Page 44

THE MORNING OF the Mating Ceremony broke, soft and golden, a dawn without edges. Mist still clung to the palace turrets, burnishing them with light. From her chamber window, Willow watched the fog curl across the upper lawns, then vanish as if it had never been.

She turned. The air inside the room was lavender-scented and hushed. Poppy stood ready, arms braced in the soft bell of the gown Willow was meant to wear, her face flushed with pleasure and the faintest sheen of worry.

“Arms up, please,” Poppy said.

Willow obeyed.

The gown slipped over her skin like poured cream. The silk was the softest she had ever touched, and the tiny pearls sewn into the bodice caught the light like dew on cobwebs. The skirt trailed long and luminous behind her. Bridal, unmistakably.

Poppy stepped back to admire her handiwork, then clicked her tongue. “Where’s Jace? She was meant to help with your hair.”

Willow feigned a yawn. “Maybe she overslept.”

“Not likely,” Poppy muttered. She bustled to the wardrobe and fetched a silver comb, fretting as she worked. “She was off last night, I’ll say that. Kept checking the windows, asking what I’d heard. I told her, what’s there to hear? It’s spring. The frogs are just chatty.”

Willow opened her mouth, then shut it, forcing images of lip soup from her mind. Poppy was prone to exaggeration, and anyway, Jace was strong. She’d endure whatever Aesra decided to do with her. A week in the ice vault—whatever that meant—wouldn’t kill her.

Poppy finished twisting Willow’s hair into a crown of braids and slid the comb into place. “There. You’ll take their breath away.”

Willow looked at herself in the glass. She didn’t recognize the girl staring back. Pale. Poised. Swaddled in splendor.

“Ready?” Poppy asked.

Willow nodded, though she didn’t feel ready. She felt like a door someone else had opened.

Aesra appeared to escort her, silent as a blade.

Poppy walked alongside, chatty now, as if her nervousness had nowhere else to go.

They moved through the palace galleries, past fountains of clear glass and wall hangings that shimmered like heat.

Servants peeled off from alcoves, nobles stepped into the procession, and soon the hallway was crowded with bodies and perfume and lace.

The Grand Hall lay ahead, its massive doors flanked by guards in bone-white armor. Trumpets sounded: three clear notes. The doors opened.

Willow stepped through.

The space swallowed her. The dome arched high above, painted with constellations that shimmered softly, as if each star knew the name of its witness. Lanterns floated in midair, trailing blossoms. The air was violet-sweet, and everything gleamed.

At the center of the room, the scrying basin waited—moonrock, smooth and spiraled, always full. Willow’s gaze snagged on its surface, which reflected the ceiling, the lights, and her own small form.

She dragged her eyes away and searched the crowd. Jace was nowhere to be seen.

Poppy tugged her sleeve. “Eyes up front. It’s nearly time.”

A hush rippled through the court, and Serrin entered.

He wore pale blue robes belted with a gold cord.

His hair was dark and heavy, half-pulled back, and a circlet gleamed at his brow.

At his throat, a sunburst clasp threw prisms across the stones.

He walked like someone who was used to adoring eyes.

Willow’s heart clenched because yes, he was worthy of adoration. He was beautiful. Regal. But young. So much younger than Willow had imagined. He wasn’t a boy, not exactly, but he wasn’t the young man she’d conjured in her dreams. Not exactly.

He looked eagerly around the crowd. His eyes found hers, but Willow felt no lightning strike. Only... confusion.

Serrin blinked as if to clear his vision. He looked again at Willow and smiled sweetly in an attempt to cover the disappointment that crossed his features.

Willow’s chest went tight. She wasn’t the one he’d expected, either.

He gathered himself and approached the scrying bowl, his figure limned by candlelight. At the far side of the dais stood the officiant, a Wise Woman, clad in a plain silver robe. Her hair was dark and braided, and she held a small sheathed dagger.

She raised the dagger and spoke, her voice carrying through the hall. “Blood calls to blood. The heir of Eryth comes forward to see the truth that waits beneath the surface.”

Beyond the Wise Woman, seated on her throne at the head of the hall, Severine watched on. Her gown writhed with living moths, black as pitch. Her eyes found Willow’s. Willow looked away.

The dagger came free with a hiss. The blade was short and sharp. The Wise Woman lifted it high and spun it above her head. It sang a note so fine, it was almost pain.

Serrin didn’t flinch.

He was trying so hard to be brave, and the pang Willow experienced surprised her. She felt real sorrow, deep and unguarded.

“Prince Serrin, son of Severine, heir to Eryth’s crown and keeper of the queen’s line,” said the Wise Woman, “do you come freely to this rite?”

“I do,” said Serrin.

“Do you offer what is yours to give?”

“I do.”

“Then approach.”

He stepped forward, Willow’s hands clenched at her sides.

“Show me your arm, Prince,” the Wise Woman said.

Serrin extended it. The fabric slid back, revealing smooth, pale skin—the skin of a boy who had never bled for anything.

The Wise Woman turned the dagger inward and touched the tip to his skin.

She drew it down, elbow to wrist. Willow grimaced as his skin parted.

Blood welled along the seam, dark and gleaming, and fell into the basin.

Three drops, then four, and then the water must have stirred, because both Serrin and the Wise Woman inhaled and leaned in.

Willow watched Serrin’s face, still expecting that moment when his eyes widened in recognition and he lifted his head, his body turning toward her like a compass needle to true north.

Instead, Serrin braced his hands on the rim of the basin and leaned in as if all he wanted was to fall headfirst into the water.

“Lily,” he said.

A rustle swept through the hall, murmurs passing from person to person. Poppy reached for Willow’s wrist, and someone behind them let out a low, delighted hum. Serrin took no notice. He remained entranced by the vision in the basin.

“No,” Willow managed. She tore her arm from Poppy’s grip and stumbled toward the dais. “Let me see. Let me!”

She reached the basin and looked down. Framed in the still water was a girl with pale blonde hair and laughing eyes, dressed in a soft lilac gown. Not Willow but— Ash ?

No. Ash, like Juniper, had brown hair. Of the three Braselton sisters, only Willow was blonde.

And yet the girl in the water bore Ash’s features.

The tilt of her smile, the shape of her eyes—it was Ash’s face, softened and brightened by youth and something else.

A glow. A promise. A thread of magic woven through her blood.

She wasn’t Ash. But she was undeniably Ash’s kin.

“She’s beautiful,” Serrin murmured. “She’s perfect .”

Willow said nothing. A part of her—perhaps the oldest, most secret part of her—felt oddly quiet. That was all. Not shattered. Just still.

She eased back from the basin. The Wise Woman nodded, and people stirred in their seats, whispering excitedly. That was it, then. The match had been made. The ritual was over.

Aesra’s voice cut through the chatter. “The ceremony is not yet complete.”

The Grand Hall hushed. Willow frowned.

From the shadowed alcove behind the throne, a line of twelve figures emerged, all dressed in white tunics and trousers belted with silver sashes.

Their steps were soft, their heads bowed.

They moved like sheep—no, not sheep. Like dancers pretending to be sheep.

Willow’s gaze snagged on their feet, the gentle shuffle of their procession.

They parted, moving outward in a small circle to reveal Jace, with her red curls cropped close. She held her chin high, and the spoon winked from behind her ear.

She looked no one in the eye. Especially not Willow. Willow saw what care Jace was taking to put on a brave front, and she swayed. Jace pretending she wasn’t afraid? It was terrifying.

Aesra stepped forward, her face pale with triumph. When she spoke, her voice rang through the hall with formal clarity, its cadence drawn from ancient law.

“Let it be known before the gathered court and crown: this wildling, called Jace, did willfully betray the laws of our land. She went against the crown. She went against our queen.”

A collective gasp rose from the audience.

Aesra turned toward Willow. Her chin jerked up, a command. “You. Mortal. Come forward.”

Willow shrank back, and Poppy, standing only feet from her, let out a small bewildered noise. “What? Why her?”

Aesra strode forward, plunged her arm into the crowd, and pulled Willow into full view. She stood exposed beneath the dome, her pearl-strewn gown gleaming like a lie.

“She may not be our future queen,” Aesra announced. “But she is one of us nonetheless. It was the bravery of the mortal that led to the capture of this spy.”

She shoved Jace, and Jace stumbled, the spoon tumbling from behind her ear. It clinked against the stone.

Jace moved to retrieve it, and Aesra kneed her in the gut.

“Leave it,” she commanded.

Jace doubled over. The crowd murmured, but no one stepped forward.

“Would you like to know how we found you, spy?” Aesra asked. “How you were caught?”

Jace pressed a hand to her ribs, her breath shallow.

Aesra looked to Willow. “Would you like to tell her, or shall I?”

Willow opened her mouth, but no sound came. Her shame was a noose, drawing tighter.

Jace turned to Willow, her brows pulled together in confusion.

“No!” Poppy cried. “No, you’ve got it all wrong. Tell them, miss. Tell them it wasn’t you!”

Willow cringed.