Chapter 5
I’m still in the greenhouse when I hear footsteps crunching through the snow outside.
Nalina walks through the glass door. Her curly blond hair is tied back in a braid, but she’s dressed in the same scuffed brown leathers as she wore yesterday. Her mouth is set in a thin line of irritation when she spots me. “There you are.”
“Here I am.” I continue sweeping the spilled soil from the greenhouse floor with a broom and dustpan I found tucked into a corner.
The look on her face suggests I’m due for a scolding, but she hesitates, taking in the room.
Where there had been broken pottery and piles of dead leaves, the greenhouse is now clean.
I’d spent most of the morning clearing debris and stacking it in a far corner.
The potting benches are tidy, their tools organized neatly in empty clay pots.
Even the paths between planter beds are swept clean of soil and scattered leaves.
Nalina blinks once, twice. “What are you doing?”
I shrug as I dump the last pail of spilled soil from the ground into a large bucket. I’m not sure if it can be re-used, but I didn’t know where else to put it. “Cleaning.”
“Cleaning … dirt?” Nalina looks at me as if I’m the strangest person in this strange land.
I cross my arms in front of my chest, refusing to be belittled. “What else am I supposed to do in this dilapidated castle all winter long?”
She pauses, considering, then shrugs. “Thankfully, that’s not my problem.” She gestures for me to follow her. “The queen is waiting.”
My stomach drops. Of course, I knew I couldn’t avoid my grandmother all winter, but I’d hoped to draw it out a little longer. With a resigned sigh, I return the broom to its cobwebbed corner and trail after Nalina as she leads me out of the greenhouse and back toward the castle.
I expect her to turn toward the throne room, but the hallway she takes is unfamiliar.
We wind through the castle until we reach a narrow spiral staircase, its steps worn smooth with age.
It’s one of the castle’s many towers. I follow her up the steps, boots squeaking slightly on damp stone.
At the top, we stop before a wooden door.
The first thing I notice is the moth carved into its center.
The same moth that’s on my grandmother’s necklace.
Nalina opens the door and steps aside.
I blink at her. “Aren’t you coming?”
She grins wickedly. “I’m not the one who was summoned.”
I glower at Nalina as I step into the tower room.
The space is round with tall, arched windows that face every direction.
From this height, I can see the roiling sea to the east. It churns beneath a jagged line of cliffs that stretches for miles.
A narrow strip of beach lies below, scattered with boulders and pummeled by waves.
In the north, thin tendrils of smoke rise from crooked chimneys in the village, with the wild sprawl of Annwyn beyond.
I imagine that’s where most of the Gwyllion people live.
The castle halls are far too empty to house many.
At the far window stands the Dead Queen.
She’s tall and unnervingly slender, draped in a black gown that pools around her like spilled ink.
She turns as I enter, lifting her eyes toward me through a sheer black veil.
Dressed entirely in shadow, she might be mistaken for a wraith were it not for the glint of silver at her breast. The moth necklace catches the light.
The sight of it twists something inside me, and I fight the bile rising in my throat. I wore that necklace for months, dreaming of her. Longing for answers. Wishing I knew what happened.
Now I wish I didn’t.
The Dead Queen nods to me. “Granddaughter.”
I pinch my lips together, refusing to call her “Grandmother.” She isn’t. Not anymore. She’s the Dead Queen now.
“You sent for me.”
She nods. “I trust you had a restful evening.”
“Not really.”
“Pity.”
A distant roll of thunder breaks the silence.
My eyes flick to the tall windows. Another storm is already gathering over the peaks of the Spires to the south.
A strong draft cuts through the room, making me shiver.
It whistles from a narrow wall along one side of the tower.
I turn and find it lined with narrow cracks.
No. Not cracks. They’re too orderly for that. They’re thin gaps in the stone, barely half an inch wide and no more than three inches tall. It’s just enough to let the wind in. Odd. No stonemason would have made such an error, especially in a place with winters like this.
“I apologize for the chill,” the Dead Queen says. “I no longer feel the cold.”
I sniff and pull my cloak tighter around my shoulders. We face each other in silence until the wooden door opens behind me, making me jump in surprise.
Tristan brushes past me to kneel before the Dead Queen. “My queen.” She nods to him, and he rises before turning to me. “Red.”
I mask the heat rising to my cheeks with a scowl, irritated with myself for the flicker of relief I feel at seeing him. I shouldn’t be pleased. He’s my captor. The trickster. The Wolf I rescued from the edge of death in my father’s kennels, no matter how regretfully.
Today, he looks different. His strong jawline is clean-shaven, and his dark hair is no longer dusty from weeks on the road.
He’s wearing black leathers and a fresh shirt now.
They’re tailored to fit the Dead Queen’s court, showing off his broad frame and legs that are used to climbing mountains.
A silver wolf pin now gleams from his chest. My eyes dip lower, to the leather belt around his waist and the silver sword sheathed there.
He seems taller, more composed, but his eyes are the same stormy gray. When they find mine, my chest tightens and my breath catches. I hate that he has that effect on me.
The Dead Queen turns to me. “It has come to my attention that you recently came into an unusual amount of power. But it seems you’ve burned it out just as quickly.”
I shoot Tristan a glare before responding, since he’s the only one who could’ve told her. “I have.”
“Would you explain it to me?”
“There isn’t much to tell.”
From behind her sheer veil, I can see the queen’s white eyes studying me. “When you were a little girl, I wondered if you were more powerful than him.” Her voice lowers meaningfully. “Than any of them.”
I blink several times. “Them?”
“All the Foxes before you.”
I scoff. “How could you possibly have suspected that?”
She shakes her head only once. “You haven’t answered my question.”
I look at Tristan again, but his expression is stoic. Distrust looms at the back of my mind. I may not trust the Dead Queen, but I’m not exactly in a position to bargain.
“I don’t know how I accessed it,” I admit. “It happened twice. We were facing death both times.”
Tristan catches my eye. He nods slightly, urging me to continue.
“It happened first when wraiths chased us in a battle-sacked village.” I swallow hard. That night, my power exploded out of me in a blaze of light, and I was burned out for days after.
As far as I know, this newly awakened power was only triggered by need.
I had to save the Wolf, because he was the only one who could help me discover what happened to my grandmother.
Even if he brought me here under false pretenses, I can’t ignore that he nearly died trying to rescue me from the wraiths.
And if I’m being honest with myself, I needed to save him because I couldn’t stand to watch him die. And that is why his betrayal cuts me so deeply.
“Go on,” the queen says.
“The second time was on an old battlefield. Among the dead who didn’t know ...” My voice fades.
They didn’t know they were dead. I swallow hard. The dead had been cursed to remain trapped there eternally. Lost. Abandoned. And rightfully angry.
And she did it to them.
I clear my throat. “We narrowly escaped. My power has refused to cooperate ever since.”
The Dead Queen nods, perhaps sensing the anger rising in me over what she’d done to those people. “It is regrettable, war.”
“Regrettable?” I stare at her in disbelief. “Those souls will be punished forever. Both Llwyn and Annwyn fighters.”
Tristan’s eyes dart between me and the Dead Queen, his expression neutral. He was there on the battlefield too. He should be as outraged as I am, but he says nothing.
I narrow my eyes at the Dead Queen. “There is nothing regrettable about what you did. It was abhorrent.”
“Yes,” she says. “It was.” The Dead Queen watches me for a long time as I try to regain my composure. “Sometimes creatures can be saved. Other times …” She leaves the rest of her explanation hanging, like a criminal at the gallows.
Her dismissal of the living leaves me feeling ill. But, I need to remember I’m not speaking with my grandmother, I’m speaking with the Dead Queen. Perhaps it shouldn’t be so unexpected.
Another gust of wind whistles through the narrow slits in the wall.
I glance toward the sound and catch a flicker of movement.
Something small is forcing its way through one of the gaps in the stone.
It’s not until the creature takes flight that I realize what it is.
A moth, pale as bone, drifts on the draft.
Its ragged wings look too damaged to fly, yet somehow it does.
It glides over the Dead Queen and settles on her shoulder, delicate as snowfall.
For several heartbeats, it rests there, its tattered wings fluttering open and closed.
Then, silently, it lifts into the air and flies toward the rafters above us.
I watch it rise before I notice something that makes me gasp.
Far above our heads, the rafters are moving.
At first glance, it looks like a living, breathing ceiling.
I squint at it, trying to understand what I’m seeing.
It’s not the rafters themselves that give the illusion, but countless pairs of wings.