Page 97 of The Witch Queen

I didn’t. All this time, I believed Mother was with the Heirs. That her silence was part of her rejection, like when she left the crimson cloak at Stonehaven for me to find.

I move away from Jacquetta, a thousand emotions and memories churning in my mind. Mother when I was a witchling, her laugh filling the Sanctum. Of her and Rhea and me in the workroom, Mother instructing Rhea while I prepared ingredients. I turn my palm up, examining the three faint lines under my left ring finger. For so long, I was convinced it meant the three of us together, always.

“Ayleth, I’m sorry,” Jacquetta says. “Really.”

“You don’t have to pretend,” I reply, pulling myself together. “I know you think it was my fault she died. I’m the one who took her power.”

“That’s not what I think at all,” she says. Then, at my puzzled expression. “Don’t mistake me. What you did to the rest of us was cruel. But Cassandra…she deserved what she got. Worse, even, after everything she put you through.”

I’m not sure what to do with that. How many years had I yearned for those exact words? But, for some reason, hearing them now doesn’t give me the satisfaction I’ve craved. Instead, another piece of my heart cracks, that old, stubborn grief oozing out of the fracture. But I seal it up and stitch it tight. Glance one last time at the mark on my hand—the three lines I thought represented my family.

But Rhea is gone. Now so is Mother.

And I am alone. Just as I’ve always been.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Blodwyn

Ihave paid the price of blood and snow.

The legend of the lost princess follows me into the next day. I must have read the tale a dozen times, but it’s only raised more questions: Was the princess real? What happened to her after she fled the palace—ifshe fled? Most important, what does her story mean for me? If my ancestor stole the ancient princess’s claim to the throne, do I have any right to be here? In fact, what if itwasn’tthe witches who cursed our line, but someone else?

The questions won’t leave me alone. I desperately want to go to the library and ask Master William for his assistance in learning more about the princess, but Aunt Margaret dispatched her army of servants to my room at dawn to begin preparations for the ball. I’ve barely had a moment to breathe, much less sneak away. I haven’t even had the chance to ask Verity where she found the text and why she gave it to me. Then again, perhaps this only proves that Aunt Margaret was right about her. Maybe Verity left me the book to shake my confidence before the trial. If so, she’s certainly succeeded. My nerves are buzzing by the time I arrive at the Great Hall.

If I thought the parties at Aunt Margaret’s estate were lavish, this puts all of them to shame. The hall is teeming with courtiers.Candlelight shimmers on onyx silks and jet satins. Dazzles on the deep reds and greens and purples of the gems sewn into masks and headdresses. Columns and beams have been covered to resemble branching trees, which are either barren or blooming with life. Jeweled fruit and apples ringed in crowns sparkle in the torchlight. Garlands of white roses are draped over the upper-story gallery, their heady, redolent scent mixing with that of the wine and food. A massive tree rises in the center of the chamber, its boughs stretching all the way up to twine with the beams of the ceiling. One half of the tree is alive and thriving, but the other is ancient and gnarled. Its bark is black and glittering, limbs twisted like claws.

My skin prickles, recalling the rumors that Gwen, the seamstress’s assistant, shared about real ghosts attending this ball. Might the ancient princess find her way here? And if so, what would she want?

Pay the price,I think I hear beneath the strains of music.

“Your Highness!” A pair of courtiers maneuvers through the crowd.

Constance and Elinor. Like the other guests, they’re dressed in black, their elaborate gowns embroidered with delicate scrollwork and trimmed in expensive lace. The mottos they mentioned in the garden are stitched on sashes pinned to their bodices. And their masks are as ornate as their dresses, studded with obsidian beads that glitter in the torchlight. As a claimant, I’m not wearing a mask. And my own gown is white, which only causes me to feel more exposed. Like the court itself is comprised of shadows. Another chill tingles down my spine.

“You lookstunning,” Elinor gushes. “I’m insanely jealous.”

Constance nods along emphatically. “Absolutely glorious. Are you ready?”

Not in the least. With the lost princess’s story rattling around in my brain, I didn’t manage much sleep last night. Between that, the weight of my gown, and the tightness of my corset, I have no idea how I’ll survive this night, much less win the trial.

“Well, well,” Elinor says, nodding into the crowd. “Isn’thehandsome?”

I follow her gaze and discover another spot of white amid the blackcostumes. Gavin. Hedoeslook handsome, his doublet cut perfectly to suit his frame. The pearl-colored velvet, accented with silver trim, complements his complexion and makes his brown eyes stand out even more as they lock with my own.

Are you really going to close off your heart?Verity’s words resurface.

I shove them down, fussing with my sleeves to distract myself.

“Is that ablush,Highness?” Constance asks, giggling. “Do you have your sights set on the Warbeck boy? How intriguing.”

“No,” I say quickly. “I don’t have my sights set on anyone.”

Nor will I. Ever.

“Well, then you won’t mind if I take him,” Elinor remarks, suggestively.

Given what I know of him, Gavin would be as interested in spending time with Elinor as he would with a Nevenwolf. In fact, he might prefer the beast. But I keep that to myself. I don’t care who Gavin chooses for himself. It certainly won’t be me.