Chapter Ten #4
“She may be willing to remove the order to kill you—and remove this tattoo on my arm—if we can convince her that we can find the King’s true killer. It’s what she wants more than anything, even eliminating other meigas.”
I exhale a shaky breath. “So I just need to … get through dinner.”
He nods. “And remember that none of it is real. Don’t let her rattle you.”
I scoff. “You didn’t have beetles copulating in your soup.” Or the image of his own corpse tormenting him.
His expression is so disgusted I almost laugh. He offers me his arm, and I loop my hand in his elbow as we pass back through the doors.
I make it through dinner by keeping my head down and saying very little.
Luckily, Wisteria keeps her mother’s attention occupied with chatter about the fete that the Queen is now throwing tomorrow night in honor of our engagement.
As though it wasn’t going to be difficult enough to perform in front of his family—now I’ll have to do it in front of the Court as well.
When dessert is finished, we follow the Queen through the far doors of the dining room, Roze and I trailing behind the princesses.
“Well done, Sinclair.” Roze’s hand brushes the small of my back. “The after-dinner drinks are a much more casual affair. You’re going to need to loosen up.”
“Loosen up?”
He smirks. “I know—a difficult task with that stick up your—”
I elbow him in the stomach, and he doubles over in pain. Princess Narcissa eyes us over her shoulder as she follows her sisters, and I smile sweetly at her while Roze coughs to cover his pain.
“Saints, Sinclair,” he whispers. “Pretend to actually like me if you want to convince them.”
The parlor is dimly lit, a fire already warming the sitting area. Several of the sisters have a deck of cards out and are taking their seats at the game table.
“Do you want to play?” I ask Roze, desperately hoping he doesn’t.
“Saints, no,” he says, taking two glasses of wine from a butler’s tray and handing one to me. “I prefer to brood and get drunk, if you don’t mind.” He tosses back a gulp of his wine.
“Sounds glorious,” I mutter, sipping from my own cup.
He pulls me by the waist with his free hand toward the sofa next to the hearth, falling into the cushions and pulling me down with him.
He’s more sprawled than sitting, which leaves me half-lying against him, his arm securely around my waist as he takes another deep drink from his glass.
I’m surrounded by him—the warmth of his body touching me from shoulder to knee, the scent of him, apples and winter spices, overpowering me.
My cheeks flush, and I take a deeper drink of my wine.
For the next few minutes, I study the Roquelart family to distract myself from the all-encompassing presence of Roze.
Four of the sisters are playing cards, which, based on their prim posture and upturned noses, seems to be more about out-peacocking each other than actually winning the game.
Wisteria is attempting to play the piano and doing a terrible job of it.
Each time she hits a wrong note, a muscle in Roze’s jaw twitches, like it’s physically painful for him to listen.
And Belladonna … she stands talking in a far corner with the Queen.
The Crown Princess’s expression is bored, but there’s a hardness in her eyes that makes me wonder how much of that is an act.
The Queen’s face is sharp as a viper’s as she speaks to her daughter, and Belladonna isn’t uttering a word.
“What’s your mother saying to your sister?” I whisper to Roze.
“Who cares,” he mutters, clearly more interested in the wine.
He must be well on his way to getting drunk—his arm has worked its way up from my waist and he now has a curl of my hair wrapped around one of his gloved fingers.
He toys with it, studying it like it fascinates him.
He’s taking quite a few liberties with this ruse—no doubt to rile me.
I do my best to ignore him and instead watch the interaction between Belladonna and the Queen.
Queen Maria looks furious, nearly spitting her whispered words in Belladonna’s face.
When I see Belladonna’s gaze start to wander from her mother’s, the Queen grabs her by the jaw, and my breath stops.
The Queen’s nails dig into her daughter’s cheeks like talons as she hisses something to her, eyes aflame.
Belladonna has the look of an abused animal—frightened and furious.
A moment later, the Queen releases her jaw roughly—a dismissal.
Belladonna slowly lifts her head … and sees me watching.
Pure rage washes over her face. She quickly curtsies to her mother before crossing the room to us.
“Oh no,” I whisper.
“Hmm?” Roze mumbles, eyes half open as he fiddles with my hair.
Belladonna approaches, stopping just before our spot on the sofa.
“Viola Sinclair,” she says, her voice dripping with poisoned sugar.
“Find something interesting to gawk at?” Then she leans down close, all sweetness gone.
Roze stiffens, his sleepiness evaporating.
Belladonna snarls, “You have some nerve sitting here, like you’re one of us, like your veins aren’t full of filthy, common blood. ”
Something snaps in me. Against my better judgment, I say, “At least my filthy common blood doesn’t cower before the Queen.”
Pure violence crosses Belladonna’s face. And then she pours her wine onto my lap.
Roze jumps to his feet. I gasp and try to keep the wine from falling on what I’m sure are the most expensive pieces of furniture in the entire Kingdom.
Roze, however, is in his sister’s face, and … he has a knife out. Oh Saints.
“Guards!” squeals one of the princesses at the card table.
A moment later, two guards storm into the room, hands on their swords. Roze doesn’t look at either of them. His knife is against his sister’s throat. His other hand holds the back of her head.
“You’re forgetting yourself, Bella,” he whispers to her. “And you’re forgetting me. What I am.”
Her face has paled, but she glares at Roze. “I could never forget what you are, brother.” She says “brother” like it’s an accusation, and I don’t quite understand.
“Unhand the Princess,” one of the guards commands, drawing his sword.
Roze eyes the guard and then reluctantly obeys, releasing his sister and taking a long step back. He paints his face with that charming smile of his. “Sibling squabbles. All in good fun.”
The guards look warily from Roze to the Queen, who sighs and says, “You’re dismissed.” They bow and are gone in an instant. “And Belladonna, go to bed,” the Queen continues wearily.
Belladonna glowers openly at Roze, her chest heaving, her hair disheveled from where Roze grabbed it. She points a long, painted finger in Roze’s face. “You and your little w—”
“Belladonna!” the Queen snaps, and the Princess flinches. The Queen’s face is livid, and I feel goose bumps rise over my arms, like I can feel the malevolent power lurking under her pallid skin. “Leave.”
Roze smiles wickedly at the Crown Princess. “Go on, sister. Off to bed.”
Belladonna’s face is pure malice, her eyes so alive they almost look like they spark with light. She manages a half-hearted glare at him before fleeing the room, head bowed but spine erect.
Had Belladonna been about to call me a witch? Had the Queen told her daughter the truth about me? It doesn’t seem likely, given the sourness of their relationship, but this family keeps surprising me.
Roze stows his knife beneath his sleeve and returns to his seat beside me. “Is your dress all right?”
I look down at the damp fabric in my lap and shrug. “It doesn’t matter.” A lie. This is the only dress I own, but I’m not going to tell Roze that.
He frowns. “Tomorrow I’m going to have some new clothes purchased for you.”
I pull back to look him in the face. “That’s completely unnecessary.”
“On the contrary, your clothes are awful. If you’re going to be my fiancée, then you need to look the part.”
My mouth pops open, about to tell him off for being rude, but he’s already moved on. “It’s nearly midnight, Sinclair. We should speak to my mother.”
Roze gets to his feet and offers me his hand. I toss back the last of my wine for courage, set the glass on the nearby table, and take his outstretched hand.
Queen Maria has taken her place in a chair near the game table, looking every inch a queen on her throne as she watches her daughters with a stony expression. With her black skirts splayed out before her, the woman is like winter itself, so dark and cold, full of treacherous beauty.
“Mother,” Roze says when we approach, “Viola and I would like a word.”
The Queen surveys us slowly, her eyes piercing, and my stomach sours with nerves. My shadows itch at the edges of my fingertips, as though in response to the magic in the Queen.
“Very well,” she says.
Roze glances at his sisters, who are preoccupied with cards and the piano—they pay us no mind.
“Mother, we’re here to make a bargain,” Roze says.
She laughs—a high, clear sound, like clinking crystal—and I flinch. “You defy my orders, undermine my authority, and force my hand with this farcical engagement, and now you have the nerve to pursue a bargain? With me?”
“It’s true,” I say, forcing sincerity into my voice. “It’s not a farce.”
The Queen raises an eyebrow and turns to her son.
“I love her, Mother,” Roze says. He sounds so utterly convincing as he places a hand on the small of my back.
The Queen’s smile is catlike. “And yet, the rose remains on your arm, Prince.” She turns her icy gaze on me. “Magic is treason. There is no worse wickedness. And once the Kingdom learns of your true nature, I doubt there will be a soul who will defend you, Miss Sinclair.”
I open my mouth, about to bite back that she’s a liar and a hypocrite, that I know what she is, that she can’t use my death and the death of every other meiga for her own ends.
But then Roze’s hand tightens on the back of my dress, and I understand his meaning—Hold your tongue. Don’t show her what you know.
I snap my mouth shut, still glaring at the Queen, who continues to watch me with those too-perceptive eyes.
Roze interjects, “I know how Father’s death has plagued you. And we both know that Viola isn’t the one you’re after. Let us find the real culprit and deliver them to you. The Court will be mollified; justice will be satisfied. And when we do, you’ll remove the tattoo and let Viola live.”
The Queen’s jaw tightens. The air around her darkens.
I doubt Queen Maria is used to anyone denying her anything, holding any sort of power over her—she’d rather have me dead and find out how the King died.
She inhales deeply, and I feel death fill the air, surrounding the Queen.
The hairs on my arms rise, and for less than a blink, I’m sure Queen Maria’s eyes flash bright red.
And then her appearance is ordinary once more, the air cold with winter chill.
“You will find his murderer. If you do so within the time frame of the thorn tattoo … I will consider lifting it.”
I take a deep breath, finding my voice. “You’re so certain that he was murdered? Wasn’t he in poor health?”
Her eyes flash. “I knew my husband. His mind was addled, but his body was strong. It did not fail him.”
“Then we’ll find his murderer,” Roze says, his mother’s rage reflected on his face.
“But,” the Queen continues, “if you find the culprit, when the last thorn disappears, this engagement must hold. Miss Sinclair will marry into this family.”
My legs nearly give out. “Why?”
Roze’s fingers press into my back—a warning. I glance at him. His eyes are set on his mother, his jaw clenched, surety in his gaze.
The Queen’s eyes narrow on me. “I will not be made a fool before the Court because of your scheming. A broken engagement, a fickle young prince … the smallest sign of weakness and those vipers will smell blood.” She looks at Roze.
“We’ve lost your father, our lion. But this family will remain strong.
I’ll make sure of it.” She turns back to me.
Every time I meet her eyes, I remember what it felt like to plunge into the pools of the caverns as a small child—the freshly melted snow shocking my body so brutally I could scarcely breathe.
“I protect my family at all costs, Miss Sinclair. You’ll do well to remember that. ”