Chapter Nineteen
“That was breathtakingly foolish of you,” Roze growls the next morning.
We sit opposite each other at a long table in the dining hall. The hour is early, and the blackness of the Mists outside the tall lancet windows has barely grayed. Flickering candlelight dances on the polished surface of the table. I have little energy and even less patience.
“If you’d taken me with you—”
“You would have what? Poisoned a hundred snakes? Was I just supposed to know that the book was enchanted?”
The look he gives me could cut through iron. “You agreed to not go anywhere without me.”
Roze looks exhausted. His uniform is still impeccable as always, and his hair is neatly coiffed, but his eyes are rimmed with lavender. He grinds his teeth as he watches me.
“I had to do something,” I argue. “We’re running out of time. What happens in three days, Roze?”
He licks his lower lip and glances away. “I don’t know. The tattoo remains. Her death doesn’t seem to have put an end to her power. Somehow, some part of her lives on.”
His words sink into me like a knife to the stomach. I toy with the pleats of my skirt, my appetite for oat pottage suddenly completely absent.
“Sinclair—Viola.” The use of my first name forces me to glance up, to meet the hard look in his eyes. “I’m going to keep you safe.”
My eyes fall to the ring that’s still on my finger as I rub my thumb over the family crest.
“And what about you? Who will keep you safe?”
“Don’t worry about me.”
I laugh bitterly. “You’re used to that, aren’t you? No one caring.”
For a moment, he seems like he’s about to say something, but then he stops and sips his tea.
“Don’t go anywhere without me again, understood? Anywhere. You want to visit your friends in Marquet-Blanc, I’m with you. You want to go back to the Crypt, I’m with you. I don’t care if it’s a cup of tea in the middle of the night—”
I scoff. “And if I want to take a bath, you’ll stand guard?”
He lifts his teacup to his lips. “Don’t tempt me.”
My face warms. Prick.
He lowers his cup to the saucer, and I notice that the liquid is solid black. I stir my tea delicately. “You drink your tea straight?” I ask.
“Naturally,” he says. “As though I’d pollute it with cream or sweetener.”
“The stronger the better,” I agree.
“Absolutely.”
He watches me over the rim of his cup, taking another sip. His leg is folded elegantly over the other. A paragon of aristocratic snobbery. We sip our tea in silence, and it is tolerable if not companionable.
Until a guard rushes toward us. He slows as he approaches, stiff backed, like he’s afraid Roze might bite him. “Your Highness,” he says, “The Queen—”
Roze waves him off. “I was informed of the Queen’s death.”
The guard shakes his head. “Sir, your sister, the Queen, has requested your presence in the throne room immediately.”
I meet Roze’s eyes, and I know we’re both thinking the same thing—whatever Belladonna has to say won’t bode well for either of us.
“I’ve been thinking about what I said to you about your parents,” Roze says as we make our way to the throne room, surrounded by guards. “I suppose the gentlemanly thing to do would be to apologize.”
I hadn’t had time to think about his stinging words about my family—honestly, there have been far more important things to worry about. “Is this what constitutes an apology for you?”
“I didn’t mean to cause you pain.”
I raise an eyebrow.
He sighs. “I said what I did about your parents because you should know that you don’t need them. You don’t need anyone.”
“Don’t tell me what I need.”
He rolls his eyes. “They’re two miserable people who abandoned their child because they didn’t understand her.”
He stops in the middle of the hall, and the guards halt around us—his way of reminding them that though they may be escorting us to the throne room by the Queen’s orders, he is still their Prince. He controls them.
“But I do,” he says, inclining his head toward me. He says it loudly enough for the guards to hear. None of them react—it’s their job not to—but I know that this is another display of power. He is letting them all know what I am to him.
What he’s pretending I am to him.
I have to remember that—it’s a convenient ruse, but a ruse all the same. With the Queen gone, we don’t have to continue the engagement for her sake, but it gives us an excuse to stay close, to continue working together to break the power of the rose tattoo.
Roze lowers his voice to a whisper. “I just want you to know … I understand.”
His eyes navigate mine—shards of crystal smoke that seem to say, You and I are alone here together.
And a lurid desire takes shape in my heart, a thought so vile that my better judgment recoils from it—what it might be like to wrap myself in Roze’s world, his hate-filled existence, a pair of vipers in a nest, embracing the darkness and striking all who challenge us.
I have to look away from him and shake myself to keep from dwelling on it.
He says nothing, studying me for another moment. The guards stand at attention, waiting for the royal to signal that they may continue.
I only breathe again when Roze turns away from me. The first guard enters before us and bows in the direction of the throne.
“His Royal Highness, Prince Roze, and Miss Viola Sinclair,” he announces.
And we step inside. The room is shrouded in darkness—the chandeliers overhead do little except to cast everything in an eerie glow, creating shadows in odd places.
Two thrones overlook the room in the center of a raised platform, guarded in front by a great gold lion.
One throne is for the belated King, and one is for the Queen, dead not a day.
Belladonna is in that seat, hands hanging loosely over the arms, back and neck rigid as we approach.
On either side of the thrones, Roze’s other sisters sit in five matching chairs arranged in two lines.
They’re a beautiful and deadly bunch—that serpentine look that is definitely a family trait evident in the tilt of their heads, the stillness of their bodies, the sharpness of their eyes. Queen Belladonna’s gaze latches on to mine, and I immediately freeze.
Because her eyes are black orbs—no whites—pools of night so thick that they eat up all the surrounding lights.
I blink, and they’re normal again.
Is this another one of the Queen’s illusions? How could she possibly be able to torture me like this from beyond the grave?
Belladonna’s red-painted lips turn into a frown—I’ve been so terrified that I forgot to curtsy. I stumble into one, and I don’t miss the shadow of amusement that passes over Belladonna’s face.
But Roze … he doesn’t bow.
“Brother,” she says. Her voice is sharp, on the edge of rage. I glance up at Roze from my supplicant position, but his head is held high, staring down his nose at his sister.
“Hello, sisters,” he croons.
Belladonna’s red smile widens. “I suppose I can’t expect any manners from you. You were always more mongrel than prince.”
The sisters smile as one.
That’s not how I would describe him at all. I can’t imagine how anyone can look at Roze, at his perfectly styled hair, his elegant clothing, his superior demeanor, and not see a prince.
“You aren’t in mourning attire,” Roze observes. Each one of them is dressed in the same hue of deep red, hems pooling at their feet like six identical puddles of blood. “Good to know how little the death of a family member means to the lot of you.”
Queen Belladonna’s knuckles grip the armrests of the throne. Roze is an expert at getting under anyone’s skin. Prince of making himself a problem.
Belladonna’s lips pinch together so that they look like a bloody slash across her white face.
“A guard is missing. Would you know anything about that?”
“I do not. My, isn’t that concerning?”
The sisters narrow their eyes simultaneously, and goose bumps rise on my arms. There is something so unnatural about them.
Belladonna taps the throne with a long finger. “You haven’t asked,” she says, “how our mother died.”
No emotion crosses his face. “How?”
Belladonna bares her teeth. “Brutally.”
Brutally. What does that mean? What did Roze do?
You’ve always known he was a monster. Just like you.
“Brutally?” Roze asks, his eyes narrowed.
“The body is barely recognizable,” Belladonna says.
“It was her,” exclaims Wisteria. She glares bitterly at me.
“What?” I say. “I never—”
“What would Viola have against our mother?” Roze asks.
“I don’t trust her,” Wisteria says. “Some cavern girl that we never even saw before this week, and now suddenly we’re throwing her parties and welcoming her into our family?”
“We’re betrothed,” Roze answers.
“And that’s another thing,” says Oleandra. “You’ve never shown any interest in marriage before, and now suddenly you don’t leave her sight.”
I hate that they’re talking about me as though I’m not here. I have a sinking feeling that I know where this is headed.
“You did something to him,” Narcissa accuses me with a familiar cruel sneer on her face. She almost sounds like she admires me.
“Narcissa,” Roze warns.
“She can speak for herself, can’t she?” Narcissa asks.
“I can,” I say, lacing strength into my voice. If I want to stay alive, I have to look like I belong.
“Then answer this question, Miss Sinclair,” says Belladonna. “Are you a meiga?”
My blood runs cold.
“Of course she isn’t,” Roze lies.
“I didn’t ask you, Roze. I asked her,” Belladonna says.
My breath falters and my fingertips begin to itch with my shadows. This isn’t right, and it isn’t fair. I’ve done nothing but hide my shadows from the public eye, hold them back, dutifully and painfully.
I consider my next words carefully. “The late Queen killed all the meigas after the war. None remain.”
“Perhaps she missed one,” Azalea hisses.
“And perhaps,” says Belladonna, “her death is Viola Sinclair’s retribution.” That clownish smile returns to her face.
There is no more hiding. Now it’s time to fight.
“Strange that the Queen should have such a quarrel with the meigas when she was one herself,” I say.
Their smiles all drop at once. The throne room is silent except for Roze’s sharp breaths next to me.
“What did you say?” Belladonna says, but her eyes aren’t on me—they’re on her brother. “You. How dare—”
“Viola is my betrothed.”
“She’s not family.”
“She might as well be.”
“I did not kill the Queen,” I interrupt. “Nor am I a part of any plot against the Crown.”
“You haven’t answered the question,” Belladonna says. “Are you or are you not a meiga?”
“I—”
“Stop,” Roze says, and Belladonna’s eyes flash. For a moment I think she’ll come down off her throne and strike him. But to my amazement, she listens. Roze takes a deep breath. “Sister,” he says to Belladonna. “May we speak with you privately?”
Belladonna’s lips pinch in anger for a long moment while my heart thunders in my chest before they twist into a saccharine smile. “Of course,” she croons. “I intended to visit my mother’s body. Perhaps you’ll accompany me.”