Page 58 of The Witch Queen

“I’m fine,” I tell him firmly.

Parnell hesitates, like he wants to argue, but then bows and finally takes his leave.

“Do you think he’s right?” Joan asks when we’re alone again. “That the covens have joined with the Followers? Or have pretended to?”

“It doesn’t sound likely, but I suppose it could be true,” I admit. “What I saw today was definitely caused by magic. The witches shouldn’t be able to use it, though. They lost their power when the Veil fell.”

Most of them, anyway. I still don’t understand how Jacquetta was able to manage those spells. And who conjured the crows? Or the storm? The questions tangle inside my brain, impossible to unknot.

“Let me tend to that at least,” Joan says, nodding at my injured arm.

She unfastens my sleeve and peels it gently away. The skin around the cut has already started to knit itself back together. I don’t notice any telltale streaks around the wound, either, like what I saw with Rhea on the night of the Hunt’s raid. Which means—

“She didn’t use iron,” I murmur.

Why not? Jacquetta wants me dead. The desire was written plainly on her face when she fired the shot. Then again, there was somethingelsewritten there,too. When she was pinned beneath me. Unbidden, the memory of Jacquetta’s skin against mine resurfaces. The scent of juniper it carried.

“Who didn’t?” Joan asks, snapping me out of my thoughts.

“No one,” I lie.

Because that’s what Jacquetta is to me now. And whatever the other witch did today, it was to serve her own ends.

It’s time that I discover exactly what those are.

—

The smell of unwashed bodies and damp stone greets me as I enter the dungeons. To avoid the guards, I have my shadows lead me through the old servants’ passages. It’s a tactic I’ve employed frequently over the past few years, preferring to keep my interactions with the dungeons’ coven residents discreet. Not that there have been many such visits. With Shade patrolling the realm, only a handful of witches have been housed here since I seized the throne.

Never Mother or the Heirs, of course. In fact, I only saw Mother a few times after my shadows dragged her away—short snatches of her in the mirror as she wandered the realm, broken and lost. I assume she eventually crawled back to Selene and the others, before they all escaped to Rycinthia to grovel at King Frances’s feet. Other witches, those captured by the Hunt, were typically too old or weak for such a journey. Those like Mathilde, I think, recalling the surly witch with her rheumy eyes and the string of teeth she kept tied to her belt.

Choice is a magic in and of itself,she’d said.

The witches housed within these walls certainly didn’t agree. One of them was a Wayward. She reminded me of Mathilde—the same gruff exterior and bristly wisdom. Waywards rejected the covens and refused to bind themselves to the Veil. And I hoped, for a brief joyous moment, that I’d found someone who would understand me. Who would acceptme, the way Mathilde had done. Like so many instances in my life, I was bitterly disappointed.

Witches do not wear crowns,the elder witch had scoffed.Whatever you’ve summoned here, I want no part of it. Send me to the pyre.

Years later, the words still sting. Not because of the witch who spoke them, nor any guilt over her death. But because I couldn’t dismiss the feeling that Mathilde would have said the same. That, even after all her kindness, she’d rather burn than live in the world I’ve created. Would turn her back on me if she saw who I really am, just like everyone else did.

Malum swells behind my breastbone, as if in reassurance. I soak in its darkness, banishing the memory of the witch and the needling worries she stirred. She doesn’t matter. None of them do. Especially not the one with blue eyes who smells like juniper.

Jacquetta rouses at the sound of my footsteps.

She’d been huddled in the far corner of the cell, still wearing the clothes from the forest, which are muddied and ripped from the battle. Torches gutter as I draw my shadows near, shielding us from the prying gazes of the other prisoners, or anyone else who might interrupt. For a few moments, Jacquetta and I just stand there, memories eddying between us. Tipsy dances under the stars. Whispered secrets in the South Tower. Promises made—and then broken.

“Well,” Jacquetta says at last, her attention flitting to the top of my head. “I gather the rumors are true. After all these years, you’re still obsessed with those magical rocks.”

Heat flames in my face. I suddenly regret that I’d taken the time to wash. Dressed in one of my finer gowns, a deep crimson brocade embroidered with black. That I’d worn the Bloodstone crown. Measures I took because I wanted Jacquetta toseeme. To know what I am and that I’m not afraid of her. Instead, under her appraising gaze, I just feel like a fool.

“How’s your arm?” I ask, lifting my chin. “Does that iron shackle hurt?”

“Not at all,” she replies. But she tugs at her sleeve, giving herself away. “How’s yours?”

“Fine. You were never a good shot.”

She just snorts. “Please. If I wanted you dead, you’d still be lying in the forest.”

Apparently, the past few years have done nothing to temper her arrogance. My shadows lengthen, feeding off my energy. Enough of these games.