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Chapter 30
RIVEN
Gwyn is going to summon my mother.
I’m sick with nerves. Wine churns in my stomach, bubbling up my throat. I swallow it down, the acidic taste an afterthought to the bitterness coursing through me.
We stop by Gwyn’s suite only long enough for her to change into something she feels more comfortable in—“I’m summoning the former queen of the Fae Isles for Dagny’s sake.”—and grab a few necessities for the ritual.
By the time we make it to my study, I’m ready to call it all off and handle Lord Devlin in my own way. My movements are muscle memory at its finest: use the key to let us in, walk to the desk, open the top drawer, remove the false bottom, and retrieve the remaining bloodshade blossoms.
From there, we head to the mausoleum in the eastern gardens.
Where Gwyn, my Gwyn, is going to summon my mother.
My mother who cursed me, and who, if she had it her way, would have ensured I’d never have known Gwyn’s touch, the taste of her lips, or the shape of her body.
I don’t want to see her.
Gwyn reaches for my hand. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
Arkyn unlatches the gate. “You don’t have to be here for this, Riv.”
She nods in agreement. “I can summon her on my own.”
I would never leave her alone with my mother. Her cruelty, her curse, has ruined me in more ways than one.
I won’t let her ruin Gwyn too.
“I said I’m fine.” I clench my teeth so hard they hurt. “I should be there. I know exactly what to ask to get the answers we need.”
She squeezes my hand. “Okay.”
Inside the mausoleum, we pass by the room with my grandfather’s tomb, and head straight for the chamber that houses my mother and the empty sarcophagus next to hers meant to honor Godrick.
A fresh bouquet adorns the former’s marble slab.
“Judging by the look of surprise on your face, I’m going to assume you didn’t leave that bouquet for her?” Gwyn asks.
“I didn’t.”
“Neither did I,” says Ark.
She traces one of the petals. “Then who did?”
I shrug. “I haven’t set foot in here in ages.”
“The palace groundskeepers probably routinely leave flowers from her garden to honor her,” says Arkyn. “They’re a traditional bunch.”
“I don’t think it was one of them.” Gwyn bites her lip. “This bouquet is a symbol of love and heartache.”
I arch a brow. “How so?”
She points to a long-stemmed flower with a cluster of yellow blossoms. “That’s seven-years’ love, a flower known to represent, well, love. Witches keep them in their bouquets when they marry, and then they hang them over their marital bed for increased passion.” Her finger hovers over a bell-shaped blossom with blue petals. “A bluebell for grief. In witch superstition, if you can turn a bluebell inside out without damaging it, your love will return to you.”
Ark snorts. “Do you believe that?”
