Page 74 of The Witch Queen

For the next two days, I watch the other witch through the glass of my mirror. I keep expecting her to sneak off to send a raven, try to scry in a bucket of water, or otherwise communicate with the covens. But Jacquetta’s days are filled with emptying chamber pots, scrubbing linens, and other menial labor. As much as I revel in witnessing her punishment, it doesn’t erase my immediate problems: the trials and Margaret. The former of which is barreling on at a breakneck pace. There’s less than a week left until the Remembrance Ball and I can practically feel the minutes draining away.

“From Lord Richardson, Your Majesty.” Master Parnell passes me a letter. “He’s removing his son from the competition and declaring his support for the princess.”

I scan the writing and curse under my breath. This is the seventh withdrawal since my conversation with Margaret at the mews. Vain as she is, I’d hoped that the incident with the falcon would keep theduchess sulking in her rooms until her face healed. But Margaret returned to court almost immediately, sporting her wounds like badges of honor. In fact, I think she might even be adding rouge to make the scratches appear worse than they are. Her orbit of sycophants has only grown, all of them cooing about the duchess’s supposed bravery as though she emerged from a battle.

“Where does that leave us?” I ask Parnell.

“Down to ten claimants, Majesty,” he replies. “Which may be good news. If the rest of the trials progress in the princess’s favor, we could have Darryn’s troops in time to bolster our forces before another attack.”

Which is exactly what I should want. But not like this. I crumple the letter and toss it into the fire, watching as the parchment catches.

You will burn,Mother’s warning rises from its grave.

“Is there anything else?” I ask Parnell.

“Just one more matter,” he replies, shuffling his papers. “That of the prisoners. They still refuse to reveal whether Rycinthia was responsible for the assault at the hunt. And they continue to insist that Meira was the source of the magic we witnessed.”

Meira, indeed. Shade has yet to discover any information, either—about the covens or Nerissa. My shadows dart around me, as frustrated as I am.

“Then schedule their executions,” I instruct, tapping my ring against my wineglass. “If the Followers are so desperate for their false goddess, let them join her.”

“As you wish, Majesty. Though, I did want to note one abnormality: The original prisoner count was twelve when the party returned from the forest. However”—he withdraws a sheet of parchment and places it in front of me—“when I consulted the log this morning, there are only eleven. And one entry was crossed out.”

He indicates a thick black line running across the words:Female prisoner, unnamed.My blood flashes cold.I’dbeen the one to draw that line.

“What do the guards say about it?”

“They claim it must have been an error,” he replies. “And there was no evidence of an escape from the cells.”

Some of the tension in my shoulders unknots. “Then they must be right.”

“Perhaps.” But Parnell is clearly unconvinced. “I’ll look into it, nonetheless. We can’t be too careful.”

Of course this would be the one time that Parnell’s meticulous nature thwarts my plans. But I can’t do anything about it now, save for warn Jacquetta. Maybe she can use that magic of hers for a concealment charm.

And if she cannot?that voice presses.If she is discovered?

In the dungeons, I’d threatened to let her burn, but now…

I push the pesky thought away. Whatever fate befalls Jacquetta is her own doing. I just hope she discovers what I need before Parnell sniffs her out.That’swhat I’m worried about, I tell myself. The arrangement with Margaret. Not Jacquetta herself.

Because there is nothing left between us at all.

—

“Are you going to eat that or just massacre it?” Joan asks at dinner that evening.

She motions with her fork to my plate, where my portion of venison has been shredded to a stringy pulp. I grimace, sliding the whole mess as far from me as possible. I’ve been agitated since my meeting with Parnell and dinner hasn’t helped. A pair of dancers twirls past the High Table—Margaret and another courtier. The duchess isdefinitelyapplying rouge to her wounds. The worst part is that it suits her. With the stark red scratches down her cheek, she looks like one of the warrior queens from Sybil’s tapestries.

“Did you hear what happened to her?” Joan asks, nodding toward Margaret. “One of the falcons broke free. From what I understand, she’s lucky it didn’t gouge her eye.”

“Pity it didn’t.”

Joan glances at me sideways. “The duchess’s injury wouldn’t have anything to do with your promise totalkto her, would it?”

“Of course not.” I sip more wine. “I can’t control a falcon.”

Not well enough, anyway.