Epilogue
Queen Viscaria d’Orange-Plantagenet wore the crown heavily that day.
All day, through the proceedings, the meetings, and the teas, the crown had weighed on her neck, making her back ache.
The jewels were too large, stupid, burdensome things.
She came home resolute on having a new crown fashioned for her, a lighter one with smaller jewels. Ambers, maybe, to match her scepter.
Two footmen walked her to her chambers, on either side of her as though she would fall at any moment.
She was old but not that old. Old enough to outlive her brothers and sisters, her husband, yes, even her children, may they rest in peace.
That was what she did, it seemed. Outlived everybody, over and over again.
Some days, she wanted it to end. The pain of her aging body. The loneliness.
Not that she was ever really alone. She always had servants and sycophants around her, agreeing with everything she said. Laughing even when she hadn’t made a joke. She hadn’t felt seen, really seen, since her husband died.
The footmen opened the door to her chambers and she stepped inside. The servants followed. “Not today,” she croaked.
“Your Majesty?”
“I wish to be alone.”
The two footmen looked at one another and then bowed.
The door sealed behind her, and she was alone.
It was growing late already. Sunset light filtered through the high windows on the wall, casting shadows that crept over the room in tendrils.
How time flew, these days. The world seemed so much faster than when she was a girl.
The whole city rumbled with carriages and trains, gears and locks, engines and the clang of metal.
She missed the countryside, the calm certainty of green and growing things.
She sighed, moving to the table and taking off her crown. Her hands shook, and it clattered on the wood. Perhaps she’d go to the country after all. Dr. Gall had said there was a power in wild places. A power that could confer longevity.
She winced to think of Gall. The good doctor was dead, and with him, his promises of immortality.
His treatments had kept her strong, and now, without them, she was fading.
She knew she was not long for the world, and soon Prince Oliver would replace her.
The boy was not ready—he was too romantic, too soft.
If he faltered again, the weight of the crown would snap his neck.
Perhaps Gall’s death was for the best. He’d been a mad dog at the end, and even confiscating his amulet hadn’t slowed the carnage.
She thought the whole affair had wrapped up rather nicely.
His secret abattoir burned and buried, all of it seemingly a tragic accident.
She wondered at the convenience of it—wondered, too, if any still lived who knew his secrets.
Viscaria moved to her dresser. She set the crown in its holder and removed the jewels around her neck. She felt better instantly. Usually, her servants would undress her, but she’d ordered them away. She was so tired. She just wanted to be alone.
For days like this, she kept a decanter of brandy in her chambers. It was the same kind her father used to drink, deep and velvety, strong as an ox. It comforted her, the smell of it. Reminded her of home. Of days when she was young.
She poured herself a glass. Gall would have chided her, if he saw her drinking. He had never been a sycophant, not like the others. She almost missed the man, monster that he was. They had something in common: vision, and the will to make it a reality.
She lifted the glass to her lips and drank, savoring the coolness of it in her dry mouth, the familiar bite. She swilled it, swallowed, and then sighed.
Viscaria relaxed, leaning back on the chair, and removed her shoes. She drank again and again.
“Why her?” a voice said.
Viscaria’s spine tingled. She turned to see a woman in the corner of the room, shrouded in shadow. The sun had moved low enough that the room was dark, save for the sun’s afterglow coming through the balcony door.
“Guards—” Viscaria said, but her voice came out in a whisper. Her throat constricted by the moment, and her body felt cold, washed over in ice. She tried to call again, but only a strangled cry came out.
The woman stepped forward. Shadows still concealed her, but Viscaria could make out a black gown and hat. She wore a matching veil, concealing her face, but her hair was red, like autumn leaves.
The woman carried something in her right hand, some sort of basket. She sat in the chair across from Viscaria, face still concealed.
“I think you will find it quite impossible to scream,” the woman said. “I put yellow jasmine into your brandy. A useful herb. It causes total paralysis. Of course, you already knew that. It’s the same poison your assassin used on me.”
Viscaria’s heart raced. Her eyes flicked to her brandy, which slipped from her hand, spilling onto the carpet.
The woman reached across the table and grabbed the decanter of poisoned brandy. To Viscaria’s surprise, she poured herself a glass and then drank.
“Lovely. Expensive, I’m sure. Don’t be alarmed. I assure you, I’m quite immune.”
The woman smiled and sipped again.
Viscaria forced words from her frozen mouth. They came out in a slur. “What… do you… want…” she whispered.
“I want nothing except answers to old questions. Like this one: Why Persephone?”
The woman pulled back her veil, and for the first time, Viscaria saw her face: the hideous scar that twisted up her features, mottling flesh, like red roots weaving through her skin. The other Elderwood girl. The one who knew.
The woman continued. “Of all the young women in London, why did your grandson pursue Persephone? He was a man of great standing. He could have had any woman in the empire. Was it only her beauty? Was it something else?”
Viscaria said nothing. She tried to speak, but her lips would not move.
“I suppose he was bored. Maybe he hated you so much that he chose a paramour who would make you angry. A provincial girl from a nothing house with no fortune or influence to speak of. Or perhaps I am cynical. Perhaps he simply loved her, despite all these things.
“What I really want to know is why he allowed you to kill her. You sent him to India, I know, but he did return. What did you threaten him with, to make him abandon her? And could it have been real love if he left her so quickly when threatened?”
The woman shook her head. “He is complicit in this too, I think. All of you are.”
Viscaria forced the words to come. “Don’t… hurt… him…”
The woman’s face dropped. She paused, for a moment, as if surprised. “Funny. My sister said the same thing. I won’t hurt him, you know. I made a promise, and I keep my promises.”
The woman across from her seemed distant, shadowy, existing in the fading purple of sunset, some witch from an eldren tale.
Viscaria’s eyes flicked to the right—her calling bell sat on the table next to her, just out of reach.
If she could ring it, surely the guards would come, someone, anyone.
She tried to move her hand toward it but succeeded in twitching two of her fingers.
The poisoned brandy swam through her, making her limbs leaden and useless.
Suddenly, a cry. Soft, too soft to bring the guards.
A baby’s coo. It came from the basket the woman had brought, sitting beside her chair.
The sound broke the Elderwood girl from her reverie, and she reached down into the basket, producing a baby boy.
His hair was silver, but his eyes were bright blue.
He stared at Viscaria, fussing slightly.
The woman took the baby onto her lap. “It’s all right, Percy,” she said, soothing him. “It’s all right.”
The woman turned back to Viscaria.
“Here is what I am certain you do not know—a secret that Dr. Gall kept from you. The procedure that you forced on Persephone failed. That, or whatever floromancy Gall meddled with has brought the child back to life. Either way, the boy lives. This is your great-grandson. Prince Percival Elderwood-Plantagenet. Second in line to your throne.”
Viscaria looked at the child. In his features, she saw her grandson. His sharp nose and perpetual frown. In a moment, her heart softened.
“Would you like to hold him?” the woman said, cocking her head.
Viscaria tried to nod, but her head only twitched.
“I am sure you would,” the woman said, “but I’m afraid that will not happen. You will die before that happens. And now you will die knowing that you failed. Despite all your cruelty and your machinations, Percy will live. The heir you feared exists.”
The woman lowered the baby back into the carrier, tucking him into his blankets. She stroked his cheek and his eyes fluttered shut, fast asleep again.
Viscaria’s heart began to pound. She forced her mouth to form words, but they came out in pieces.
“They… will… know…” she said. “There… is… nowhere… you… will… be… safe.”
The woman sighed. “Perhaps, if I am discovered. We will need to leave England. Perhaps we will be running forever. But I’m sure you understand, Your Majesty, the lengths to which we will go to protect those we love.”
Viscaria nodded. Tears pricked at her eyes. “For… my… family… I… would… do… anything.”
The Elderwood girl frowned. “I do not doubt you believe that. That you would do anything for those you love. Doubtless, you saw the murder of Persephone as a necessary evil, a step you needed to take to protect your family from harm. What you fail to understand is this: This baby is your family, too. Persephone, your grandson’s rightful wife, was your family.
You did not protect your family, Your Majesty. You murdered them.”
Viscaria wanted to sob, but her chest wouldn’t move. Tears spilled from her eyes now, over her frozen face.
The woman stood, picking up the basket. She stepped toward Viscaria and placed a hand on her shoulder. Viscaria flinched.
“But I understand you, Viscaria. I, too, would do anything to protect my family. Or to avenge them. And Persephone was my family.”
The woman leaned down and pressed her lips to Viscaria’s forehead. The spot where her lips touched tingled and then burned. A pleasant warmth began to spread from that kiss all over Viscaria’s body.
The woman moved to the window. She stood for a moment, looking over the palace grounds and the city beyond. The purple half-light of dusk washed over her, and she breathed deeply, as if waiting for something.
Viscaria’s breath quickened. The room began to swim, and she thought she saw impossible things—tendrils of shadow reaching out from the woman’s gown and spreading over the room.
There was something else, too. Something shining on the woman’s breast, an amber jewel like living firelight, encased in the golden cage of a necklace.
The woman lifted it off of her chest, examining it.
For a moment, Viscaria thought she heard whispers coming from the stone—or perhaps that was only the poison.
The tendrils of ivy snaked from the woman’s gown and latched onto the walls around her.
Viscaria’s vision faded. Her heartbeat slowed. The room closed in.
The ivy lifted the assassin into the air and lowered her into the night.