“Did Henry ever talk to you of the games we played together as children?” She raises the needle so that Seymour can see it clearly. “My sister and I were taught embroidery, of course. From time to time, Henry would join us. He would bring me things that he wanted me to embroider. A mouse. One of his songbirds. A quiet little serving girl.”
It is untrue, of course. Henry did no such thing, but it is useful to see how Seymour will take this information. Her lack of reaction is surprising. What an ingrate, to turn on the man who has only ever been generous to a fault.
“Did he embroider you from time to time, Lady Seymour?” she asks. “Or did he just prick?”
“Whatever he did, he never spoke of you,” Seymour says, and though her voice is measured there’s a spark in her eyes that Cecilia rather enjoys.
“No, I don’t imagine he did. I am the family’s shame, you see. Rather like you are your family’s shame.”
“The difference being that I killed my brother, and you are still ruled by yours,” she says.
Cecilia laughs. She bounces on her tiptoes.
“Did you? No one told me that. Which brother? No, do not tell me; I will guess. It was the snivelling one, wasn’t it? The eldest. Oh, what was his name?”
“Edward.”
Cecilia points the needle at Seymour. “Edward. Yes. I only met him once but I wanted so badly to put my hands around his skull and just …”
She mimes cracking a man’s head. Seymour’s eyes shutter. Ah well, for a brief moment she provoked a reaction.
Cecilia holds up the bottle.
“This is an extract brewed from the leaves of the portesia tree. Do you know what effect it has when it is placed just beneath the skin?”
Seymour raises her head. “Have you not realised by now that hurting me gains you nothing?”
“Indeed I have.” Seymour follows Cecilia’s eyes to the panther. She pales, but says nothing. A pathetic attempt at pretending she doesn’t care.
“Portesia sap has a curious effect when touched. It leaves no mark on the skin. Or fur. But an icy fire brews beneath. The kind where you feel as though you will never be warm again. Put enough on and it burrows deeper still, through every muscle and organ, gripping them in a deadly frost.”
Cecilia goes to the window and pulls the shutter aside, holding the bottle against the bone window until the wax securing the cork drips onto the floor like blood, warmed by the lava outside. The other woman’s panic fills the chamber like smoke. At last, she has found the key to unlocking the truth. It will just take a little more pinching of the heart, and the door will spring open.
She pulls the stopper from the bottle and, careful not to let any of the tincture touch her own hands, dips the needle into it, shaking gently to rid it of any excess. The panther, as if aware of what is about to happen, growls at her even as it cowers.
“Such a magnificent beast. I think the back of the neck to start, don’t you?”
Seymour straightens. “If you hurt him, you will never be able to claim him as yours.”
Cecilia continues to circle the panther. “You underestimate me at every turn. A good play, though, my lady. I applaud the attempt.”
In one swift movement, Cecilia springs onto the panther’s back, wedging one knee at the top of his neck, the other pinning him on his side. She takes hold of his scruff, readying the needle. The creature whimpers, his tail lashing ineffectively.
“What do you want to know?” Seymour says. “I will tell you. Please do not hurt him.”
Cecilia is tempted to insert the needle anyway, just to teach the woman a lesson, but on this occasion her desire for knowledge is greater than her desire for power. She lifts the needle but does not yet rise. The panther continues to whimper beneath her.
“Why were you visiting the Hleaws?” she asks.
“I follow their religion.”
“Is that why you left Elben? Because you turned heathen?”
“I would not expect someone like you to understand.”
“Born royalty, you mean?”
“I mean Henry’s sister.”
