Page 105 of Crown of the Courtesan

A group of giggling girls, all wearing lovesick expressions, focuses on Rett. They relentlessly tease and question him, causing his cheeks to flush. Even Beatrix joins in with their laughter at the ridiculous turn of conversation.

“Let me tell you about the time I saved a hundred baby unicorns,” Rett begins, his eyes twinkling with mischief. Eager nods and claps answer him.

One of the five-year-olds squeals, “I told you they were real!”

“Well, there I was, just a young boy in archery class, trying to find my missing arrow, when I came across a large group of unicorn foals trapped in a caged pen in the middle of the forest. I hid, horrified, behind a rock and watched the horn scrapers laugh about their big win.”

The girls at the table gasp.

Rett, however, grins handsomely at the memory. “I had to do something, so I devised a brilliant, if not entirely well-thought-out, plan. I used my vanishing magic to free them, but my control over that power was… erratic at best. One moment, I was invisible. The next—poof—I’d appear right in front of the poachers!” Laughter bubbles up around him as he continues, “So there I was, alternating between invisible and visible, trying to untie the unicorns and herd them through the gate without being seen. You could say it was the most intense game of hide-and-seek ever played!”

Everything is warm, safe, and loving for the first time in what feels like forever. Even so, a slow, creeping anxiety brews at the bottom of my stomach as I watch Rett entertain with stories of growing up in the Beast Realm.

We aren’t safe.

No matter how hard we pretend otherwise.

Beatrix gives up trying to make the girls behave and tips back the goblet of wine as I sit beside her. “They outnumber me,” she mutters. “There’s only so much energy I can muster.”

“You’re doing better than anyone could dream of, given your situation.”

Gratitude shows in her weary eyes before she tells me, “Eat. Or your food will grow cold.”

I try, but it’s difficult with so many unanswered questions and my mother’s portrait staring down at us. “If the instructors hated her so much, then why was her painting hung above the mantel?” I ask, stirring my spoon around my bowl.

“Because I dug it out of the attic the day you were coronated as queen. I saw it up there when I was putting away a crate of records. There’s something about it that reminds me of you.”

“Really? I don’t see any similarities.”

“You don’t need her face to have her spirit.” The clock chimes its song, causing her to shift her focus to her pupils. “Girls, it’s time to ready ourselves for bed. Tell the prince good night.”

A chorus of complaints echoes around the table.

* * *

Footsteps patter on the floor above us.

It’s just Verity and me standing in the dim kitchen now. Pots and pans dry next to the washing tub on the counter, and the bare shelves on the far wall catch my eye; they contain only a few tins and jars. Hoping with all my heart that they have more food stores hidden somewhere, I turn to face the cook.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Verity says, stoking the embers in the cast-iron cookstove.

Soon, we huddle around the scrubbed wooden table with steaming mugs. Her eyes crinkle fondly. “Your mother adored my Blossom Tea. She’d sneak down some nights, unable to sleep, and we’d chat for hours. She loved to talk and talk.”

“You knew her that well?”

Verity nods, holding the warm mug in her hands. A wistful smile crosses her face. “Someone had to show her love and affection. It wasn’t her fault how she came into the world.” Her expression grows somber. “She was such a sweet little girl…”

“You said her father was a knight from Ashland?” The tea wafts upward, smelling delicious, but my stomach tightens.

Verity stares into the steam of her mug, hesitating. Her voice wavers slightly, as if the words pain her. “Once the other instructors discovered Matilda—your grandmother—was with child, they alerted the cathedral. A few months later, the priestesses arrived in the middle of the night to force her to join their order. The entire house woke up, including me, when it happened. Matilda kicked and screamed, thrashing in her nightgown until the fabric ripped horribly, showing her swollen belly. But they got her in the end.” Her eyes glisten with tears. “Never heard what befell the knight who fathered your mother. He vanished, most likely sent back to wherever he came from.”

I conceal a gasp, hand flying to my mouth. My tea spills, and I rush to wipe it up with a nearby rag.

“Theodora was born in the dungeon of the Spirit-Fae Cathedral,” she reveals, undisturbed by my clumsiness. “The instructors and priestesses hated the little witchblood, as they called her.”

“Witchblood?”

“The horrid word they used. Those silver irises of hers were a dead giveaway that she possessed Devana power in her veins.” She finishes her tea with a long drink. “Don’t let the portraits fool you—those aren’t gray eyes. That’s the work of painters who wouldn’t show her as she truly was.”