Page 93 of The Witch Queen

Comprehension finally dawns, tightening her expression.

“I see,” she says, gesturing to the others. “Or with Constance and Elinor.”

“Yes. I mean, my aunt thinks I should…”

“Associate withpropercourtiers,” Verity finishes for me. “And I’m not one of them.”

Hurt flashes in her gaze. It makes me feel a thousand times worse.

“Verity, I—”

“No need,” she says, drawing herself up and shoving the books into my arms. “Here. Good luck with the trial. And with your new friends.”

She begins to walk away.

“Wait,” I call. “I didn’t…”

“You know,” Verity replies over her shoulder, “part of the reason I liked you was because I believed you could think for yourself. I suppose I was mistaken.”

The ridges of my ears burn.

When Verity walks away this time, I don’t say anything at all.

—

That night, yet another storm rolls over Riven.

Rain pounds the palace, thunder rattling the glass panes of my menagerie’s ceiling. In a small stroke of luck, the claimants were given the night to prepare for the coming challenge, and so I’m not forced to endure another torturous dinner in the Great Hall. Don’t have to see Verity and the damage I caused.

I believed you could think for yourself.

Her words echo in my mind, laced with the next rumble of thunder.

“I did the right thing,” I mutter to Nettle, who is currently perched on the lip of the fountain and swatting at the ducklings as they paddle past. She just trills at me, uninterested—orunconvinced.Because if I did the right thing, why do I feel so awful?

I attempt to distract myself by focusing on the books. Unfortunately, most of them are riddled with Verity’s notes. She’s underlined helpful passages or scribbled her, admittedly hilarious, opinions in the margins. Reading her handwriting only further complicates my feelings, so I set those aside, opting for the last volume in the pile. This one doesn’t contain notes at all. It’s far older than the others, its leather cover softened with time and the pages thin and yellowed. I scan the first lines.

“The Legend of the Lost Princess,” I murmur.

Nettle meows and trots over to me, her tail curling in a question. I keep reading:

When it became evident that King Alfred would die without an heir, he established a contest. Every man in the realm was invited to prove his worthiness to wear the crown and wed the king’s daughter, Matilda.

That’s odd. I assume this is a record of the original trials. But I wasn’t aware that the last king of the old line had a daughter. Why haven’t I heard of her before?

The princess, however, rejected her father’s order. Disguising herself as a man, she entered the contest herself and emerged victorious.

“Victorious?” I repeat.

Nettle blinks at me, as though even she is surprised. I turn the page and continue.

Despite the outcome of the trials, the nobility refused to accept the princess as their ruler. The great lords promised war. And so King Alfred denied his daughter her crown. Instead, the Princess Matilda was betrothed to another—an apple farmer named…

“Braxos,” I murmur.

The pieces of this tale swirl together in my mind. If this is true, then Braxos wasn’t the real winner of the first trials. The line of White was established on a lie. On astolenthrone. What does that mean for my family? Forme? I put the questions aside and finish the story:

Princess Matilda spurned Braxos, vowing a war of her own. Fearing an uprising, King Alfred locked his daughter in her tower room until the wedding day.