Page 39

AT FIRST, WILLOW saw nothing. But then—there. Something small and winged clung to the wall, creeping upward on legs as thin as whiskers.

She laughed. “Poppy, it’s just a mosquito!”

Poppy stared at her blankly. “A what?”

“A mosquito,” Willow repeated. Yes, they were annoying, but they weren’t fanged vipers waiting to nip at your toes.

Poppy shook her head. “My lady, no. That’s... that’s a mordrek.”

“A what?”

The mosquito detached from the wall and drifted lazily toward them, its strident buzz bringing back memories of summer outings.

Willow brought her hands together with a clap and opened them to reveal a smear of blood and the crumpled remnants of the bug.

“There,” she said, wiping her hands with a tissue from the bedside table. “All gone.”

Poppy’s eyes grew huge. “You killed it?”

“I did,” Willow said. She laughed again. “You’re safe, Poppy. I promise.”

Poppy remained frozen where she stood. “A mordrek . In the queen’s guest quarters.”

“Don’t I need to get to the Hall of Mornings?” Willow said. Loathe though she was to participate in yet another ritual of pomp and circumstance, she might as well get it over with. “For my debut?”

Poppy stared at the smeared remains of the bug as if fearing it might twitch back to life. Then she widened her eyes and said, “For the love of the thrice-spun foglace, yes! No time to wait!”

~

The dining hall was bustling when Willow crossed the threshold. Then, as if from nowhere, came the blast of a trumpet. Willow froze, and the hall fell silent. All heads turned toward her.

A bearded man in a dark red robe stepped forward and unfurled a scroll with solemnity. “Willow, Daughter of Wrenna and welcome guest of the crown, I present thee!” With a grand spin of his hand, he bowed so low his beard brushed the floor.

Willow stood rooted where she was and smiled awkwardly. Should she... wave?

The official-looking man straightened from his bowed position.

“Willow, Daughter of Wrenna and welcome guest of the crown, I present thee!” he repeated, louder than before.

Again he spun his hand and bowed, but this time he glared up at Willow from beneath the fold of a silken sleeve. “Go,” he whispered. “ Go !”

Willow jumped and started forward, acutely aware of her body and all its moving parts. Her gown felt too tight, and her shoes clacked against the polished floor. Worse, she had absolutely no idea how to hold her arms. Had she ever known how to hold her arms?

At the front of the room, Severine sat on a dais beneath a canopy of white flames. She did not rise. She merely inclined her head. A rustle moved through the crowd as everyone followed suit.

Willow flushed and kept walking. Was she supposed to walk all the way up to Severine? If so, what was she supposed to do once she got there?

Her gown whispered with every step. She could feel everyone’s eyes upon her. Her smile wavered, and she dug her fingernails hard into her palms.

When she was still several yards from the queen, one person clapped, and then another. Others joined in, chairs scraping as they rose to standing, until the sound of applause filled the room.

Jace materialized at Willow’s side and escorted her to her seat. She wasn’t positioned next to Severine today but at a separate table populated with well-dressed courtiers.

“You’re doing great,” Jace said as she pulled out Willow’s chair.

“Am I?” Willow asked, maintaining her fixed smile.

Jace pulled her trusty spoon from behind her ear and used it to strike Willow’s empty goblet.

“Juice for the Daughter of Wrenna!” she commanded. A young server dashed over and filled it with a fizzy red beverage.

“Take a sip,” Jace muttered to Willow.

Willow did.

A great “Huzzah!” rang out through the room, and everyone lifted their goblets and did the same.

After that, they returned their attention to their food and left Willow to eat as well.

Slowly, her heart rate calmed, and her smile lost its rubbery texture.

She lifted a pastry and took a small refined nibble.

When she sipped from her goblet, she did so the way a princess would, or rather, the way she imagined a princess would.

Around her, conversations flowed pleasantly, her tablemates lavishing her with compliments and inquiring politely about her health.

“It’s not every day we receive a Daughter of Wrenna,” said a man with lush silver lashes.

“She glows, doesn’t she?” said another, peering at Willow as though expecting her to emit sparks.

Servers darted to and fro. A server slipped a bowl of starfruit puree before Willow, and Willow nodded her thanks. She took a bite. It was delicious. Then another bite. Then she paused, spoon halfway to her mouth, distracted by the glimpse of a bare foot—small, twisted, wrong.

A strange-looking serving girl moved between the others, hunched and halting. Her skin was uneven, a patchwork of ripples and taut, glossy scars. One shoulder dipped lower than the other, and her hair was sparse and wiry.

She carried a small bowl between her hands, her steps tentative. A boy stuck out a foot and caught her ankle, and she pitched forward and fell to her knees, the bowl flying from her hands. It hit the stone with a crack, scattering porridge and broken ceramic everywhere.

Willow cringed in sympathy, but around her, laughter rang through the air like spilled beads.

Jace was standing at attention by Willow’s chair. Willow plucked at her sleeve.

“Who is that?” she asked. “Is that... is it Maeve?”

Jace’s mouth tightened. She nodded.

“Can’t you go to her?” Willow asked.

“I could, but I’d be punished. So would she.” Jace fisted her hands. “I help her in other ways as best I can.”

“Mucky Maeve, Mucky Maeve, crawled from the cradle too ugly to save,” jeered a handsome fae boy with pale green eyes. His friends joined in, their jabs a cruel singsong. “Teeth too sharp and soul too black—no nurse nor nip would take her back!”

Maeve curled farther inward. Her thin arms moved in furtive jerks as she cleaned up the mess she didn’t cause.

“Is no one nice to her?” Willow asked.

Before Jace could answer, a whistle split the air.

She turned to see two tiny men at the entrance to the hall, each dressed in stiff brocade jackets.

The shorter of the two removed his thumb and index finger from his mouth and nodded.

Both men marched to the threshold, turned smartly on their heels, and raised a pair of silver trumpets.

A blast of music silenced the crowd and shook pink puffballs from the roof beams, clouds of it floating down like cotton candy.

There was the clink of boots, and Aesra stepped through the archway. Her pale eyes swept the hall before locking on Willow.

“Willow Braselton, please rise,” she said, her voice low but carrying.

Willow turned toward the dais where Severine still sat at the head of the long table. She appeared absorbed in the pink puffballs, eyes half-lidded in thought.

Then—almost absently—her gaze flicked to Willow. She smiled and inclined her head.

Before Willow could fully register it, Aesra’s gloved hands were under her arms, assisting her to her feet and escorting her out of the dining hall.

~

Aesra said nothing as she walked, her boots clicking evenly over the stone.

Willow trailed behind, quickening her steps every few yards just to keep pace.

The corridors turned in on themselves—looping through archways, spiraling beneath colonnades, leading nowhere and yet onward, onward still.

Once, they descended a narrow stair and emerged—impossibly—on a level they’d already crossed.

It reminded Willow of dreams she’d had as a child, ones where she wandered a house with too many doors, each opening into another version of the same hallway.

Gradually, the air changed, and the palace grounds opened onto something wilder. From behind a bower of flowering glassvine, the queen stepped out.

“Thank you, Aesra,” she said.

Willow blinked, startled and a bit annoyed. Was this why Aesra had taken the long way—to give Severine time to get here first, to allow for this “surprising” reveal?

They resumed walking, with Aesra following at a polite distance behind.

Severine asked after Willow’s sleep. She commented on the size of the roses—apparently, they were particularly large this summer—and wondered aloud whether the white squirrels spotted recently in the palace trees were an omen of good things to come.

“White squirrels,” Severine repeated. “In Eryth, of all places. Isn’t that a marvel?”

“It is,” Willow said, though she hadn’t spotted one of these possible good omens. All the squirrels she’d seen in Eryth were the garden-variety type, brown and chatty with lovely full tails.

Willow wasn’t interested in squirrels of any hue, however. She was weary of polite conversation altogether. “I was wondering, Your Highness, about Serrin.”

Severine’s smile grew fixed.

“What if I just sat with him?” Willow asked. “We wouldn’t even have to speak. I wouldn’t bother him, I promise.”

“You will meet Serrin at the Mating Ceremony,” Severine replied, her tone gentle but absolute. “As I’ve said.”

“Yes, but... can you at least tell me when the Mating Ceremony will be?”

A high, needling whine cut through the air. Willow turned to see Aesra flinch and draw her sword from its sheath.

“Aesra?” Severine asked mildly.

Aesra was crouched low, eyes locked on something flitting near her cheek. She swiped at the air once, then again. The blade nicked a hedge.

“It’s just a mosquito, isn’t it?” Willow asked Severine. She searched for the word Poppy had used. “A mordrek?”

“Aesra, that’s quite enough,” Severine said.

“But—my Queen—”

“Do you challenge my command?”

Aesra’s jaw worked. Slowly, she lowered her sword.