Page 75 of The Witch Queen

“Well, whatever you said to Princess Margaret evidently worked,” Joan continues. “My family records are back in the archives, along with Anora’s.”

Perhaps I should be relieved at hearing that Margaret complied with my request, but it only increases my suspicion. I know the duchess well enough by now to understand that shealwayshas a plan of her own. A countermove. The only question is when she will play it.

“Just keep your distance from her from now on,” I tell Joan. “And don’t worry about any further investigation. I have matters under control.”

“Really?” Joan arches a skeptical eyebrow. “How?”

Because I’m keeping a secret witch in the palace. Joan doesn’t need to know about that, though. Revealing Jacquetta’s presence would only lead to Joan learning that I’ve been lying to her for the past three years. That I control the very force everyone fears. And I can’t have that.

“Things are improving with Blodwyn,” I say, though it’s not entirely true.

Our conversation in the library was tense, and I didn’t miss the princess’s jab about Sybil. But I could sense that, on some level, my words reached her. Perhaps, with a little more effort, I can show Blodwyn that I’m not the evil villain she believes me to be. My gaze drifts to where the princess is conversing with a few courtiers on the other side of the hall. In time, Blodwyn might even trust me again. Might even…

Careful,that voice whispers.Don’t let her close.

The heralds trumpet their horns, drawing my focus to the front of the hall.

“Attention!” Weston calls, rushing into the chamber. “Attention, everyone! There’s been an emergency.”

Confused chatter chases itself among the court.

“What are you talking about?” I ask Weston, rising to my feet. “What emergency?”

“There has been”—he pauses—“awitchdiscovered in the palace!”

Witchcarries in gasps and cries. A high, tinny note of panic rings in my own ears as two guards lead a woman into the hall. Her head hangs low and her clothes are in tatters. Around her shoulders is a swath of red fabric, clearly representing a crimson cloak.

Is that…Jacquetta?

Fear tightens around my lungs. I was a fool to think she wouldn’t be caught. I should have gone straight to the kitchens after my meeting with Parnell and—

One of the guards yanks the prisoner’s head up. Her face is crusted with grime, her eyes huge and manic. But they’re green, I register. Not blue. Which means it’s not her. Not Jacquetta.

Relief whooshes through me, but it’s quickly doused by a livid spark of anger. My shadows gather around me, waiting for my command.

“What are you playing at, Weston?” I demand. “This person is not a witch.”

“Andhow,exactly, have you determined that?”

Murmurs ripple as Margaret steps out of the crowd. I curse myself for being an idiot. Speaking too quickly, as always.

“The iron,” I reply, scrabbling for an answer. “All the prisoners were tested. If there was a witch among them, we’d know by now.”

Sure enough, the woman’s arm is visible. The iron cuff is still affixed to her wrist, but the skin beneath it is unaffected, proclaiming her innocence.

“Fine. Perhaps she’s not a witch,” Margaret allows with a light shrug. “But this woman is guilty of treason nonetheless. I thought we might administer our own justice. Unless you have reason to object?”

She arches her eyebrow and studies me, waiting. What is Margaret’s game with this stunt? Is she hoping I’ll stand up for this woman so that she can paint me a traitor alongside her? Callmea witch? Is that what she was getting at with her questions about Nox after the hunt?

“No,” I say, lifting my chin and daring her to accuse me. “I don’t object.”

“Wonderful.” Margaret’s lips curl into one of her feline smiles. “Then let the fun begin.”

At her signal, servants emerge with trays of rotting fruit and splintered animal bones. Buckets of manure. The delighted courtiers respond at once, scooping up handfuls of filth and hurling them at the prisoner. The woman’s bare feet slap against the floor as she bolts from one end of the hall to the other, wailing as the guards buffet her back to the center. And her attempts to flee only heighten the court’s frenzy. Some in the crowd begin chucking their shoes. A heel clips the woman on her temple and she crumples, sobbing and huddling under the tattered crimson fabric. Her pain shouldn’t bother me. Margaret is right—the woman is a traitor. A Follower. But, in this moment, all I see in the woman’s helpless form is my former sisters: Nyssandra. Isolde. Eden.

You and I are exactly the same,Callen’s voice needles at me.

The chamber is suddenly too hot, the walls too narrow. I leave the High Table and escape out the first side door I can find. The night’s chill prickles over my skin, and I suck down burning lungfuls of air to try and settle the storm of emotion within me. The wind picks up, groaning through the gardens. Which are not, I realize, empty. I can just make out the outline of a person on the far edge, heading to the wall. My breath catches, recalling the woman I thought I saw from my window. The spirit. Could it have returned?