torches and await the ships.
Arsinoe adjusts the mask on her face. Even the lightest touch on her inflamed cuts hurts. But she must wear the mask. She wants to, after Ellis went to so much trouble. Besides, the painted red streaks will look fierce against the firelight. Though perhaps not as fierce as her actual wounds.
She steps up to the makeshift pavilion atop the cliffs, and looks down toward the people. They will see what they will see. Dressed in black pants, and a black shirt and vest, Arsinoe does not hide.
On the farthest pavilion from Arsinoe, Katharine stands, still as a statue, surrounded by Arrons. A strapless black gown hugs the young queen tight, and black gems circle her throat. A live snake slithers around her wrist.
On the center platform, Mirabella’s gown billows around her legs. She wears her hair loose, and it blows off her shoulders. She does not look at Arsinoe. She stares straight ahead. Mirabella stands as though she is the queen and there is no reason to look anywhere else.
The Arrons and Westwoods step away from their pavilions. Arsinoe panics and grabs for Jules.
“Wait,” she says. “What am I supposed to do?”
“The same thing you always do,” Jules says, and winks.
Arsinoe squeezes her hands. It ought to be Jules standing up there between the torches, beautiful, in the dress that Luke made. Back in the tent, Madrigal touched Jules’s lips with copper and red, and braided her hair with ribbons of copper and dark green, to match the ribbon edging of the gown. If it were Jules on the platform, the island would see a beautiful naturalist with her mountain cat, and they would have no doubts.
Arsinoe glances down at the beach and her head spins.
“I’m afraid,” she whispers.
“You are not afraid of anything,” Jules says, before stepping back down the cliff path to wait with her family.
The drums start, and Arsinoe’s stomach flutters. She is still weak from the boat, with a belly full of salt water.
She pushes her legs out and squares her shoulders. She will not fall or sicken. Or tumble down the cliffside to the delight of her sisters.
She looks again at Mirabella, beautiful and royal without effort, and at Katharine, who is lovely and wicked-looking as black glass. Compared to them, she is nothing. A traitor and a coward. Giftless, unnatural, and scarred. Compared to them, she is no queen at all.
In the bay, five mainland ships wait, anchored. As Arsinoe watches, each ship sends its launch; each launch carries a boy who hopes to become an island king. All are decorated and lit with torches. She wonders which one belongs to Billy. She hopes that his father was kind when he returned.
The drums quicken, and the crowd turns away from the queens to watch the launches approach. The crowd, all in black, must make an imposing sight to come ashore to, but only one suitor seems afraid: a tan, dark-haired boy with a red flower in his jacket. The others lean forward, smiling and eager.
Billy’s launch lags behind as the others come ashore. The suitors are too far below for words or introductions. That will come later. The Disembarking is all ceremony. First looks and first blushes.
Arsinoe raises her chin as the first boy bows to Katharine. Katharine smiles and drops half a curtsy. When he bows to Mirabella, she nods. When he finally bows to Arsinoe, it is with surprise, as if he had not noticed that she was there. He stares at her mask for too long. He offers only a partial bow.
Arsinoe does not move. She stares them down to the last and lets the mask do its job. Until Billy comes ashore.
Her heart warms. He does not seem weak or injured.
Billy stands below the cliffs and looks up at her. He bows, deep and slow, and the crowd murmurs. Arsinoe holds her breath.
He bows only to her.
THE ARRON ENCAMPMENT
Poisoners are allowed no poison in their Beltane feasts. Those are the rules, as decreed by the temple, so that any Beltane reveler may partake of the offerings. It seems very unfair to Natalia, when the elementals are free to blow wind through the valley, and the naturalists let their filthy familiars run wild.
On Natalia’s plate, a headless, roasted bird shines up at her, completely devoid of toxin. She will not stoop to eating it. Yesterday, it was singing joyfully in the scrub bushes. What a waste.
She stands with a huff of disgust and then goes inside