Page 88 of The Witch Queen

She’s wrong. I carved out Callen’s heart, somethingshenever would have had the courage to do. I’ve spent years learning the inner workings of this court and bending it to my will. What does it matter whether Roland—or anyone else—knows about Malum? They wouldn’t understand. Not yet, anyway. And until they do, it’s safer that I keep my true abilities secret. I’m not hiding, I reason, I’m protecting myself. Malumexpands behind my sternum, as if in reassurance. But its presence isn’t as comforting as usual.

The clang of armor meeting the ground brings me back into the tiltyard. The crowd launches to their feet, either cheering wildly or booing at the result of the match. But I notice that one person doesn’t join them. Blodwyn is sitting one seat down from me, with Margaret’s empty place between us. For all her insistence on the joust, the duchess hasn’t deigned to join us. And Blodwyn doesn’t appear as though she’s enjoying herself, either.

“How long will this last?” she asks with a sigh.

I blink, surprised to be acknowledged. Typically, I can feel the princess’s frostiness from several feet away. She takes great pains to avoid my presence, even changing direction if she spots me walking down a corridor. But something has shifted since my conversation with her in the library. Blodwyn began taking her meals in the Great Hall again. She even bid me good morning when she arrived in the box. Now this.

“Knowing Sir Weston, the day will likely stretch on until evening,” I reply.

“Wonderful,” she mutters, sitting back in her chair and scowling at the next set of riders. “Why would anyone risk their lives for something so stupid?”

I laugh, having forgotten how funny Blodwyn is when her insults aren’t directed at me.

“I quite agree.”

She glances at me, skeptical. “Then why did you arrange it?”

“I didn’t,” I explain. “In fact, the sport has been banned since your father’s accident.”

“Then who…” she begins, but then comprehension dawns on her face. “Aunt Margaret.”

There’s a hard edge to Blodwyn’s voice when she speaks the duchess’s name. Did they have an argument? I’m dying to know but I vividly recall my misstep the last time I mentioned the duchess.

“Is…everything all right?” I ask, cautious.

“Fine,” Blodwyn answers tightly.

But her fingertips drum impatiently on the arm of her chair, betraying her true feelings.

“Well, if there was something bothering you,” I attempt, pressing my luck, “it might help to talk about it.”

Blodwyn weighs this. I brace myself for her rejection. Perhaps even her anger. But the seconds drag on and she doesn’t lash out at me.

“It’s just…” she starts instead. “Aunt Margaret—”

“Ah, here you are, Blodwyn.”

I release a frustrated breath as the duchess appears. The woman has the instincts of a Diviner. I force a smile as she maneuvers to her place between me and Blodwyn.

The princess immediately stands. “I should go to the library. Do some more studying.”

“Very well, my dear,” Margaret says, patting her shoulder. “Good luck.”

Blodwyn only nods and hurries off. I watch her go, wondering what she would have said if Margaret hadn’t interrupted. And not simply because I might have gained ammunition against the duchess, but because Blodwyn actually appeared troubled.

Don’t let her close,that voice warns again.

“Isn’t this exciting?” Margaret sits up straighter as another pair of riders is announced on the yard. “It’s been too long since I’ve enjoyed such fun.”

About as exciting as having one’s fingers snapped off by a feral falcon.

“Not everyone would share that opinion,” I comment, nodding at where an armored man is moaning on a stretcher.

Margaret laughs. “Oh, don’t worry about him. I find that riders are incredibly resilient. I’m convinced that even Callen, poor soul, would climb right back on that horse if he could.”

The last thing I want to discuss is the king. I look to Joan, desperate for an ally, but she and Anora are carrying on their own privateconversation a few seats away. Fitz is on Joan’s lap, bundled in a fur blanket. He flattens his ears and growls in Margaret’s direction. At least I’m not the only one who dislikes the duchess.

“Strange, though,” Margaret continues. “I’ll never understand what possessed my dear brother to ride without his visor. He was always rather vain about that sort of thing. If a servant so much as nicked his face during a shave, they’d be instantly dismissed.”