Chapter 39 The Crown of Ashes #2
A woman leaned in the doorway as though she’d been waiting since the first seed had sprouted here.
Her skirt was forest green with ruffles.
She had white stockings that climbed to her knees in a froth of lace, and a matching corset cupped unapologetic cleavage that probably made men forget their own names.
Her midriff was a ribbon of warm skin, and strawberry curls fell in glossy ringlets past her hips.
When she smiled, it was like a handful of sugar dropped into tea.
Ella took one look at her and snorted. “Too bad Thane isn’t here. He could finally put that world-renowned flirting of his to good use.”
Jakobav’s mouth twitched, though his jaw set before he replied. “Actually, I think he likes blondes.”
Ella blinked at him, surprised.
The woman clapped her hands together, her gaze fixing on Ella with a smile that carried recognition.
“There you are,” she said warmly. “I was beginning to think you’d ignore the whisper and make me send more snakes.”
Ella’s mouth went dry. “Have we met?”
“Not properly,” the woman said. “You were in my head and I was in yours, and then I woke up on the roof of a bakery with a pigeon sitting on my stomach. It was very affectionate, but I do not recommend it.” She stepped aside and made a sweeping courtly gesture that somehow involved only wrists and hair. “I’m Octavia. Come in, dearies.”
Jakobav and Ella traded a look. He nodded once toward the doorway as if to say, “after you.”
Ella hesitated just long enough to shoot Jakobav a dark glare. Then she leaned in, close enough that her breath stirred the dark hair at his ear.
“If I die in here,” she whispered, “I’m haunting you for eternity.”
His mouth curved then shrugged, raising one hand as if questioning her and whispered back, “Hey, I followed you here. You just had to trust your instincts.” He gestured her forward with infuriating calm and then walked behind Ella into the cottage.
Inside, it smelled like flowers and honey, every surface holding something: jars with careful labels, dried bundles of leaves, a bowl of shells sorted by color, and stones with holes through their centers.
There were teacups that didn’t match, and on the far wall, a string was hung with little squares of paper, each painted with a symbol in black ink.
Ella didn’t recognize all of them, but she knew how it felt to stand near words that meant more than the ink they were made of.
Octavia poured tea the color of fresh dirt. “I’m sorry if the vision startled you,” she said, all contrition and dimples.
Ella went still.
She remembered where she’d heard “Octavia.”
That name had lived at the root of her choices for years. Octavia was the voice she’d heard in the dream that drove her from Orchid, the vision that told her to follow the prophecy’s pull north. To search for the relic.
“You’re the one,” Ella whispered. “The vision was yours.”
“When they come that strong, I tend to fall right out of myself. Full blackout. It’s very inconvenient.
Once, I woke up spinning on a windmill. Another time in a fisherman’s net, quite frightening actually.
It was rank with the scent of disappointing men.
Oh and once, in a duchess’s wardrobe. We had a very honest talk about her taste in hats. ”
A sound broke the air; Jakobav’s laugh sounded more like a bark. His hand went to his mouth at once, turning it into a cough as if the sound had betrayed him.
What a bizarre moment for him to develop a sense of humor.
She shot him a glare, then turned back to Octavia. “You projected it?” she said slowly. “Into my mind?”
Octavia’s curls bounced. “A courtesy when the thread insists. The future is a fickle animal, dearie. Sometimes it drags you by the hem until you agree to look.”
Jakobav settled by the window, not touching anything, and his eyes seemed to be counting exits out of habit. Octavia noticed and smiled.
He looked like a large, polite wolf trying to sit in a tea chair.
Suddenly, Octavia’s brightness shifted, and a sorrow passed over her features that made her look older by a century. She set the teapot down with care and took Ella’s hand, warmth moving up Ella’s arm with the contact as if someone had poured sunlight into her veins.
“Your mother,” Octavia said very softly. “Queen Serenya.”
The name struck like a blade. For an instant, Ella couldn’t breathe, her chest hollowing, the air shattering in her throat, and the world tilting as though the floor had given way beneath her.
She’d been holding herself together with mission and duty, but that name unstitched her in a single stroke.
Jakobav was there before she could unravel into the depths of it, one hand firm at the small of her back and the other braced against her arm as if he would not let her fall even an inch.
His touch steadied her, yet it was his presence at her side that pulled her back from the edge.
He didn’t speak, but everything in him told her she wasn’t alone.
“She was light,” Octavia continued. “A brave light. She chose to spend it.”
Ella folded in on the ache, her vision blurring as grief consumed her.
She’d known grief would come like this, sudden and crushing, but still worse was knowing she had not been there.
She’d been running across strange soil, bleeding on borders, sleeping in borrowed bedrolls, chasing a path the fates had carved for her.
That path might save more than her own kingdom, but at the cost of never saying goodbye.
Jakobav’s hand remained on her back, a wordless anchor holding her upright.
Octavia clasped her free hand and hovered until her strength returned.
The strangeness of their combined presence was not unwelcome, and when Ella’s eyes finally cleared, Octavia’s were kind and bright, shining with far less pity.
“The land loves you,” Octavia said, squeezing her fingers. “It called you home for a reason.”
A little current prickled Ella’s wrist where the Thread-burned crescent lay.
Octavia’s eyes went white like a storm erasing a horizon, the chimes at the door ringing despite the lack of wind.
Her voice, when it came, belonged to a mouth of ancient riddles.
“When ash is a crown and green is a throne, the daughter of embers will claim what is sown. A queen lays down, and the river runs wide. Blood writes a bridge where the realms used to divide.
Seek where the roots drink fire and the orchids wear night. The key that you chase is a mirror turned right. Not iron, not stone, not the bone of a king. The lock lives in flesh, and the door is a wing.
One path is storm, and one path is sky. One bears a taste that the earth will deny. Choose with your marrow when the Veil begins to thin. The oath that you keep is the war that you win.”
The words vibrated in the air, very calm and very terrible.
Octavia blinked and came back into herself like someone surfacing from deep water. She swayed, then laughed, breathless and looking pleased.
“I adore when they rhyme,” she chirped happily.
Jakobav hadn’t moved. His knuckles were white where he gripped the window frame; he was listening with his whole body.
Ella was listening with the weight of her past and the fear of her future, attempting to hide the chill her body betrayed.
Octavia looked between them, mischief returning. “Now, that is enough doom before my second cup of tea. Let me see your hand, dear.”
Ella hesitated, then held out her hand, a voice inside her that wasn’t entirely her own mind told her to listen. Octavia pushed her sleeve up, exposing her wrist, then traced the crescent with a fingertip, and warmth flared again, then steadied.
Ella looked at Jakobav in that moment and saw him clock the mark on the inside of her wrist. His eyes widened, then his gaze cut toward Ella with suspicion.
Ella met his gaze, pleading silently, a tiny shake of her head asking him to save the questions for later.
Octavia was oblivious to the shift in the room; Ella looked away from Jakobav, avoiding his silent inquiry by focusing on Octavia.
“Threadwalker,” she murmured. “Yes. You step where doors should not open. Be careful, little ember. Threads can knot as well as guide.”
Her gaze snapped up, pupils wide as another vision took her. This one seemed lighter, or perhaps she was enjoying it more.
“Tall,” she said, absolutely delighted. “And handsome. Foreign to this soil in the old way. The fated pair will taste of elsewhere. And the children will be gorgeous, of course.”
Ella’s stomach turned. “Excuse me?”
Out of the corner of her eye Ella caught movement; Jakobav had gone rigid, then shifted as if he could no longer be still, crossing to the wall of shelves and lifting a glass jar with deliberate care, pretending to study the dried leaves within.
Octavia kept speaking, untroubled, while Ella tracked him in her periphery, every line of him tight enough to snap.
Octavia sighed like a poet, emphasizing each word with enthusiasm and longing. “A riot of curls and eyes like stormwater. Clever little hands, eager to push boundaries. Oh, do say you will bring them to visit. I make the best spice cake. Convinces even toddlers to behave.”
Jakobav choked on nothing, and the jar slipped from his hand. Glass shattered against the floor. He swore under his breath. “Shit. Sorry.”
Octavia only waved a hand, unconcerned. “Don’t trouble yourself, dearie. A lot gets broken in here whenever my visions knock me out. Comes with the territory.”
Then his eyes narrowed, the air thickening as though the mention of children had set his blood on edge. “I’d say that’s enough vision talk for one day. She’s heard enough about her future even without your help.”
Ella stared at him, then away, then at him again, which did nothing to keep her mind from fixating on a select few of Octavia’s words: tall, handsome, and foreign in an old way. She knew of exactly two men that both fit that description.