Those Fatal Flowers

Chapter 10 Now

With the challenge date officially set, the men watch me more closely. I catch them sharpening their knives, carrying larger loads, and practicing their shots, training for a test without knowing exactly what it is—everyone except for Thomas. If he prepares, he’s smart enough to do it privately—or, more likely, Agnes demanded it. But the knowledge of what’s to come paints his features with a new shade of arrogance, and Cora senses the change in him like a hound on the scent of a boar. When she glimpses Thomas emerging from the locked room where they’ve stored my treasure, she cuts her suggested Bible study short and calls him to us.

Thomas barely looks at her as he shares the news that the Council has agreed to send a scouting party to Scopuli with me and my betrothed. His hungry gray eyes swallow me alone. When he excuses himself, Cora rushes after him, and though it makes me ill, I don’t try to stop her. Instead, I make myself scarce.

Elizabeth, Emme, and Wenefrid open their homes to me. I do my best to blend in, especially after my misstep at the first Bible study. But despite the notable differences in our ranks, they quickly grow accustomed to my presence. With their blessing, the others follow. Even Elyoner, who I was certain despised me after my defense of the serpent.

“Is there truly enough food for all of us on Scopuli?” she asks, her eyes wandering to little Virginia in her arms.

“More than enough,” I say, hiding my heartbreak behind a warm smile. The scouting party will never return here, and Elyoner and Virginia will never reap Scopuli’s bounty.

Relief softens her usually harsh features. “God is good to have brought you to us, Lady Thelia.”

It’s not her god who brought me here, but she’s right that they need help.

Young Rose, while showing me her needlework, clicks her tongue disapprovingly when Emme saunters past the Bailies’ front window with a sailor named William Berde.

“After what happened with Charles Florrie, she really should be more careful,” Rose whispers, so softly I wonder if she intended for me to hear it at all. “Master Berde won’t marry her, either.”

“Do you wish to marry?” I venture carefully, and when Rose looks to me, it’s as if she’s aged several decades. Deep purple bags collect beneath her bright blue eyes, and her usually plump lips are pressed into a thin straight line.

“My lady, I am already married. To Master Sampson.”

The air leaves my lungs as I remember the old man from Sunday’s church service. I try to catch my features as they fall, to keep my expression neutral, but Rose has seen the crack. “He’s just so much older than you, I didn’t realize…”

She smiles sadly. “It’s the way of things.”

These interactions reveal the truth of this place: Wenefrid, Elizabeth, and Cora aren’t the only women who feel restless, trapped. I begin to wonder…Could they become my allies?

On the night before the challenge, the near-full moon shines brightly over Roanoke. Despite Cora’s warning of dangers, I easily slip through the city’s eastern gate, courtesy of a passed-out Master Chapman, and make my way to the beach once more. Luna bathes the sea in the same luminous light as she does on Scopuli, but here, it makes everything appear harsher, more exposed. Is this how the world looks through Raidne’s eyes?

Notes rise into my throat at the thought of her, of Pisinoe. Instead of swallowing them down, I spill them onto the waves, losing myself in the thought of the white-capped crests carrying them all the way to Scopuli. A message for my sisters, just like those messages I whispered into the earth for Proserpina.

I will save us. I promise.

“Your voice is beautiful.”

The words shatter my cocoon of sea and song, and I whirl around to face the tangled mess of trees behind me. Cora emerges from them, a lantern raised in one hand.

“You frightened me!” I scold, and though I’m grateful to see her, my hands still tremble. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you,” she murmurs, drawing in close. “I come here sometimes. To think.”

“I thought it was dangerous?”

“It is, so I usually have the beach to myself. What were you singing? I couldn’t understand the words.”

I shrug, looking back to the waves. “I don’t know, really. It just poured out of me.”

“It sounded sad.”

My eyes flick back to find Cora’s emerald stare locked on me. She holds her bottom lip between her teeth, and now I know for certain that my song’s magic is gone. Cora doesn’t look like a woman enraptured; she looks like she’s seen a ghost.

“It was about my sisters,” I offer. “I miss them terribly.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’ll see them soon. Do you know when exactly you’ll be leaving us?”

My chest tightens—of course she wants me to go. How can I blame her for that, after what she’s shared about her future? The one that my presence threatens. “In a few days. Once the ship is loaded with supplies.”

“I think Will might try for your hand.”

I force myself to keep my expression blank. I hope she’s wrong, and I don’t want Cora to see that truth written across my face. Regardless of how I feel for him, Cora clearly loves him. How could I keep him from returning with me to Scopuli if he were to be my husband?

“Would you like it if he did?” she asks.

“Your brother is a kind man. I’d be lucky if he won.”

“Is that all?”

“What do you mean?”

“I catch you watching him sometimes,” she says softly. Her expression is unreadable.

“He looks like someone I loved once.” I leave out the second part of that thought—that so does she, and even though they both share features with Proserpina, it’s Cora’s I search for in Will.

Her desire to ask me more is written in the crease of her brow, but instead she says, “If I was a good person, I’d want him to win for you. But I’m terrified by the idea of him leaving me behind. Of being alone here.”

“It wouldn’t be forever.” Speaking the lie feels like pushing glass through my throat. “You’d join us as soon as the scouting party returned. And until then, you’ll still have your friends. And Thomas.”

“Will I?”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s planning something, Thelia. Please don’t make a fool of me and pretend you haven’t noticed. Has he told you if he means to compete?”

My hand reaches instinctively for hers, just like it did that first night, but this time, Cora doesn’t pull away. How easily our fingers lace together. It makes me want to tell her that I’ve been falling asleep to the imagined sound of her voice, that I hold the image of her smiling like a treasured secret pressed to my heart. That being near her feels like being with Proserpina again, and that in my weakest moments, I wonder if kissing her feels the same, too. If it feels better.

But I say none of those things. Instead of a confession, what falls from my lips is another lie. “Cora, of course not.”

Those spring-ripened eyes search mine for what feels like hours before she eventually nods. Only then does her focus fall to our hands, still clasped.

“Do you believe in fate?” I whisper, and when Cora nods, I squeeze her hand in mine. “You’re going to be all right. Fate is on your side.”

“How can you possibly know that?” she asks, but for the first time tonight, the ghost of a smile crosses her lips.

I return it with a playful shrug as my attention wanders up to the moon. A sense of calm washes over me as I stand on this foreign shore on the eve of my next victory, fingers still intertwined with Cora’s.

How do I know? Because this time, the Fates are finally on mine.

When the meetinghouse’s bell strikes ten, the City of Raleigh will gather to compete for my hand. I still have a few hours to prepare. There’s a chill in my bedroom this morning despite the fire that burns, and Margery fills the bath basin with bucket after bucket of water. The steam swirls into the air, inviting me in, and finally, it’s ready for me.

Margery disappears to prepare Thomas’s breakfast. My eyes flutter closed, and I try to relax into the quiet warmth while I still can. A few moments pass, and the bedroom door creaks back open.

“That was fast,” I say, and the only response is a pregnant silence followed by the door clicking back into its place. My eyes flash open, but the room’s empty. The hair on the back of my neck prickles with alarm.

“Good morning, Master Thomas.” Margery’s voice travels from the stairs. Despite the hot water, my body turns to ice. How long would he have gawked if I’d kept quiet? What would I have done if he tried to come inside? I draw my knees to my chest, instinctively trying to make this weak body smaller. The best way for human women to protect themselves is to hide. To shrink into the background, to not draw attention. My sisters would think me mad if they could see me now, curled in on myself and terrified, desperate for the protection of talons and wings.

A gentle knock startles me. But it’s Cora who slips inside this time.

“Cora.” My voice betrays my surprise. After how much time we spent together on the beach last night, I didn’t expect to see her until today’s festivities.

“I thought you might need help preparing,” she says, her fingers smoothing over her skirts. Is she nervous? “Thomas can be prissy before big events…I expect Margery will be busy doting on him.”

I nod softly, giving her the space to say more, to ask if he’s given any clues to his plans in the short span of hours we’ve been apart. But Cora doesn’t use the opening, and today, we’ll discover if the extra attention she’s been lavishing on him has worked. My eyes fall away from hers back to the steaming water; I don’t want her to read in my gaze what I suspect will happen.

“Let’s get you dressed.” She holds open a towel for me, and I become acutely aware of my heartbeat, of every single bead of water that rolls down my skin, as I push myself to my feet and will her to look at me. My body aches for her to see me completely bared before her, to take me in, but Cora drops her gaze to the ground and clears her throat. I let her enfold me in the towel’s warmth.

We follow the same ritual I did that first morning, except now it’s Cora’s hands guiding me into the various layers this world requires of its women. Throughout it all, I wish the process were occurring in reverse. My eyes fall closed as she pulls a chemise over my head and straightens it across my shoulders. Although there’s a thin layer of fabric between us,her fingers still burn hot against my skin. I want to turn around and take her into my arms, to kiss their calloused tips.Instead, I remain firmly planted in place with a hand on my stomach to steady myself. Her breath kisses the back of my neck as she tightens the laces of today’s gown, making my toes curl beneath my skirts. What would it feel like for her to whisper my name there, against my skin?

“It’s a beautiful gown,” she murmurs, running the warm peach silk through her fingers. “Agnes may be difficult, but she does have good taste.” The bodice is embellished with flowers, stitched in blues and pinks, their leaves unfurling across my abdomen. Unlike the other dresses I’ve worn here, the sleeves on this gown are fitted, save for the areas immediately over my shoulders, which puff out into two little circles. The skirt underneath is full and accented with gold. Cora motions for me to twirl before her. I laugh, suddenly nervous, but concede. Why is it that fully dressed, I blush beneath her stare? It doesn’t matter—in this moment, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to make her grin, and she does.

It’s a dress made for spring, not for the dreadful beginning of winter, which is probably why Agnes deigned to part with it for this occasion. But the fact that its color is out of season doesn’t bring Cora any comfort—as she watches me, her features take on a strange, resigned expression, and I know suddenly that Agnes has never bothered to shower Cora with such a lavish gift.

I take her hand in mine, desperate to pull her back to me. “How should I wear my hair?”

Cora mulls over my question as she picks up a comb. “Hmm. Down.”

“Really?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. I’ve yet to see a woman here wear her hair freely.

“You look like our Virgin Queen, with your strawberry hair. It’ll excite the men, and besides, it’s so beautiful—it would be a shame to hide it. Now come, let me brush it.”

Color rises to my cheeks at the compliment, but Cora’s thankfully too focused on teasing the tangles from my locks to notice.

Once she’s finished, she pulls a tiny pot of red dye from her apron pocket and touches her finger to the concoction. I start to ask her what it is, but then she brings her painted fingertip to my lips to apply the ruby mixture. Energy courses down my spine; my spirit catches in my throat. I don’t breathe, afraid even the tiniest shift in the air between us will send her running. But it doesn’t. She’s close enough that I can smell the roses on her skin. My mind races, incapable of forming a single coherent thought—there’s only the marvel ofher touch and the overwhelming desire to take that slender finger into my mouth. She steps back to admire her handiwork before I lose myself entirely.

“Well?”

Cora sighs contentedly. “You look perfect.”

Before I can bask in her compliment, Margery comes rushing back into the room, flustered.

“Lady Thelia, I’m so sorry. Sir Thomas required my help— Oh! Cora!” Then her eyes fall to me. Her mouth drops.

“Wow.” The single word is all she can manage. I blush harder.

“Stop, you two! You’re making me nervous!” How strange it is, to almost forget that I’m not who, or what, they believe me to be.

“One of those men is about to become very, very lucky…” Margery sighs, and Cora nods in agreement.

“Well, then,” Cora says. “Let’s go find your future king.”

There is a bite to the morning air, a sharpness that claws down my throat, as if I’m breathing in the salt crystals that form in Scopuli’s rocky tide pools during the hot summer months. Their memory coaxes a smile to my lips.

Those afternoons spent collecting the briny granules felt so tedious, and though I noted the swaying starfish, so like their twinkling sisters in the heavens, and the colorful crabs scuttling about, I didn’t appreciate them. Only now, when the kiss of Scopuli’s summer sun feels farther away than it ever has, do I fully understand what I’ve left behind. A light dusting of snow has settled over the City of Raleigh, and stray flakes still fall slowly from above. They catch on my dress as I make my way to the town square. Margery accompanies me, and I catch her stealing glances in my direction. Her movements are stiff, and although this could be a result of the cold, I have a feeling that it has more to do with her nerves. I force my gaze back ahead, afraid that her anxiety might spread to me, like ink in water, if I watch her for too long. Today, I can’t risk being rattled.

Today, I must be strong.

The square is empty when we arrive, and Margery hands me the broom that she carries. The wood is coarse between my palms until I find the worn-in places where she typically holds it, the spots where her work has smoothed its rough exterior into something almost soft. Beads of perspiration collect on the back of my neck. I’m supposed to be preparing for a familiar ritual, and I do my best to appear assertive and proud, though only Margery can say how successful I am.

With a deep breath, I flip the broom around so that its bristles face the sky. The broom’s tip cuts into the shallow drifts of snow like a blade, and I use it to carve a large circle into the ground. The ring is spacious enough that ten men can stand inside it, packed together shoulder to shoulder.

“Thomas aims to compete,” Margery says once I’ve finished, likely so that I couldn’t feign distraction.

“Do you know for certain?” I ask, knowing full well it’s a foolish question. Thomas Bailie would never let the chance to be a king fall into someone else’s hands.

She scoffs. “He didn’t tell me so, but do you really believe he means to sit this out?”

“No,” I concede, gritting my teeth.

“Tell him not to. Tell him that you’re not interested in him.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Do you really think he cares if I’m interested or not?”

Margery snaps her mouth closed into a tight, disappointed line. “Cora can’t lose him.”

Resentment blooms in my stomach at the mention of their union, at the suggestion that its success has anything to do with me. Shouldn’t she know better than most the impossibility of trying to control Thomas’s urges?

“I thought he was dangerous,” I snap, my tone close to a hiss.

“Lady Thelia…” Margery’s blue eyes are wide, worry crinkling her brows so close together that I think they might kiss. “You know what this marriage means for her.”

Of course I do. I hear Cora’s words ringing in my ears— I’llnever want for anything —and I am suddenly grateful for the light, tasteless breakfast. Anything rich would be coming back up.

Never want for anything. Not even for me? I’ve caught her stealing glances when she thinks I’m not looking, her bright eyes filled with a curiosity that extinguishes the second she knows she’s been discovered. But it’s foolish to hope that those looks contain the same desire that’s taking root in me—I have no proof that they do, and even if they did, just like Proserpina, Cora belongs to another.

For now.

“Then hopefully he abstains for both our sakes,” I say coldly.

Margery doesn’t look convinced, but before she can continue the conversation, other townspeople begin to filter into the square to meet us. The nausea threatens again, and my right hand moves to rest atop my stomach in a vain attempt to calm it. It’s no use. My breath quickens, but I force my hand to my side. This chance, this moment, it’s what I’ve been begging the gods to grant me for centuries. I must be brave enough to take it.

Instinctively, my eyes close and a song fills my throat, the same melody that Raidne and Pisinoe sang to me as I left. I didn’t know then what I do now—that the song wasn’t only a goodbye; it was also a gift. The melody grounds me; it reminds me who I am, and when its notes fill my chest, I feel as powerful as I ever have—as if I could snap open the wings I’ve lost and take to the sky, as if I could raze this entire village to the ground. I’m singing out loud now, but I don’t care. Let them believe it part of the ritual. Only when the song ends does a smile crawl upon my painted lips as a satisfied sigh escapes them, as if this is a day I’ve always known would come and not one that I spent centuries begging for but never believed I’d see.

When I reopen my eyes, the square is full. The crowd watches me with expectant, though not enchanted, stares. As anticipated, the entire village has appeared to watch, though different camps have already emerged: the women and children to my left; a group of about sixty men, who I assume plan to participate, in the center; and a group of older and married men off to the right. Everyone is quiet, but restive, eager for the festivities to start.

And who am I to keep them waiting? I clear my throat.

“The test is straightforward,” I say. “Here behind me, I’ve drawn a circle into the earth. Those who are interested in my hand may wrestle for it. The rules are simple. You may not strike each other, you may not gouge each other’s eyes, you may not bite each other, and you may not grab each other’s”—I hesitate, looking for the primmest descriptor—“delicate areas. If you leave the confines of the circle, you lose. Two of you will fight at a time. The first person to make the other fall three times is the winner. The winner remains in the circle to compete in the next round. Any questions?”

The men nod their heads, confirming their understanding.

“Who wishes to go first?”

A young boy approaches the circle, and the crowd erupts into cheers. The excitement is so palpable that even I’m buoyed by it. A wisp of blond facial hair adorns his chin, more of a shadow than an actual beard. He’s hardly old enough to consider taking a bride, let alone fighting for one.

Is this the age that evil starts to blossom inside a boy’s heart?

“What’s your name?” I ask sweetly.

“Lewes,” he mutters, his face flushed bright red. I grin as I motion for him to enter the circle. His bashfulness would be endearing if I didn’t know the violence that his boyish frame will someday be capable of.

“And who challenges Master Lewes?”

An older man named Marke steps forward to join the boy inside the circle. Despite the gray that tinges his hair, he’s not frail, and Lewes’s fair eyebrows raise to touch his hairline. Marke’s skin is weathered and tanned in a way that I would recognize anywhere—this man has spent his life at sea. He’s a sailor. My toes squirm in my shoes instinctively, but today, they’re only toes, not talons.

Marke assumes a wide stance to plant himself firmly on the ground, and that first action tells me that he’ll win.

“Begin!” I command, and almost instantly, Marke has one arm around the boy’s throat, pulling his thin frame up off the frozen earth. Lewes kicks his legs wildly, to no avail. Within moments, Marke has thrown him down into the snow with a surprising amount of power.