Chapter Twenty-Seven Ayleth
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ayleth
A drizzly haze clings to the palace on the day of the Remembrance Ball.
The halls hum with activity as servants scurry about, completing final preparations.
By late afternoon, I’m already dressed and ready for Jacquetta.
As I wait for her to arrive, I pace in front of my mirror, going over the night’s details with Callen.
“And don’t forget to send the crows to—”
“Patrol the grounds,” the imprisoned king replies, exasperated. “Yes, I heard you the first dozen times.”
Nettle swats at him from her perch. But I ignore them both, lacking the energy to banter.
Memories of the hunt, the attacks in the forest, have nipped at me all day.
I can’t afford another mishap. Security aside, tonight may be our only chance to get information about Margaret.
I even asked Callen to help me determine which of the courtiers might be most useful for Jacquetta to interrogate. I just pray it’s enough.
“If anything goes wrong, you will alert me at once,” I go on.
“Yes, yes,” he drawls. “Who are you supposed to be, anyway?”
I pause, just able to glimpse the outline of my own reflection behind Callen’s face.
As tradition dictates, everyone except the claimants wears black, and so my gown is a rich midnight-colored brocade, covered in intricate patterns of vines and roses.
The neckline is square-cut, but the back collar is higher than is currently fashionable.
It rises above my head, onyx jewels dangling from the pointed ends.
The sleeves are gauzy and loose, flowing around me like wings.
“Queen Gwenllian,” I tell Callen. Then, at his confused expression, “She led Riven’s troops into battle during the king’s absence.”
“Oh her,” Callen says. “That’s right. An interesting choice, given the outcome.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t know?” he asks. “Poor Gwenllian didn’t meet a good end. She was either poisoned or went mad. I can’t remember which.”
You will burn, Mother’s warning resounds in my ears.
“But don’t fret,” Callen adds. “I’m sure that’s not what will happen to you.”
“Just—”
A soft thumping comes from behind the nearest tapestry. Jacquetta, entering from the old servants’ passages.
“Leave,” I tell Callen.
“So soon? Don’t you want to introduce me to your friend?” he asks, grinning at me. “We have so much to discuss: How you pined for her all those years. Whispered her name into the night. Such longing.”
“Go,” I order, yanking the curtain closed against his laughter.
An instant later, Jacquetta fights her way from behind the heavy fabric of the tapestry.
“It’s about time you—” I start.
The smell of charred wood and ash hits me. Sweat glistens on Jacquetta’s face and there are streaks of soot on her hands and uniform. Even the strands of hair poking out from her cap appear singed.
“You look awful!” I exclaim. “You were supposed to come ready to be dressed.”
She crosses her arms. “I’d like to see how well you’d look after three hours of minding the kitchen fires and turning spits. How much do these people eat?”
I groan. Weston ordered practically an entire forest’s worth of venison and boar for the night’s festivities.
“Come on,” I say, dragging her with me. “We’ll have to hurry.”
Nettle growls as we cross through the chambers.
“Hello to you, too,” Jacquetta grumbles.
I open another door. The bathing chamber, which stills smells of the various oils and perfumes I poured into my own bath earlier. A memory of when I’d found Jacquetta bathing in Marion’s old chambers resurfaces and I fight the blush that rises on my cheeks.
“Go on,” I prod. “And be quick about it.”
She pushes past me and shuts herself inside.
After a few moments, I hear the sound of splashing water.
I’m suddenly painfully aware that there’s nothing but a wall between us and try to distract myself with tidying the chamber.
It doesn’t do any good. Nettle watches me with what I take to be a smirk.
“Don’t you have anything better to do?”
She swishes her tail in answer.
What seems an eternity later, Jacquetta reemerges.
Her hair is loose and wet, falling in damp curls that soften the angles of her face.
Her dressing gown—my dressing gown—is closed, but I can see the hint of her chest through the collar.
The skin there shines with whatever lotion or oil she used in the bath.
I clear my throat and give myself a shake, earning another dubious trill from Nettle.
“Here.” I gesture to the undergarments I laid out. “Put those on first.”
“Corsets again.” Jacquetta wrinkles her nose. “Just kill me. It would be kinder.”
“We’ll revisit that option later,” I promise.
She motions impatiently for me to turn around.
“So, how am I supposed to bring up the duchess in conversation tonight?” Jacquetta asks. Fabric rustles as she begins to dress. “Excuse me, Lord Idiot, do you happen to know of a scandal involving the king’s sister?”
“You wheedled your way into the palace once before,” I remind her. “I’m sure you can handle it. Besides, they’ll be drunk and eager to talk. Just keep your mask on.”
“And if I should find myself in the duchess’s company?” she asks.
“With any luck, she won’t be joining us tonight.”
“Why not? Did you poison her?”
“No,” I retort, annoyed.
Though what I did do was arguably worse. Callen reported that Margaret could be heard shouting and throwing things this morning. A smile twitches at the corners of my lips. Maybe the incident with the falcon wasn’t enough to touch the duchess’s pride, but this seems to have done the trick.
“Are you ready yet?” I ask.
Jacquetta grunts in answer and I turn around to assist her with the corset.
It reminds me of the time I’d needed to undress her after the Nevenwolf’s attack.
Just like then, I can’t help but notice the ledges of her shoulder blades above the neckline of her shift.
The elegant line of her spine and the fine hairs at the nape of her neck. Places I have touched. Craved.
Careful, that voice warns.
“Not too tight,” Jacquetta instructs as I start on the laces.
“I assumed you’d be accustomed to court dress,” I remark. “What with all the time you’ve spent in the Rycinthian palace.”
She snorts. “We weren’t exactly invited to their parties.”
“Oh no?” I ask. “Don’t tell me you had difficulty making friends.”
I can feel her gaze narrow.
“We’re still witches, Ayleth,” she says. “Rycinthia might have allied with the covens, but they didn’t welcome us with open arms. Quite the opposite.”
I slow in my movements. Until now, I’ve always envisioned Jacquetta and the rest of the witches as guests of honor, being toasted in Rycinthian halls. Surrounded by courtiers clamoring to win their favor.
“What does that mean?”
She hesitates before answering. “We were…curiosities at best. Brought out to entertain the nobles with what little remained of our gifts.”
“I thought you said your power didn’t work over there.”
“It didn’t, mostly,” she clarifies. “But Blesseds could still manage to coax flowers to bloom. Diviners would read cards, even if they had to make it up. Party tricks.”
It’s satisfying to hear that witches like Selene and her awful Second, Sindony, have been reduced to mere fortune tellers. They deserve it, after all those years of acting like they were superior to everyone else. Still…
“And at worst?”
“Suspicion,” Jacquetta says. “Fear. Just like it was for us during the Covens’ War. I heard of a witch who nearly died when someone poisoned her dress.”
That’s not my problem, I tell myself. Not my fault.
The witches could have joined with me and avoided all this, but they didn’t.
Even so, I can’t help but think of others—Eden, who used to charm roses to life in the kitchen windows and kept my secrets.
The Elementals, who let me tag along with them on their hunts.
Do they deserve poisoned gowns and a life of ridicule?
I give Jacquetta’s corset one last yank.
“That’s enough,” she complains, batting my hands away.
“Sorry,” I mutter, fetching the gown. “If things were so bad in Rycinthia, then why stay?”
“What other choice did we have?” Jacquetta asks, stepping into the skirt. “If we remained here, your shadow creature would hunt us down. At least in Rycinthia we had a chance of keeping our power—and our lives. Most of us learned to live with everything else.”
Most of them. A question surfaces from a deep corner of my mind: One I’ve avoided asking since Jacquetta arrived. One I’m still not sure I want answered. It slips out, anyway.
“And my mother?” I ask. “Was she pretending to read fortunes?”
Jacquetta pauses. “Cassandra?”
“She’s not a Diviner,” I allow with a shrug. “But I’m sure she could conjure a decent lie to entertain the mortals.”
After all, she spent most of my life lying to me.
“Ayleth.” Jacquetta’s voice is soft. Almost gentle. “Cassandra wasn’t with us in Rycinthia.”
“Not with you?” I ask. “But I know she met up with the Heirs.”
“She did,” Jacquetta agrees. “But she didn’t come with us. She was too weak.”
Too weak? The roots of my hair prickle.
“I don’t understand. I took her latent magic, but I didn’t extinguish it.”
That’s the whole point of my strategy. I’m not killing the witches. In fact, I don’t want them to die. I want them to live and understand what it was like to be me. To learn what they did to Shade and all the other creatures of Malum. The shadows undulate around me.
“Perhaps not,” Jacquetta says. “But there was something…broken in her. More than losing her magic. Ayleth, she…”
Died.
The word hangs between us. Every fiber of my being rises up in rebellion. It can’t be true. Surely I would have sensed Mother’s death, like a string snapping inside me.
“Are you certain?” I press. “She might have just wandered off or—”
“I was there when they wrapped her,” Jacquetta says, not unkindly. “I assumed you knew.”
I didn’t. All this time, I believed Mother was with the Heirs. That her silence was part of her rejection, like when she left the crimson cloak at Stonehaven for me to find.
I move away from Jacquetta, a thousand emotions and memories churning in my mind.
Mother when I was a witchling, her laugh filling the Sanctum.
Of her and Rhea and me in the workroom, Mother instructing Rhea while I prepared ingredients.
I turn my palm up, examining the three faint lines under my left ring finger.
For so long, I was convinced it meant the three of us together, always.
“Ayleth, I’m sorry,” Jacquetta says. “Really.”
“You don’t have to pretend,” I reply, pulling myself together. “I know you think it was my fault she died. I’m the one who took her power.”
“That’s not what I think at all,” she says. Then, at my puzzled expression. “Don’t mistake me. What you did to the rest of us was cruel. But Cassandra…she deserved what she got. Worse, even, after everything she put you through.”
I’m not sure what to do with that. How many years had I yearned for those exact words?
But, for some reason, hearing them now doesn’t give me the satisfaction I’ve craved.
Instead, another piece of my heart cracks, that old, stubborn grief oozing out of the fracture.
But I seal it up and stitch it tight. Glance one last time at the mark on my hand—the three lines I thought represented my family.
But Rhea is gone. Now so is Mother.
And I am alone. Just as I’ve always been.