Page 61 of The Witch Queen

I recognize the back of Lady Isabel’s head and pause, then drag Verity with me behind a statue so I can eavesdrop.

“She brought back thestag,” someone else points out.

“Alive,” Isabel grouses. “It’s against the rules. She should be disqualified.”

“You’re just jealous because your brother didn’t make the cut,” another accuses. “And now you won’t be the king’s sister.”

“That’s not it,” Isabel insists, though her tone betrays her. “And, anyway, I don’t see why you’re all pretending to be excited. No one actually wants the princess to succeed.”

“Isabel—”

“I’m only saying what the court is thinking,” she continues. “When was the last time any of you learned of a Nevenwolf being so near to the palace? Isn’t it odd that such a creature appears when the princess returns? And not just the Nevenwolf. You all heard what happened during the Followers’ attack.”

My blood flashes cold, recalling the crows. The storm rolling in from nowhere.

“You can’t mean to suggest that the princess is responsible for any of that,” another courtier muses, but he doesn’t sound confident.

“I have no idea,” Isabel replies airily. “But I’m beginning to believe that my brother is fortunate to have avoided being involved with sucha family. The stories about the line of White may carry more truth than we realize.”

An image rears in my mind: The witches in the illustration. The glow of their hot iron shoes. The way their faces seemed to snarl and warp on the page.

Pay the price.

The cryptic words roll around in my skull.

All at once, the air is too close, the competing scents of food and wine curdling in my stomach. I’ve had enough of this court. Enough of these absurd trials. Ignoring Verity’s concerned questions, I rush from the hall and out the nearest exit.

Cold air burns in my lungs when I at last fling myself into the night, but it does nothing to douse my anger—or the sea of worry heaving inside me. What if Isabel is right? This isn’t my home anymore. These people aren’t my family. And I amnotAunt Margaret, able to effortlessly adapt to any situation. To become the person people want her to be. Then again, perhaps it’s so simple for my aunt because people actually do want her. As for me…

“Blodwyn?” someone calls. Verity, probably.

I can’t talk to her now, or to anyone else. A glow in the distance catches my attention: the stables. The stag should be there. And his company is far preferable to any courtier’s. As Verity’s footsteps draw nearer, I pick up my skirts and head in that direction.

—

It’s late enough that the stables are empty, the smell of horses and straw a comfort after the suffocating atmosphere of the Great Hall. I take my time as I drift down the aisles, pausing to pat the horses’ necks or offer them sugar cubes. They twitch their ears at me, their noses like velvet as they lip the treats from my palm. Eventually, I spot a familiar pair of antlers arching up over one of the stalls in the back.

The stag is lying on a bed of fresh straw. And it appears that someone has been recently tending to him. There’s a stool and bucket ofwater to one side and many of the stag’s gashes look like they’ve been cleaned. Those on his legs have been bandaged as well. But the stag’s antler is still broken, its jagged angle a reminder of the fight. A fight Ishouldn’thave survived.

“Why did you save me?” I murmur.

The stag’s amber gaze locks with mine. I wish I could understand what he is saying. Wish that he could offer any answers besides—

Straw crunches behind me and I turn to find another person standing a short distance away: Gavin.

“Oh,” I say, awkward. “What are you doing out here? I assumed everyone was in the Great Hall.”

From his appearance, I don’t guess that Gavin attended the party. He’s wearing only a loose shirt and plain breeches. His wrist is wrapped and there’s a line of stitches running down the right side of his face, injuries he sustained during the battle with the Nevenwolf. Yet more memories flood back to me: Gavin, fighting the beast alongside me, his strong arms firing off a slew of arrows. Lean muscles working as he dodged attacks.

Don’t think of that,I scold myself.

“Checking on him,” Gavin replies, holding up a roll of bandages.

“You…have experience with stags?”

“Not specifically. But I’ve tended the horses and cattle around our estate. It’s practically the same thing. And Barnabas doesn’t seem to mind.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Barnabas?”