, I have become a bit . . . prone to accidents.”
She touches the trace of blood on his chin. It is nothing serious. It only adds to his wildness, when coupled with the black stripes on his face and down his bare shoulder. She wonders who painted them, and imagines Jules’s fingers sliding over Joseph’s skin.
“I knew you would be here,” she says. “Even after Arsinoe’s escape. I knew. I hoped.”
“I didn’t think I would see you,” he says. “You are supposed