Page 37 of The Witch Queen

“What’s going to happen now?” I ask, shaking it away.

Aunt Margaret smiles. “Thatis why I’m here. Come along.”

She beckons for me to follow her. I set Crumbs gently down and head out into the main chamber, where it looks as though the contents of my trunks have exploded. Gowns are strewn across every piece of furniture, along with ribbons and jewels and other accessories.

“What’s all this?”

“I’ve ordered you a new wardrobe,” Aunt Margaret explains, obviously proud of herself. “You need to stand out among the crowd. Let no one forget thatyouare the rightful heir.”

“How are gowns going to make a difference?”

“They make all the difference, my dear,” she replies, picking up a bodice to inspect it. “These trials are as much about presentation as they are about skill.”

That’s exactly what concerns me.

Presentation is Aunt Margaret’s specialty, not mine. I’ve always preferred sneaking off to the forest or the library whenever I get the chance. But my aunt thrives in a room full of people, instantly assuming control in every situation. At the estate, my aversion to social gatherings didn’t matter as much. There, no one knew about my family history, or they were polite enough to avoid dredging it up. Here, though…

Cursed.

“Hurry up now,” Aunt Margaret says. “Let’s get you fitted for that riding habit. I want it to be spectacular.”

She steers me toward the large mirror on the other side of the room. The servants waste no time. They usher me onto the low stool and bustle around me, their hurried hands peeling off my sleeves. Holding up various fabrics or jewels or ribbons. It’s all too much—too suffocating. The walls of my chamber seem to press closer. I close my eyes to steady myself. But when I open them, my reflection in the mirror shifts. Like the illustration in the book—the witches’ faces morphing into hideous snarls.

Cursed,that voice again.You are cursed.

Someone fastens a collar of rubies around my throat and it looks like blood. Like—

“Stop!” I cry out. “I can’t breathe!”

I claw the collar off my neck. Metal pops and rubies scatter across the floor. The servants freeze, gaping at me like I’m a wild animal let loose among them. Perhaps I am. Perhaps everyone is right and I don’t belong here.

Aunt Margaret claps her hands, breaking the spell. “Out! All of you.”

They instantly obey. As they scuttle out of the room, Aunt Margaret helps me down from the stool and leads me over to the cushioned bench at the window. Outside, the storm is still raging, but she cranks the window open anyway. Cool air hits my skin, and I can finally inhale a real breath.

“Now, then,” Aunt Margaret says after I’ve settled. “What’s all this about?”

“I just felt…overwhelmed,” I admit, humiliation stinging my face. “Wardrobe or not, I don’t stand a chance against other claimants. Even if I did, you heard the court last night. They don’t want me. And maybe they’re…”

“What?” Aunt Margaret asks. “Right?”

She reads my answer in my silence.

“Blodwyn.” Aunt Margaret takes my hand in hers. “The throneisyour right. You were born to it. Destined for it. I know that. Your mother did, too, from what you described.”

Yes. Mother was always adamant that I take the throne. She used to sit me down in front of her tapestries and tell me the stories of the queens depicted there. Women charging into battle with their swords raised. I should feel like one of them now, fierce and courageous. Should have spoken up last night. Donesomething.But I just stood there like an idiot, waiting for some kind of impetus, like the characters in the books I’ve read embarking on their grand quests. Instead, I feel like I’m trying on someone else’s clothes.

“It doesn’t matter what Mother thought,” I say. “You know what happened to her. And Papa. What if we really are…”

Thunder grumbles outside.

“Cursed?” Aunt Margaret laughs. “Honestly, I’m convinced my own papa invented that vile fantasy to threaten us as children.Mind the curse,he’d warn when we misbehaved. Do I look cursed to you?”

“No, but—”

“Everyone likes a ghost story, Blodwyn,” Aunt Margaret says, squeezing my hands. “But that’s all it is. A tale. Win, and you disprove it forever.”

She says that like it’s simple. “And if I can’t?”