All the Queens’ Curses

Chapter One Kit

Chapter One

Kit

I open my eyes and study my hand on the pillow beside me. The skin is taut over every joint, and heat runs through the muscle. I inhale carefully, concentrating on the soft cotton of the fabric against my cheek, the weight and warmth of my blankets.

Then I bend my fingers.

The joints catch in three of them, and I swear I can feel bones scraping bones. Pain explodes—but then something slides and pops and I can move freely again. Or, freer, at least. The pain recedes to an ache that hums in the back of my head, where I don’t have to pay it attention.

I release my breath, and it mists in the air above me. The fire died long ago, and I’ve told the maids to use their time on more important rooms this morning—after all, the king and princes from the Islands of Skyare are visiting.

I hadn’t considered what the cold might do to my bones. Last year, it wasn’t so bad. And none of this had been a problem in the winters before my mother’s second marriage. My stomach shrinks at the thought of the dark months ahead.

“Bear what must be borne,” I whisper. My mother’s family saying sounds empty in the frigid room. But I have no time to lie here fretting.

Setting my jaw, I dart free of my bed in a rush.

The thin carpet does nothing to protect my feet from the freezing flagstones, and I’m halfway to my wardrobe when my body starts tightening in protest. My pace slows, and a slithering discomfort rises up my legs.

I grit through it, blindly yanking on my working outfit: chemise and stays and petticoat and, finally, a wool dress in a color somewhere between gray and green.

I fumble as I tie the apron round my waist—my fingers don’t want to bend with the deft ease they once did—then slide my arms into my warmest pelisse and twist my long hair into a bun at the base of my neck.

I cover this with a simple bonnet and pull on my boots. I’m ready.

This early, our guests won’t be up, and I can help with the chores before anyone would suspect a princess to have left her room.

I’m still not used to being a princess. I’m not sure I’ll ever be.

In the hall beyond my door, the floor creaks. I freeze in the middle of tying the bonnet’s ribbon under my chin. I am all listening, all hearing. I wait.

There is not another sound.

Not footsteps. Not him.

I breathe slowly. My joints pinch as I finish the bow. He hasn’t come for me here before, but …

When I open my door, I keep the gap narrow.

No movement outside. Phantom sounds aren’t unusual in this old castle, but my body doesn’t care for logic just now.

I release the door and tap my fingertips against my collarbone.

I’m all right. I’m all right. Somehow, the solidness of the beat makes my faltering heart steady. I slip into the hallway.

Catharine’s door is closed across from mine. Normally she would meet me and help with the morning tasks, for all she’s the one born into royalty, but today there is no sign of her. The fear still coils round my lungs, and I take a step toward her door. If she is with me, he won’t come.

But even though her father made me leave before our guests’ arrival last night, I know Catharine stayed up late to greet them, and she’ll be up late again tonight dancing. I’d rather she sleep.

I lift my chin and tap my collarbone a few more times as I walk on. It feels good to move.

Down in the kitchens, I grab grains for the chickens and a basket for eggs. The sleepy cook gives me a nod, leaning over a pot of boiling water.

“We appreciate it, Princess Kit, but you know your mother …” he starts to say, but is interrupted by an involuntary yawn.

“We need all the hands we have,” I reply, pushing the door with my back. The cold wind knifes through the opening, searching out any gap in my clothes. “Besides, who wouldn’t want to take in such glorious weather!”

Cook waves me out. “Very well, then, off with you before everything turns to ice!”

I grin and duck into the open. The wind slams the door shut behind me.

I cross the wide area at the front of the castle and reach the cover of the castle walls.

Immediately, the air becomes placid and calm.

I rub my streaming eyes with my sleeves and say a silent prayer of thanks for thick, sturdy stone.

The chickens clatter when I reach their coop. I toss enough feed to distract them, then snatch the warm eggs from their nests. Once I’ve collected them all, I linger to scatter more seed.

My gaze wanders to the castle. From here, I have a good view of the back.

The guest suites are above me to the right, and I’m just wondering about the princes inside when a window latch clangs and someone pushes the pane open, scattering shards of ice down the wall. Startled, I duck into the shadows.

A young man leans out into the cold, his arms resting on the casement.

The first hint of dawn has begun to turn the sky a gentle velvet, and I can see him clearly: dark hair in a tangle of curls, white shirt creased, and collar undone.

The tanned hue of his skin looks more gray than warm, though I think that must be due to the low light.

His shoulders lift and fall with a deep breath.

Something jabs my foot, and I jump, even though my boots keep it from hurting.

While I was distracted, I dropped feed on my skirt’s hem and the hens have come after it.

I shift away, trying to keep quiet, trying not to draw the young man’s attention.

I back into the door of the coop, but I can’t stop watching him.

For all Catharine would scold me—the man’s barely dressed, honestly—there is something desperate and familiar in the way he turns his face into the sharp cut of the wind.

He must be one of the princes. The older, Idris, if the descriptions I’ve heard are right. The one whose birthday we will celebrate later. I wonder what brought him to the window so early. A dream? A nightmare?

Or maybe they rise at this time for the tides, I tell myself practically.

While he stays, I stay. It’s odd, but somehow I feel I must—I feel he should not be alone. Even if he does not know I’m here.

A dog’s nose creeps up by his elbow, sniffing, and he shifts as a great beast of a hound puts its paws on the sill to stand beside him.

The prince rubs his face with both hands and tousles the dog’s ears before he steps back.

The dog looks right at me—or at the chickens—before it hops down again. The prince pulls the window closed.

I breathe again—had I stopped? My hands are cold round the basket. My fingers, stiff. I stretch them, one by one, and shake off the inexplicable shroud that’s fallen on me. I have duties to do. I don’t have time for princes.

It’s nearly eight by the time I dart back up to my room to change for the day. When I come to my door, it’s cracked open. I tense.

If my mother is within, she’ll know I was working, and I’ll be in for a severe scolding.

If he is within …

My arms shake as I touch the latch. The door swings wider and shows—Catharine. Just Catharine. Dressed in her fine white muslins and wrapped in her intricate plum shawl, she kneels on the hearth and coaxes a fire to life.

“Catharine!” I hurry in and shut my door, just in case my mother does come down the hall. “You’ll ruin that skirt!”

Catharine looks, laughing, over her shoulder. “Ah, well. Maybe next time you won’t sneak off without me.”

I’m drawn to the fireside, my bones still icy, but when I offer Catharine a hand up, she tugs me to the floor beside her. The stone isn’t so cold now, but I scoot closer to the heat anyway.

“You promised we would split the chores,” Catharine goes on. “You’re not supposed to let me sleep in.”

“These are special circumstances.” I unbutton my pelisse and tug off my bonnet. “You’re supposed to be charming a ring out of the prince’s pocket.”

Catharine shakes her head. “My father dreams.”

I glance at my stepsister—fresh as the world’s first morning, the fire’s glow bringing a healthy flush to her cheeks, dark ringlets framing pale skin—and wonder for the thousandth time how she can be so unaware of her own beauty.

When we first met four years ago, I thought she only pretended to be modest. But time has taught me that there is no one more guileless.

She can pretend at nothing, even if she tries.

At least, not to me. To the public, she might seem almost too well-mannered, but sitting shoulder to shoulder with her, I know she has only spoken what she believes is true.

“Well, what about our visiting royals?” I ask, thinking of the young man at the window. “Did one of them catch your eye?”

“They’re both very kind,” she replies. “Prince Abram was rather quiet, but I think maybe he was only tired or shy. Prince Idris has a rather … large … hound.” Her lips twist a little in an attempt at a smile.

Catharine has not particularly liked dogs since an incident involving the hunting hounds and her childhood pet, a rabbit.

With forced cheerfulness she adds, “He’s trained it to bow in greeting. Isn’t that sweet?”

So I had seen Prince Idris.

Catharine shifts on the hard floor, and I poke her in the arm. “Come, the room’s warm enough now. Get comfortable. I need to dress.”

Catharine gets to her feet and stretches. She plops into my reading chair nearby. I lean forward to add a handful of peat to the fire.

A cold draft hits my back, and I turn to find my mother in the doorway. Her face is already fixed in a scowl. I see the room as she must: Here is Catharine, pampered and lovely and lounging in my chair, and me, still plain as a servant and knelt over the fire.

“Mother!” My voice comes out more startled and guilty than I’d like. I scramble to my feet.

Catharine rises, too, though with considerably more grace. She drops a curtsy. “Your Majesty.”