Three Dark Crowns (11 page)

“Are there details of the crime?” she asks.

“It was a stabbing with a short-bladed knife,” Natalia answers. “Sixteen times, according to the healer's report.”

Sixteen times. It is an excessive number that speaks of rage. Evidence of rage might lend credence to Walter Mills's claim of vengeance. But she cannot really know. That is what makes it so difficult.

The cabinets of poisons occupy two entire walls of the room. The collection has been amassed over the years, kept stocked and increased by countless Arron expeditions around the island and to the mainland. There are herbs and venoms and dried berries from every continent and every climate, carefully preserved and cataloged. Katharine's fingers flutter past the drawers; she mutters names of poisons as she goes. One day, she may use them to dispatch Mirabella and Arsinoe. Those will be fancy blends, indeed. But for Walter Mills, she will not be too creative.

She pauses on a drawer filled with vials of castor beans. Taken alone, the poison would provide a very slow, very bloody death, hemorrhaging from every organ.

“The boy he killed,” she asks, “did he linger? Did he suffer?”

“For one long night and a whole day.”

“No mercy, then.”

“You do not think so?” Natalia asks. “Even though he is so very young?”

Katharine glances at Natalia. She does not often advocate for mercy. But very well. Not castor, then. Instead, Katharine opens a drawer and points at jars of dried bark of poison nut.

“A good choice.”

The poison nut is housed in a glass jar. Everything is carefully contained. Even the drawers and shelves of the cabinets
are lined, to keep them from leaching poison, in case of an accidental spill. Such precautions have probably saved many careless maids from perplexing, painful deaths.

Katharine sets the poison on one of the long tables, and gathers a mortar and pestle. Pitchers of water and oil stand ready to emulsify the blend. To the poison nut, she adds powdered willow to reduce his pain, and valerian to quell his fear. The dose is massive, and death cannot be escaped, but it will, indeed, be merciful.

“Natalia,” she says. “Will you please call for a pitcher of good, sweet wine?”

She is always present when it is administered. Natalia has been firm about that. As queen, Katharine must be made to know what it is that she does, to see the way they struggle against their chains, or how they fight against the hands forcing the poison into their mouths. She has to see the way the crowd in the square can terrify them. In the beginning, it was difficult to watch. But it has been years now since any have made Katharine cry, and she has learned how to keep her eyes wide open.

Deep beneath the Volroy, Walter Mills sits against the wall of his cell with his hands on his knees.

“You're back so soon,” he says. “Are you going to take me out of here? Into the courtyard, so the people can watch?”

“The queen has granted you mercy,” Natalia says. “You will die here. In private.”

He looks at the pitcher in Katharine's arms and silently begins to weep.

“Guard,” Katharine says, and motions to her. “Bring a table and three chairs. Two cups.”

“What are you doing, Queen Katharine?” Natalia asks quietly. But she does not stop her.

“Open the cell,” Katharine says after the guard brings the table. “Set it for three.”

For a moment, Walter eyes the open door, but even panicked as he is, he knows that is futile. Katharine and Natalia sit, and Katharine pours the wine into two cups. Walter stares at it as she does, as if he expects it to sizzle or smoke. It does neither, of course. Rather, it is the sweetest smelling thing in the room.

“He murdered my sister,” he says.

“Then you should have brought him before us,” says Natalia. “We would have dealt with him, believe me.”

Katharine tries to smile at him kindly.

“You think I'm just going to drink that?” he asks.

“I think it is a great honor,” Katharine says, “to take your last cups with the head of the Arrons. And I think it is a far finer thing to talk and drink until you fall asleep than to be held down and choke on it.”

She holds out the cup. Walter wavers for a few moments and sheds a few more tears. But in the end, he sits.

Natalia takes the first swallow. It takes a long time, but eventually Walter finds his courage. He drinks. He even manages not to weep again, afterward.

“It's . . . ,” he says, and pauses. “It's very good. Will you not have any, Queen Katharine?”

“I never partake of my own poisons.”

A shadow flickers across his face. He thinks he knows now, that the rumors are true and she has no gift. But it does not matter. The poison is already in his belly.

Walter Mills drinks and drinks, and Natalia matches him cup for cup until he is rosy-cheeked and drunk. They talk of pleasant things. His family. His childhood. He breathes harder, until finally his eyes close and he slumps across the table. It will not be an hour before his heart stops beating.

Natalia looks at Katharine and smiles. Her poison gift may be weak, or may be no gift at all. But she is so very skilled at poisoning.

J
ules knew that when Joseph returned home, certain things would have changed. She did not expect that he would fit seamlessly back into her life. She did not even know if he would find that he had a place there, after so long away. Five years may not seem like much to some, but in that time, Joseph had turned into a young man. Perhaps with a wider understanding of the world than Jules could ever hope to have from her place at the southwest corner of Fennbirn Island.

But now he is home. His family has released their held breath. And he and Jules have more than exhausted their stores of pleasantries.

“Are you cold?” he asks as they walk down the street from the Lion's Head Pub.

“No,” Jules says.

“Yes, you are. Your neck has pulled down so far it's disappeared.” He looks around and up the street. There is nowhere
they want to go inside. Both are tired of old lovers winking at them slyly, and suspicious squints from folk who hate the mainland.

Light snow begins to fall, and Camden groans and shakes her coat. There is nothing left to do. They ought to admit it and say good night, but neither ever wants to part.

“I know a place,” Joseph says, and smiles.

He takes her hand and leads her quickly down the street and toward the cove, where the mainland boat is docked.

“Only a skeleton crew will be there tonight. Mr. Chatworth and Billy are staying at the Wolverton until he departs.”

“He?” Jules asks. “Don't you mean ‘they'?”

“Billy's not leaving. He's staying on, straight through Beltane. To get to know Arsinoe. I thought we might introduce them soon. Take a picnic up to the pond. Have a fire.”

He reaches back for her hand, and they jog down the slope to the docks. The mainland boat rocks quietly in the water. Its portholes and fastenings shine under the moonlight. Even at night, it is too bright for the likes of Wolf Spring.

“You want him to be king-consort,” Jules says.

“Of course I do. My foster brother and Arsinoe on the throne, you and me on the council—it would tie everything up rather nicely.”

“Me on the council?” Jules scoffs. “Leading her personal guard, more like. You certainly have everything planned out, Joseph.”

“Well, I did have five years to think of it.”

They cross the gangway, and Jules holds her hand back to coax Camden over.

“Is she afraid of boats?”

“No, but she doesn't like them. We go out sometimes, with Matthew. To help him fish.”

“I'm glad you've stayed close,” says Joseph. “Even after Caragh. Being around you, I think it lets him keep a piece of her. Something those bastards can't take away.”

“Yes,” Jules says. Matthew still loves her aunt Caragh, and she hopes that he always will.

Jules looks around. The decks are polished, and everything is neat and clean. Nothing smells like fish. The black sails are tied tight. But of course Chatworth would bring his finest vessel to the island. And the Chatworths must be an important family where they come from. Else how could a son become a suitor?

“Jules, this way.”

Joseph leads her down to the cabins, sneaking quietly and avoiding the crew. They step through a small door into pitch darkness, until he lights a lamp. The room they have entered is also small, with a bunk and a writing desk and a few pieces of clothes still hanging in the closet. Cam stands up on her hind legs and sniffs all around the door.

The belly of the boat is warm, and Jules's neck comes out of hiding. But she wishes for some excuse to hide her face.

“I don't know what to say to you,” she says. “I want things to be just like they were before.”

“I know,” says Joseph. “But we can't exactly play ‘knights raid the castle' anymore, can we?”

“Certainly not without Arsinoe here to play the dragon.”

They laugh together, remembering.

“Ah, Jules,” he groans. “Why did I have to come back now? During an Ascension? Every moment with you already feels like it's stolen.”

Jules swallows. It is a jolt, to hear him speak that way. They never used to say things like that when they were children. Not even during their most grand pronouncements of loyalty.

“I got something for you,” he says. “It seems silly now.”

He goes to the writing table and opens a drawer. Inside is a small white box, tied with green ribbon.

“It's a present, for your birthday,” he says.

No one ever celebrates Jules's birthday. Jules is a Beltane Begot, a child conceived during the festival of Beltane, like the queens. It is considered very lucky, and they are all supposed to be charmed, but it is a horrible birthday to have. Forgotten and overshadowed.

“Open it.”

Jules unties the ribbon. Inside the box is a delicate silver ring, set with dark green stones. Joseph takes it out and slips it onto her finger.

“On the mainland, this would mean you had to marry me,” he says quietly.

One ring in exchange for a marriage. He must be joking, but he looks so earnest.

“It is a very nice ring.”

“It is,” he says. “But it doesn't suit you. I should have known.”

“Is it too pretty for me?”

“No,” he says quickly. “I meant, you don't have to pretend to like it. You don't have to wear it.”

“I want to wear it.”

Joseph bends his head and kisses her hands. She shivers, though his lips are warm. He looks at her in a way he has never looked at her, and she knows with both hope and dread that it is true. They have grown up.

“I want things to be just as they would have been if I had never been banished,” he says. “I won't let them cost me anything, Jules. Especially not you.”

“Luke. This cake is dry.”

Arsinoe takes a swallow of tea to wash it down. Normally, Luke's baking is her favorite on the island. He is always trying out new recipes from the various baking books he keeps on the shelves but never manages to sell.

“I know,” Luke says, and sighs. “I was short by an egg. Sometimes, I wish that Hank was a hen.”

Arsinoe pushes her plate across the counter, and the black-and-green rooster pecks at her crumbs.

Jules will arrive at the shop soon with Joseph. Finally, she will have her own reunion with him. Jules says he does not blame her for his banishment. And that is probably true. But it does not change the fact that he should.

Jules and Joseph are well, though, inseparable once more, and that is enough for Arsinoe. Jules has been so happy that it is almost difficult to be around her. It seems that burning Madrigal's charm has had no ill effects at all.

Arsinoe has not told Jules, or anyone, about the trip to the bent-over tree. Nor has she told anyone about the curious and growing itch she has to go there again. It would only cause an argument. Low magic is frowned upon by those with gifts. As a queen she ought to shun it. She knows that. But she does not want to hear so out loud, from Jules.

Footsteps on the plank board outside precede the ringing of Luke's brass bell. Arsinoe takes a deep, unsteady breath. She is nearly as nervous to see Joseph as Jules was, and nearly as excited. He may have been Jules's friend first, but he became hers too. One of the few she has ever had.

She turns around with cake crumbs on her coat, scowling nervously. . . .

Jules and Joseph are not alone. They have brought a boy with them. Arsinoe grits her teeth. She hardly knows what to say to Joseph. Now she must trade stilted pleasantries with a stranger.

Jules, Joseph, and the boy come in laughing, finishing some private, hilarious conversation. When Joseph sees Arsinoe, his grin spreads across his face. She crosses her arms.

“You look just how I thought you'd look,” she says.

“So do you,” says Joseph. “You never did look like a queen.”

Jules grins silently, but Arsinoe laughs aloud and draws him
in for a hug. She is not quite as tall as he is, but almost. Certainly closer to his height than Jules is.

“Better let me in as well,” Luke says, and cuts through to clap Joseph on the back and shake his hand. “Joseph Sandrin. This has been a long time coming.”

“Luke Gillespie,” Joseph says. “It has been a long time. Hello, Hank.”

The rooster on the counter dips his head, and the shop quiets. Arsinoe searches for something to say. Another moment of silence and she will not be able to keep ignoring the stranger they brought with them. But she is not fast enough.

“I want you to meet someone,” Joseph says. He turns her stiffly toward the stranger, a boy about his height, with dark blond hair and an expression that seems too pleased with itself for her liking.

“This is William Chatworth Jr. His family has a delegation this year. He's one of the suitors.”

“So I've heard,” says Arsinoe.

The boy holds his hand out; she takes it and shakes it once.

“You can call me Billy,” he says. “Everyone does. Except for my father.”

Arsinoe narrows her eyes. She would happily wring Jules's neck if Camden wouldn't have her eyes for it. She thought she would be meeting old friends. Not being ambushed by an unwanted new one.

“So, Junior,” she says. “How many arses on the Black Council did you have to grease for them to let you arrive so early?”

She smiles sweetly.

“I've no idea,” the boy says, and smiles back. “My father does most of the arse-greasing in the family. Shall we go?”

Jules's and Joseph's devious plan is a picnic beside Dogwood Pond. A fire and some roasted meat on sticks. Arsinoe hopes that Billy Chatworth is disappointed. Shocked by their lack of grandeur. Scandalized by her lack of decorum. But if he is, he does not show it. He seems perfectly happy to walk to the pond, sinking in snowdrifts up to his knees.

“Arsinoe,” Jules whispers. “At least try to stop scowling.”

“I will not. You shouldn't have done this. You should have warned me.”

“If I had warned you, you wouldn't have come. Besides, it had to happen sometime. You're why he's here.”

But that is only partially true. The suitors will meet all the queens, but they will only try to court the right one. The one who will be crowned. Not her. If he is excited to meet her, it is only to use her for practice before meeting Mirabella and Katharine.

“It could have happened later. I thought today would just be the three of us. Like it used to be.”

Jules sighs as if there is plenty of time for that. But if there is one thing Arsinoe has never had, it is plenty of time.

As they near the pond, the boys jog ahead to start the fire. For the end of December, it is not terribly cold. If the sun would come out from behind the clouds, there might actually be a little melting. Camden bounds through the snow and kicks it up
into snowy showers. Arsinoe has to admit, it is a nice day. Even with the interloper.

“Well?” Jules asks when Joseph and Billy are safely out of range. “What do you think of him?”

Arsinoe squints. Billy Chatworth wears the clothes of an islander, but he does not wear them well. He is only an inch or two shorter than Joseph, and his sandy hair is short, almost pressed flat against his head.

“He's not nearly as handsome as Joseph is,” Arsinoe teases, and Jules blushes scarlet. “I knew he would grow into that Sandrin jawline. And those eyes.” She prods Jules in the side until she laughs and swats her away. “Anyhow, what do
you
think of the mainlander?”

“I don't know,” Jules says. “He said he had a cat that looked like me when he was younger. With one blue eye and one green. He said it was born deaf.”

“Charming,” says Arsinoe.

They reach the pond. Joseph takes out a packet of meat for roasting, and Camden walks up his torso to sniff. The fire is already burning hot, bright orange beside the ice and whitewashed trees.

Arsinoe reaches into the nearest tree and tears down branches, one for her and one for Jules. Together, they sharpen them to points with their knives. The mainlander watches, and Arsinoe makes sure to use long, dangerous-looking strokes.

“Would you,” Billy starts, and clears his throat. “Would you like me to do that for you?”

“No,” says Arsinoe. “In fact, I'm making this for you.”

She takes a piece of meat from the packet. It passes over her sharpened tip like butter. Then she shoves it straight into the flames and listens to it sizzle.

“Thank you,” he says. “I've never met a girl so skilled with a knife. But then, I've never met a girl with a tiger before, either.”

“She's a mountain cat,” says Jules, and tosses Cam a chunk of raw meat. “We don't have tigers here.”

“But could you?” Billy asks. “Could there ever be?”

“What do you mean?”

“Could one of you be so strong that you could call one from across the sea?”

“Maybe I am,” Arsinoe muses. “Maybe that's what's taking it so long.”