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My head fogged as I sprang from the bed, and I placed a hand against it. It throbbed from lack of sleep. I grasped a goblet to let its cool water spill down my throat, apologizing to my body that it was all I could offer at the moment. Whatever Dhalia was ready to show me, I was ready to see.
My eyes went to the skies first as if to catch a fleeting glimpse of whoever had left the painting, but the endless twinkling stars gave no sign of a visitor. So I knelt with the painting, holding it atop my skirts.
“Tonight, you will tell me your secret,” I whispered.
In the painting, Dhalia stood staring into the vast night. I spoke the command begging the image to oblige. “Tell me how to live.”
I touched the painting.
The mist came first, clinging to her lashes and swarming at her cheeks with a dense heat. Next was the beat of heavy rain that pounded in her ears like relentless drums, vibrating to her bones. Inside her body, I felt it all. The beat of incoming rain, the chill against her skin, and the wild anticipation building in her chest as if she planned to take on the world.
Dhalia fidgeted with the coil around her upper arm, twisting it as the sheer red dress was weighed down with the rain, but she paid it no mind. Her eyes were on the skies.
She wiped her cheeks. Their dampness was not from the rain.
Morten burst through the doors. “You’re going to catch a chill,” he said. “Now is a dreadful time to get sick.”
She sighed but turned and slowly kicked the door shut behind her with her foot. “I’ll be fine. The rain washes away my nerves.”
Morten wore a suit the same dark green shade as Odette’s trees, and the corners of his lips were pinched. “It’s almost time. Are you ready?”
Her entire body shivered, but I suspected it wasn’t from the cold. “I am.” She pulled her hair into a simple braid that would look sloppy on anyone else, but as she tipped toward the mirror, her reflection was devastatingly beautiful. Like a wild, carefree woman born with natural beauty.
But her smile was sad. “Do you think Portia suffered?”
He paused as if hoping an answer would come if he waited long enough. Dhalia went back to messing with the band on her arm. I’d noticed she was usually steady in how she held herself, but tonight she was shaky. A part of her was always in motion, a tapping foot, restless fingers, her teeth worrying over her lip. More than that, I felt the wave of unrest rolling in her stomach.
At last, Morten answered. “No. I like to believe none of the queens suffer.”
But his downcast expression told a different story.
He put a hand on her elbow. “Come,” he said. “The ambassadors will gather shortly.”
“And then we get a new queen,” Dhalia said flatly.
Morten fetched a purple cloak to drape over her shoulders. His amber eyes searched hers. “Can you do this? Today is important. Today is your freedom.”
She squared her shoulders as I homed in on the details of the vision to understand what freedom they spoke of. “I am focused. I am ready to do what must be done.” Lies. She wasn’t focused at all.
“Everything will be fine,” Morten assured. “King Ulther came through on his word, and the way will be open for you today. After this, you will be the first queen to live.”
She cast another look outside, where rain blanketed the balcony. “Portia deserved to live too.”
Morten’s arms wrapped around her to pull her into his warmth. She wound her hands around him, but the emotion inside her was more frightened than comforted. Not frightened by him, I could tell. Frightened by something else.
He spoke into her ear. “So do you, my love, and we will save you.”
Her breathing was shallow and her knees wobbled as she stood. I suspected I knew what today was, and that explained her jittery composure. It wasn’t much different from Gaia’s yesterday. Nor from my own if Gaia died.
“I’m going to miss everyone,” she whispered.
“You’ll be missed too.” Morten held tight until her shaking stopped.
“I’m ready.”
“Good,” he said, pulling back to adjust her hair and take her in. He stroked a thumb over her cheek. “Happy Queen’s Day, my beautiful queen.”
The vision ended.
