Emeric’s hands press tighter into my back. “That—that can’t—”
Death’s face is back to its endless shifting beneath her hood. Her words are loaded with an odd sort of strain. “As her parents, we gave her a choice, and we have waited”—she draws out the syllables—“forfour yearsfor her to make it. We are Low Gods, and we cannot go back on our word.”
“Wait. Vanja—wait. It’s the thirteenth.” Emeric looks from me to Death and Fortune, then back. “It’s your birthday. You’re seventeen. You belong to yourself.”
I stare up at him.
I’m seventeen today.
“I’m seventeen,” I say blankly. Then, fervently, “I’m seventeen.”
“Enough,” Death interrupts. I can almost hear relief in her voice. “She’s seventeen. We can no longer claim authority over her as our child.”
That’s when it hits me.
Death always knows.
Fortune looks almost sheepish, her halo of coins and coal rattling. “Now, obviously, gods can’t be wrong, Vanja. Death told you, we just . . . wanted to protect you.”
“Gods can’t be wrong,” Death says, “but mothers can.”
Fortune lays a hand on my cheek. “As gods, we can no longer shake the world to keep you safe. But if you need us, we will come to you, as your mothers. And you will always see our hands at work.” Then she winks. “We may nudge things for you here and there. You are, after all, our daughter.”
I don’t have to run anymore.
I don’t have to leave Almandy.
I can go anywhere. And for once in my life—I can stay.
“And you, boy,” Death rumbles as she and Fortune begin to fade. “You’re courting the daughter of Death and Fortune, and we want her to be happy. We are only a prayer away. You’d be well served to . . .bearthat in mind.”
They vanish into the swelling night. Once the last trace is gone, Emeric says under his breath, “So that’s where you get it from.”
I start laughing, and then he starts laughing, and then we can’t stop, holding each other for dear life and kissing through the laughter and spinning through the pile of rubies like dancing drunks under the full moon.
I am delirious, happier than I knew I could be, trembling with joy and relief and exhilaration.
I am seventeen, I am a daughter, I am no one’s servant but my own.
I am wanted.
I amfree.
CHAPTER FORTY- TWO
TheQueen ofRoses
I lay seven cards out on the low table and wait.
The other six faces at the table know the drill. They hold their breath as Ragne waves her hand over the array, then pounces on a card. She doesn’t lift it yet, thinking. Then she says, “Have you ever tasted your own earwax?”
She flips over the card: the Page of Grails. Barthl slumps in his chair. “This is beneath me.”
“It’s Winterfast,”Markgräfi nGisele sings, “you have to play the game!”
Ragne’s sitting on the floor of the cozy library, but she scoots closer to lay her head on Gisele’s knee, a wide grin on her face. She’s the official ambassador for Eiswald now, which gives her all the time in the world to spend with the new margravine of Bóern.
(She may also be Gisele’s wife? We’re not sure, and no one’s asking. They both seem too happy to care.)
