“Good,” she said. “In due time. There is no hurry.” Her fingers floated above the canvas. He did not need to ask whether she was pleased. She had not smiled so broadly in weeks.
“My queen, there was something else.”
“Please, Jonathan, call me by my name. I give you leave.”
“Queen Elsabet,” he amended, and blushed. “There was something else. Have you . . . Has there been any noticeable weakening of your sight gift?”
“What?”
“Forgive me,” he said quickly. “It is just that I have been evaluating the ingredients of the tonic you take, and I believe it may be harmful to you. And your gift.”
Elsabet turned away from the painting. “That’s not possible. The tonic comes from Gilbert. I’m sure you’re mistaken.”
“Of course. Though perhaps he is as well? He is not a poisoner; he would not know. Do you know where he got it? Would you allow me to investigate the matter further?”
Elsabet blinked. It made no sense, what he was saying. Gilbert would never harm her. Her gift was sacred to him. And he was her foster brother. Her only family. “There must be an explanation.”
“Of course.”
“And my gift is not gone,” she said, lowering her voice. “I had a vision, not long ago. Well, not a vision, I suppose. But a dream.”
“A dream? Is that common?”
“No. But it has proven true, and that is all that matters.” She watched him from the corner of her eye. “I dreamed of you, Jonathan Denton. I knew you before we met.”
INDRID DOWN
When Rosamund opened the door to her family home, she found Catherine Howe, her head covered by a dark hood.
“Is the maid here already?” Catherine asked as Rosamund motioned for her to come inside.
“She is. Though we didn’t expect you to be so quick.”
Catherine took her hood down and shook out her pretty brown-gold curls. “When someone asks for information from the Howe spies, it is never long in coming.”
“Very well,” said Rosamund. “Bess is waiting down this way.”
They had taken only a few steps when three little girls ran squealing past, batting at each other with small wooden swords, and knocked Catherine up against the wall. They were so frenzied and focused on their battle play that they clogged the narrow hall, and Rosamund had to scoop up the smallest one and put her on her shoulders in order to let them pass.
“My apologies,” Rosamund said, and then laughed as the little girl beat her about the head with the wooden sword butt. “It is often this way in an Antere house.”
Catherine squinted up at the little girl as she bashed Rosamund’s skull. “Doesn’t that hurt?”
“A little.” Rosamund reached up and prodded the child in the ribs until she surrendered in peals of laughter. Once they cleared the hall, the girl slipped down and tore off in the other direction to rejoin the game. Rosamund gestured through a doorway. Inside, Bess was already waiting, seated at a table before a bottle of whiskey and three cups.
“Shouldn’t you close the door?” Catherine asked, looking behind them.
“Are you so afraid of a few little warriors?” Rosamund chuckled. “Never mind about the door. My mother is resting and my brothers are deep into a card game in the kitchen with their wives. And besides, all are loyal.”
“To you or to the queen?”
“To both,” Rosamund said, her voice sharp. “So we may speak freely.”
“Sit, Catherine,” Bess said, and poured her a cup. “Take some to ease your nerves. Or would you prefer wine?”
Rosamund placed her hand on Bess’s shoulder and planted her in her chair. “You sit. You are not a serving maid here, Bess, but a member of a ring of spies.”
Bess exhaled and pressed her cheek against the warrior’s fingers. “I know that. But we should still make her feel at ease. She is quite distressed.”
“I’ve noticed.” Every candle in the room had been burning higher since Catherine entered. And having known Catherine since even before her time on the Black Council, Rosamund knew that her talent was for the element of earth. She must be nervous indeed to affect the flames so.
“Come now, Catherine. You can’t have found anything that troubling over the course of so few days!”
Catherine’s lips pressed together. “But I have. And it was not only over the last few days. My spies have been moving for months.”
“Months?” Bess gasped. “But why?”
“We elementals are better at detecting shifting sentiments upon the air,” Catherine replied. “Since I came to the Black Council, I have always kept a bird or two circling. I would always know what is being said of the queen.”
Rosamund drank and refilled her cup. “And what is being said?”
“At first, that the queen was frivolous. Changeable. That she did not listen to her advisers, which in truth, she does not often.”
“The queen follows her own mind,” Rosamund snapped.
“Yes. In everything. And it has not gone unnoticed. The people, and the Black Council, have become accustomed to war queens, who command raids and battle and leave the governance to those better suited to it. Elsabet has taken some of that back.”
“Is that not her right as queen?” Bess asked.
“Whether it is her right or not, it has embittered the council. I suspect that someone has been planting rumors amongst the people of the queen’s foolishness. I even suspect that the king-consort may have a role to play, driving her to jealous outbursts in public.”
“To what end?” Rosamund asked. “To make her unpopular?”
“To undermine her. I do not know, truly, what their aims are. But I fear for the queen’s reputation and the recklessness of those whom I suspect.”
“Out with it, then. Whom do you suspect?”
Catherine’s delicate features pinched together. Her complexion was just a bit too tan to ever show a flush, but had she been only a little lighter, Rosamund was sure her whole face would have appeared bright red. “I am using measured words,” she said, speaking slowly as if Rosamund were hard of understanding, “because I am not sure. But if I am right, then I am also sure that there is no limit to how far these people will go.”
“What people?” Bess leaned forward and grasped Catherine by the hands. When Catherine still hesitated, Rosamund slammed her fist down, rattling the cups.
“What people? Enough games. We came to you. You know we can be trusted.”
Catherine drained her whiskey and set the empty cup aside. “Last night, two of my spies were in the king-consort’s party of an evening.”
Bess’s eyes widened. “Your spies lay with the king-consort?”
“Many of my spies have lain with the king-consort,” Catherine said. “I keep many comely spies.”
“Unimportant,” said Rosamund. “What did they see?”
“They retired with him in an inn, seemingly for the night. Once there, he proceeded to get them more and more intoxicated on ale until they fell asleep. One of them awoke when he crept from the room, and followed him.”
“Where did he go?”
“Not far. Another room. The girl was able to spy inside and able to listen. According to her, what was taking place inside the room was unmistakable.” Catherine paused so the three of them could trade sour expressions. “She waited, hidden, until nearly dawn, when the king-consort and his paramour left. The woman was dressed commonly, but my girl swears that beneath the common serving clothes was none other than Francesca Arron.”
Bess sank back in her chair. “A member of her own Black Council.”
Rosamund sank back as well and ran her hand roughly across her face. “And a foolish member at that. Francesca Arron will lose her head for this and for what? A good-looking boy?”
Bess’s eyes widened. “Rosamund, you don’t think that Elsabet will have her executed?”
“Francesca is a member of her own Black Council, as you said. The queen cannot let it stand.�
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“Unless it could be kept secret—quiet—if perhaps Francesca would beg forgiveness and swear to stay away from the king-consort—”
“You are both missing the point!” Catherine Howe pushed away from the table, and every candle flared. “If Francesca Arron is involved, it is not about one good-looking boy! She is only using him to further her own ends!”
“And what would those be?” Bess asked.
“I do not know,” Catherine replied gravely.
“It doesn’t matter.” Rosamund poured whiskey up to the rim of her cup. “Elsabet is the Queen Crowned, and there is nothing Francesca Arron or anyone else can do about that. And whatever her plans may have been, we have found her out. We’ll go to Elsabet. Surround her with loyalists. You and I, Bess and Gilbert. And I will be ready to arrest Francesca as soon as our queen gives the order.”
Catherine looked at Rosamund curiously. “You are Elsabet’s friend. Are you not afraid?”
Rosamund bared her teeth and snorted. “What is there to fear? She’s the queen. It’s not as if they can kill her.”
THE VOLROY
Francesca Arron waited in the shadows of the Volroy until the painter finally emerged from his audience with the queen. It was late, near dusk, and his serene face was lit by candles and torches. It was clear to anyone watching how besotted he was with her. How pleased he was that she was pleased with him. He was so transparent and unguarded. A poisoner ought to have a more natural ability for subterfuge.
“Young master Denton.”
The boy looked up and smiled, a dazzling smile in a mediocre face, beneath hair as dark as soiled straw. “Mistress Arron.”
“I thought that was you,” she said, and stepped out. “I was almost unsure. You have spent so much time at the castle of late that you seem practically a different person. If not for the pigment stains and oils beneath your fingernails, I might have missed you completely.”
Jonathan glanced at his fingers and hid them behind his hip. “Is there something I can do for you, mistress?”
“Perhaps you could escort me to my carriage. It is late, and we are both leaving. . . .”
“Of course.” He bowed and waited for her to walk a half step ahead.
“All this time you are spending with our queen cannot leave you much time for painting.”
“But that is why I’m here. To update the queen on my progress.”
“And what of the night spent in her chamber?” She laughed lightly at the look upon his face. “Word travels quickly.” Francesca squared her shoulders and tossed her light blond braid. Her strides were long when she walked, and he was a bit winded by the time they neared the gates and the waiting carriages. It was a wonder he could keep pace with Elsabet, whose legs and strides were even longer.
“Well then, good evening, Jonathan. I imagine I will be seeing much more of you, now that the queen has decided to keep you as a new pet.”
“A new pet?”
She watched carefully for a flash of malice in his eyes, but she could detect none. So perhaps he was more skilled at concealment than she had given him credit for.
“Of course. Ruling is such a strain upon the queen’s person. She often seeks diversion. I hope you had not thought it something more.”
Jonathan’s smile faltered. “Are you trying to say you would prefer I spent less time here?”
“Not I,” she said. “Were it up to me, Queen Elsabet could take her meals with you in her lap. But some question your suitability as a queen’s companion.”
“Mistress Arron,” he said with surprising vigor, “I am glad to know you’re not among them. No doubt you are happy that Elsabet is keeping company with another of the poisoner gift.” He drew himself up and straightened his shoulders. Francesca stifled a laugh.
“Who are you?” she asked. “A Denton? What great thing has the Denton house ever done for the island? For the poisoners? If you hope to make a place for that name within the capital, your hopes will be dashed.” She stepped close and dragged her fingernail gently along his temple and the side of his jaw. “Arrons sit upon the Black Council. Arrons hold the political favor of the queen. And do not forget it.”
Then she turned, unaffected by the shade of red he turned. Or the way his eyes bulged in impotent fury.
“You speak of it as though it is a permanent appointment,” he said. “But members of the Black Council can be replaced. Perhaps the queen will be moved to have more poisoners in her circle now that she fears the tonic she takes for her health may have been unduly tainted.”
She froze but as always was unshakable. Instead, she stared at the boy, stared and stared until he lost his nerve and turned away, cursing, and she watched him go, ascertaining just what to do with Jonathan Denton. Whether he could be bought. Whether he could be threatened.
INDRID DOWN
By the time Sonia Beaulin received her summons and met Francesca at the inn, it was the middle of the night. Which suited Francesca just fine. It meant that the inn was empty, except for the woman who ran it, and she was bought and paid for by Arron bribes. And it meant that Sonia was not likely to be seen walking through the central square, where it was always difficult not to be noticed. Warriors were like that. Brutal. Imposing. They liked to be noticed. A strange sort of people all around, in Francesca’s opinion, moving things with their minds and always intent on blood. And unlike poisoners, who all appeared to be cut of the same cloth—thin, willowy people with a stern countenance and fair hair—warriors varied in shape and feature. Some were behemoths like the Commander of the Queensguard, Rosamund Antere. Others were so small and quick they could pass for very deadly children. Sonia fell somewhere in between, a slim-hipped, even-featured young woman with large observant eyes and hair nearly as dark as a queen’s. Francesca preferred Sonia’s more average size, as it made it easier to blend in, and she valued the possibility of underestimation. But Sonia envied Rosamund her height. It was yet another source of animosity between them.
Sonia slid into the secluded table where Francesca sat near the back of the inn and signaled to the innkeeper. “Whiskey,” she ordered.
Francesca shook her head. “Ale. Keep your wits about you.”
Sonia changed her request and sighed. “What’s happened?”
“Less important than what has happened is what we must do.” Francesca was drinking tea and dropped a sugar cube tainted with arsenic into her cup. The cube had been dyed bright green, to keep any non-poisoner customers from falling over dead. The presence of poisoner fare on the menu—even before the bribes started—was the reason she had chosen to patronize the inn on Highborne Street in the first place. It was one of the few establishments in the capital to consistently offer poisoned food.
“Queen Elsabet may soon come to suspect us.”
“How? Have her visions returned? Is she not taking the tonic?”
“She may no longer trust the tonic.”
“Then you must administer it some other way. Sneak it into her food. Aren’t you poisoners good at that?”
“Terribly good. But the dosage is important. Too little and it will have no effect at all. Too much and it will kill her.”
The innkeeper arrived with Sonia’s ale and also a loaf of bread and some cheese. Sonia thanked her sullenly. “Well,” she said, “she’ll find no evidence. Her suspicion will cost us, though, of that you can be sure. This queen is vindictive. One or both of us are sure to lose our council seats.”
Francesca’s jaw tightened as she watched Sonia pout and eat, stuffing bread and cheese into her cheeks like a squirrel. It made her want to douse her in poisoned tea, force arsenic sugar down her throat. And she would have, if she did not have need of Sonia’s might.
“Is that the way a warrior speaks? So easily of defeat?”
Sonia stopped chewing and spat bread onto the floor. “What, then, would you have me say? What would you have me do?”
“Nothing that you lack the nerve for.”
Sonia sat for a mom
ent. Then she laughed. “Stop goading me. There’s no need. The Beaulins tied their fortune to the Arron carriage long before you and I. Say what it is that you have the nerve to do.”
“I have grown up around enough snakes to know,” Francesca said, “that the one who survives is the one who strikes first. So we will strike first. And perhaps we can put an end to this before word of our involvement ever reaches the queen.”
That night, just before sunrise, Jonathan was wakened by a rap at his door. Groggy, he got out of bed and wrapped himself in a robe. He tried to light a candle, but his drowsy fingers made a mess of the match, and after the insistent knock sounded again, he gave up and went to answer in the dark.
He had no idea who it could be. He had few acquaintances in town who knew the location of his small apartment, and none who would call at such an hour. And the knock came not from the main door that led downstairs to the bakery owned by his landlord but from the side entrance in the alley.
Had he been more fully awake he might have used more caution when opening the door. He might have first asked who it was. But he was not, and so he turned the lock and threw up the latch. The word “who” had barely passed his lips before the hooded figure shoved past him into his drafty hall.
“Who are you? What is this?” he demanded, and his hand searched the table near the entry for something, anything to use as a weapon.
“Quiet, Jonathan. I come on behalf of the queen! I am her maid Bess.”
In the dim light, he could not make out her face, but he detected the movement of her cloak hood lowering.
“Bess?” he asked. They had not spoken often, but he had seen her at the Volroy, a near-constant presence at Queen Elsabet’s side.
“Yes.”
“What are you doing here?” He stepped carefully past her and went back to retrieve the candle, which he lit easily enough now that he had been startled alert. He turned with it and saw Bess, dressed in a long, brown traveling cloak that was just a bit too large for her. She seemed agitated, out of breath and pacing. “Do you . . . bear a message?” He held out his hand.
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