Page 147 of The Witch Queen

Aunt Margaret winks. “I’m guilty of the same, I confess. In fact, I planned to have these rooms redecorated for you—as a gift.”

The fact that she thinks I would care about such things only proves how little she knows me. But I smile at her, feigning gratitude.

“That’s so generous.”

“Not at all. You’re my niece. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. And these roomsdesperatelyneed refreshing.”

Aunt Margaret strolls around the chamber, picking up items and examining them with an expression of distaste. She pauses at the table where I’d hidden the letter. Sifts through the papers. My throat tightens, certain that all this will be over before it starts. But she soon gets bored of the mess and moves on. I relax in the slightest.

“What colors will you choose? White, of course. And perhaps—” Aunt Margaret stops short as she nearly stumbles over an object on the floor. “What on earth is this?”

My stomach sinks—my satchel.

“I…don’t know,” I say, struggling to keep my composure. “Something of Ayleth’s, I suppose. You were discussing colors? How about…”

But my aunt is already rummaging through the bag. She draws out a pair of stockings. A shift. With each item, I can feel my plan unraveling.

“Strange,” she comments. “These look more like your size than the queen’s.”

“Do they?” I ask, cursing the way my voice hitches up an octave. “Well, maybe they belong to a servant or…”

“The same servant whose dress you’re wearing?” she asks, arching an eyebrow.

My mouth dries, all excuses shriveling.

“You know,” Aunt Margaret goes on, still clutching the stockings, “I had a bag like this once. When I was about to make a terrible mistake. Tell me, is this the work of the Warbeck boy? Or the Talbot girl?”

I should deny it. Or simply plead for her forgiveness. It’s what she expects me to do. But I think back to the ball. The hedge maze. Even the throne room. If I keep allowing Aunt Margaret to run my life, she’ll never stop.

“It’s neither of them,” I say instead, lifting my chin. “I’vedecided to leave. I’m not your pet. Or your puppet. You can’t just sit me on the throne and rule through me.”

A long stretch of quiet passes.

“I think I’ve been very patient with you,” Aunt Margaret says at last. Her voice is soft, but I sense the danger beneath it. “Far kinder than my own father would have been. It saddens me that you don’t appreciate my efforts.”

“I do appreciate—”

“In fact,” she goes on, “I’m concerned about you. You’re not looking very well.”

I blink at her, confused. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“No?” She tilts her head. “All this talk of curses. Your obsession with a dead princess. That’s hardly the behavior of a sane person. Much less a future queen.”

Fear skims down my spine. She knows what I’ve been doing. Of course she does. I was a fool to assume otherwise.

“You’ve been spying on me.”

It’s not a question and she doesn’t bother to deny it.

“I’m only trying to help you, Blodwyn,” she says. “Let’s call the doctors. Get you feeling better.”

But I won’t feel better if I’m drugged into a stupor with their tinctures and tonics. Perhaps, I realize, that’s exactly what Aunt Margaret wants—what she’s always wanted. For me to be the cursed princess, entirely under her control. That deep instinct screams at me to act. To get away from her.Now.I start to run for the servants’ passages, but Aunt Margaret is surprisingly quick. She catches up with me before I’m halfway across the room, her grip like iron around my wrist.

“That’senough,Blodwyn.”

I struggle against her. “Let me go!”

“I will as soon as you—”