Chapter Twenty-Three Blodwyn
Chapter Twenty-Three
Blodwyn
Thunder booms outside. It’s been storming since late last night, the sheets of rain so thick that I can’t even see the palace gardens outside my window.
Wind moans down the chimney, stirring the fire.
Within the flames, I can almost imagine the shape of a face.
That, beneath the raging storm, I hear the echo of a scream: the woman from last night.
The incident keeps replaying in my mind.
The terror on the woman’s face. Her bare feet skidding on the food and manure smeared on the floor.
But much more unsettling than the poor woman’s fate was the court itself—their glee at tormenting her.
And it was Aunt Margaret who instigated the spectacle.
I’ve never seen that side of my aunt before, so brutal and ruthless.
The same words she’s used to describe Ayleth.
“Keep still, please, Highness,” the seamstress chides me around the dozen or so pins held between her lips. “Almost finished.”
I shift on my feet, which ache from standing on the stool for the last hour while the seamstress makes final adjustments to my gown. Just as I feared, it’s heavy enough that I have no idea how I’m going to be expected to dance, much less move, at the ball.
“Are you nervous, Princess?” Gwen, the seamstress’s assistant, asks. “About the trial?”
She’s slightly younger than me and still an apprentice, a fact that the seamstress herself has emphasized multiple times during her visit.
“I’d never be able to remember the answers to all those questions,” the girl continues. “And in front of everyone.”
“That’s enough, Gwen. Don’t be frightening Her Highness,” the seamstress scolds. “I’m sure you’re more than prepared, Princess.”
“Oh, of course you are,” Gwen amends hurriedly. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s all right,” I tell her. “And yes, I am a bit nervous.”
An extreme understatement. I’d spent hours in the library with Verity, stuffing as many facts about Riven into my head as possible.
But my brain has suddenly turned into a sieve, all the names and details slipping right out of it.
Sir Weston might as well hand the next golden apples to Gavin and the other claimants. And then where will I be?
“At least the party will be fun,” Gwen offers. “All that dancing. And the food. I have a friend in the kitchens and she says—”
“Not a bite in this gown, Highness,” the seamstress interrupts, shooting Gwen a warning glance. “I won’t have all my work spoiled.”
The other girl grants me a sympathetic frown, but food is the least of my concerns. Even if I was looking forward to sampling the dishes, I doubt I’d be able to fit more than a few bites in my stomach with how this bodice pinches into my waist.
“Bah,” the seamstress says, bending over her box. “That’s the last of my thread.”
“I’ll get more for you,” Gwen offers, brightening.
“And have you get lost and wind up in the kitchens with that friend of yours?” the seamstress asks, arching an eyebrow. Gwen flushes guiltily. “Stay there, Highness. And no eating. I’ll be back in a twitch.”
She bustles out the door. As soon as she’s gone Gwen sidles closer, running a blue silk ribbon between her fingers.
“I’m sorry if I made you nervous, Highness,” she says. “I really do hope you win.”
Then she’s not like everyone else at court.
“That’s kind of you.”
“It would be nice to have a queen for a change. And, personally, I like the thought of you beating all those boys.” She grins and I can’t help but grant her a reluctant smile. “Is it true what they say—that you fought off a Nevenwolf?”
This again. Though the aftermath of the hunt has died down, stories about the Nevenwolf are as prevalent as ever.
According to a rumor that I highly suspect originated with Verity, I strangled the beast with my bare hands.
Others, like Isabel, aren’t as generous.
I still hear their hushed complaints about how I should have been disqualified from the trials.
No one wants you here, that voice again.
“Something like that,” I mutter, tugging at my bodice.
“That’s incredible,” Gwen breathes, wide-eyed. “And were there really witches there? In the forest? I heard they dragged one of them up to the Great Hall the other night.”
Another gust of wind makes the embers in the fire pop. I can almost see the woman’s face in the flames. Hear the sound of her screams in the howl of the storm.
“She wasn’t a witch,” I tell Gwen.
That’s what made it even worse. Iron cuff or not, it was obvious that the woman was mortal. But that didn’t matter. The court acted as though she wasn’t human at all. Just an object for their amusement.
“Do you know what happened to her?” I ask Gwen. “The woman?”
“Took her back to the dungeons, I suppose,” she threads the ribbon through her fingers. “I hear they’re going to execute all of them soon. But I hope not before the ball.”
“Why not?”
“Because”—she drops her voice—“then they might come back, Highness.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“It’s the Remembrance Ball, of course,” Gwen goes on, stepping closer. “All about honoring the dead. My friend says that some of those dead might even join the party.”
“Those are just stories,” I say, shaking my head.
“But it could be true, couldn’t it?” she presses. “Since the Veil is gone, there’s nothing keeping the Spirits away. So if they execute the prisoners beforehand…those souls might return. Might want their revenge.”
Every hair on my body rises, thinking of the shadows. The Nevenwolf. The witches on the page of my book, their faces warping before my eyes.
Blodwyn, I think I hear beneath the crackle of the fire. Pay the price.
“That will be quite enough.”
Gwen leaps at the sight of Aunt Margaret standing in the doorway.
“S-sorry, Your Highness.” The girl turns the color of a ripe strawberry. “I didn’t—”
“You may address me as Your Grace,” Aunt Margaret corrects. “And I won’t have you filling my niece’s head with nonsense.”
“No, of course not. I’ll just…go and fetch my mistress.” She bobs a clumsy curtsy and scurries out of the room like her skirts are on fire.
Aunt Margaret watches her leave like a hawk who has decided not to devour a mouse.
“I’m sure I don’t have to remind you to ignore the servants’ gossip,” my aunt says, coming up behind me.
“No. It was just silliness, anyway.”
But Gwen’s story clings to me, as does the memory of last night. The fire dances again.
“You look glorious.” Aunt Margaret adjusts part of my gown. But I flinch at the brush of her fingers and she notices. “Is something wrong?”
“Not at all.” I try to smile, but it’s forced.
Aunt Margaret studies me another moment.
“This corset isn’t fastened properly,” she says at last. “Let me help.”
She moves behind me again to work on the laces. I grit my teeth as she pulls them tighter.
“I heard you asking questions about the prisoner,” she comments.
Gooseflesh breaks out between my shoulder blades. How long had she been listening?
“I was curious.”
“And I noticed you didn’t participate during the entertainment,” she adds, meeting my eyes in the mirror. “Is there a reason for that?”
I hesitate, instinct warning me to invent an excuse. Avoid a conflict. But why? I’ve always been able to talk to Aunt Margaret. Maybe she doesn’t realize how the incident appeared.
“Because it wasn’t entertainment,” I reply. “Or it shouldn’t have been. That woman was humiliated in front of everyone.”
Aunt Margaret gives my laces a swift yank. “She would have treated you far worse. In fact, were it left up to her, you’d be dead.”
“Still…shouldn’t we have some decency? Show mercy?”
Like Mother would have done. Aunt Margaret is quiet for a few moments.
“I appreciate your sentiment, my dear,” she says at last. “But court is a delicate balance. Though mercy has its uses, people need to be reminded of their place. Of how far they can fall.”
Thunder booms again.
“For example,” she continues, “it’s come to my attention that you’re spending a good deal of time with a few new members of court.”
I stiffen. I hadn’t been keeping my meetings with Verity and Gavin a secret, but I wasn’t aware that Aunt Margaret noticed. Or cared.
“You told me to make friends.”
“With the right people,” Aunt Margaret clarifies. The corset strains as she tightens it again. “I’m sure you can understand how the boy who challenged your position isn’t the most suitable prospect.”
“Gavin.” Aunt Margaret arches an eyebrow at my use of his name. “We barely know each other. And Verity has been nothing but kind to me.”
“I’m sure it appears that way,” Aunt Margaret says. “But remember: Most of the people at court were appointed by the queen. Their loyalties lie with her. You cannot take anything here at face value. Or anyone.”
“You’re at court,” I point out. “Wouldn’t that mean you as well?”
Her hands still on my laces and she comes around to face me. Lightning flashes.
“My darling niece,” she says. Her words are soft, but I sense the steel beneath them.
“I welcomed you into my home when you were ill. Nursed you with my own hands. Kept you safe from the war raging here in Riven. Pledged my army to help you reclaim your throne. Are you really going to trust some courtier you just met, or anyone else, over me?”
White-hot shame instantly pierces my anger. Aunt Margaret did take me in when no one else wanted me. She’s stood by me when the whole court is eager to see me fail.
“It’s just—”
“Trust in me, Blodwyn,” Aunt Margaret says. “Remember our shared destiny. I would not steer you wrong. And I know what I’m doing. If these people are truly your friends, they’ll support you no matter what.”
A bitter taste cuts between my teeth. But what can I say? Aunt Margaret has far more experience with court life than I do.
“All right,” I say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to doubt you.”
Aunt Margaret cups my face. “It is already forgotten.”
She goes back to my laces.
With every tug, I feel the walls of my life closing in.