Page 99 of The Witch Queen

“You want to speak to me of treason?” I throw back. “You’re wearing Papa’s crown!”

“Out of respect,” Aunt Margaret replies carefully. “No more than that. Iamof royal blood, after all. Surely you aren’t suggesting that I’m capable of anything more treacherous?”

Quiet hums. I can tell from the hushed conversations, and the expression on Aunt Margaret’s face, that I should take it all back. Smooth this over. But I just stand there, seething.

“The duchess is no traitor.” Sir Weston finally breaks the thick silence. He raises his glass in Aunt Margaret’s direction. “Not unlessbeautyis a crime against the crown.”

Several around him laugh, instantly deflating the anxiety in the chamber.

“Weston, you silly thing.” Aunt Margaret swats playfully at him. “You see, Blodwyn? It’s just a bit of fun. No need to overreact.”

Overreact?The others aren’t reacting enough.

But Aunt Margaret pins me with her gaze and I recall what she said at my dress fitting—that some people need to be reminded of their place. That’s what she’s doing with me now. With everyone else. She’s drawing a line between us. And the court, judging from their applause, is onherside of it. Never mine.

Because they do not want you,that voice goads me.You don’t belong.

I cannot bear another second among these horrible people. I turn on my heel and march away, leaving this wretched court behind.

—

The palace gardens blur with my own tears as I stalk down the gravel paths, fighting my heavy skirts. I hate this dress. I never even wanted to wear it. Never wanted half the things Aunt Margaret pushed upon me:Returning to the palace. Rejecting Verity’s friendship. Even calling these horrible trials in the first place. Does Aunt Margaret actually care aboutme? Or does she, like so many other people in my life, only tolerate me because of my position?

I reach the end of a path and pull up short, my breaths steaming in the cold night air. A rusted iron gate waits in front of me. I instantly recognize the pomegranate design in its center: Mother’s garden.

A dull ache throbs in my chest. When was the last time I visited the place? Hinges squeal as I push the gate open. Mother and I spent as much time as we could here. Especially in the summer, when the air was heady with the scent of a hundred varied blooms. Now, though, there’s nothing left of the garden but bare branches knotted together, all the flowers withered away from neglect.

The clouds part and moonlight shines on one of the bushes in the back, illuminating a single rose. It’s one of the winter-blooming varieties that Mother adored, petals a deep crimson against the grayed plants.

They bloom in the snow,Mother had said.Just like you.

I reach for the rose, desperate for even this small piece of her. But my fingertip grazes a thorn. I hiss, pulling away. A drop of blood beads on my finger. The wind picks up, rattling the branches.

Blodwyn. Pay the price.

I whirl around, just able to spot a shape in the distance. I breathe in and catch the scent of peony, like the oils Mother used to wear.

“Mother,” I whisper. “Mother, is that…”

“Blodwyn?”

I nearly leap out of my skin. Ayleth is standing at the gate, moonlight sparkling on the embellishments of her gown. I glance back in the direction I thought I saw Mother, but the garden is empty. Of course it is. Maybe everyone is right and I’m losing my mind.

“What are you doing here?” I ask Ayleth.

“I’m sorry to intrude,” she says. “But I wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

Part of me wants to order her to leave. But exhaustion outweighs myanger. I sink down onto a stone bench, all the fight draining out of me at once.

“Why would shedothat?” I blurt out.

Ayleth doesn’t need to ask who I mean.

“It was”—she pauses, considering her words—“an interesting choice of costume.”

That’s putting it mildly.

“I don’t understand. At her estate, Aunt Margaret was kind and gracious, not obsessed with power and position. Now she’s as bad as—” I stop short, but Ayleth guesses what I was about to say.