Page 197 of The Witch Queen

“You probably hate us,” I comment.

“I hatedyou,” she says flatly. “And even Aunt Margaret at times. Maybe I still should. But…what have I gained by that hatred? What does anyone earn from vengeance? Do we finally feel satisfied? Or is it just an endless cycle?”

The answer aches in my own chest.

“Perhaps Millicent’s magic did rub off on you,” I observe quietly. “Her wisdom, anyway.”

Blodwyn just snorts. “I doubt that. In fact…”

“What?”

“I don’t know…” She gestures helplessly around her. “I assumed something would happen by now. To prove that I was…like you. That’s why I came in here, in case there was a book or clue to help me figure it out. But maybe that other witch was right.”

“Who? Sindony?” I ask, making a face. “She’s never right.”

That tempts the ghost of a smile. But it just as quickly vanishes.

“She may be about this,” Blodwyn goes on. “You saw for yourself. If there is magic inside me, it’s certainly not making itself known.”

“Maybe not yet,” I allow. “But you were all but dead from the poison. You couldn’t have survived with just the antidote.”

Blodwyn looks down at her hand, examining the three crossed lines below her left ring finger. “How did you know about the mark? You said you made it.”

“My sister gave it to me,” I explain, showing her my own triangle.

I may have lost control of the shadows, but my latent magic evidently still works. The cuts I carved into my palm have knitted themselves back together, nothing but faded pink lines.

“Did your sister know?” Blodwyn asks. “About Millicent’s past?”

“I’m not sure how she could have. None of the rest of us were aware.”

Still,somethingmust have caused Rhea to choose the triangle for our rune. And then there was her last message to me:It must be undone.Too close to Millicent’s words to be a coincidence. My attention drifts back to the portrait. Millicent, a former princess, whose line led to Rhea…and thenme.A Bloodstone that sent me back to the White Palace, to Blodwyn, where it all began. The pieces were all there. All I’ve ever had to do was put them together.

Perhaps Mother was right. Our fatesareintertwined.

But I have no idea what it means for either of us.

—

By the following evening, we’ve finalized our plans and are set to depart for the palace.

It’s late and the Sanctum is quiet, but there’s a charge in the air—the hum of anticipation and uncertainty. Through Margaret, we learn that the Rycinthian forces have crossed the border and are marching on the palace. I count that as a blessing. If Callen is occupied with a Rycinthian invasion, he may not be as concerned with me. As for Mother…not even Margaret can discover where she went. I dream of her, though. The uprooted trees. Her lips slick with blood as she devoured the heart. How had she fallen so far? Jacquetta claimed there was something broken in Mother. More than her latent magic. And I cannot help but wonder…

Am I the one who broke it?

“Shouldn’t you be resting?” Jacquetta’s voice carries across the cloister.

I just shake my head, rubbing my arms against the chill of the night. I’d hoped the cold might settle my nerves. It hasn’t. Nox keeps close, his red eye gleaming in the darkness. He lopes over as Jacquetta approaches. The other witch still stiffens slightly at his presence, but scratches tentatively between his ears.

“Do you think all Nevenwolves are like this?” she asks, nodding at Nox. “Just larger versions of Fitz?”

Nox snorts, evidently offended at the comparison. But his tailisswishing.

“Apparently so,” I agree.

The Nevenwolf huffs, dissatisfied, then gives himself a shake and wanders off. Jacquetta tilts her face up to the night. Pale moonlight bathes her skin. Memories wash over me, the two of us sneaking through the Sanctum’s halls or out into the forest. Reveling in our own private world. Jacquetta must be sharing in some of those memories, for she asks:

“Did you ever imagine that we’d be back here?”