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But when things get desperate is when true selves are revealed. “You say you’re not a Fate, but you’re working with them, I know you are,” I say with particular smugness, “and you all want this prophecy to pass in the worst way. You’re helping that other witch, aren’t you? She’s a Seer. And now you’re trying to recruit me. Give me an answer, or you’re just stalling.”
You say you want answers, until there is a truth you cannot face.Their words quicken and sharpen.You are his plaything. The truth is, you hate yourself for wanting him. Why do you let that hatred fester?
A flush rises. Some conscious part of me claws my fingers into my bed. “I don’t—”
Shameless, shameless Violet of the Moon—there is shame at the heart of you, all the greater for its smallness, hiding in the deep dark where even you wouldn’t pry.
I lick my lips; I can still taste that tang of blood when I kissed Cyrus too roughly. “You’re trying to worm under my skin—to manipulate me.”
Manipulation is the common language of mortals. That is what love is, what hope is.
As their fervor escalates, I hear that human quality in their voice again, and I go still. “Who are you, really?”
Oh, little star. You seek the wrong answers.
I squint into the darkness, and I swear I can feel their presence near, someone on the other side of the echoes. Dragging my tongue along my teeth, I suck the last of thatiron taste. Blood makes a Seer’s magic more powerful…but what are the limits? Could they become powerful enough to invade someone else’s mind?
A Fate who is not a Fate.
“No,” I whisper. “You’rea Seer.”
Ah, wrong again. And now I tire of you.
Ifeelour connection snap this time. I hold on to the dream, willing myself to not wake yet as the darkness retreats—
I bite down hard on my tongue.
Pain sears. My mouth fills with blood. I gag it all down, thick and bitter, but I feel a fresh power rising in me, tethering me to this shadow world as it dissolves. Laughter responds, delirious and maniacal and closer than ever before. I remember this sound, echoing from a burning balcony and from a vision of triumph over Raya’s dead body. In the bright space before waking, I glimpse a pair of black eyes closing, her face obscured by raven feathers.
The Witch of Nightmares.
I burn the thorn.
I watch it blacken and shrivel until it’s nothing but ashes in my hearth.
How much have I helped the witch unwittingly? How much has she spied in my mind? She didn’t call herself a Seer, but she has the Sight—she must, if she knows of the future. She talks about the Fates like she’s spoken to them.
Villain she may be, I wonder after seeing her feats: whatamI capable of, if I tried?
Your Sight is but the surface of your magic.
Just because she’s wicked doesn’t mean she’s wrong.
But I suppose that’s exactly what she wants me to think.
We are a mere two weeks away from the wedding. Two weeks from destiny. The answers will come, whether I want them to or not, and I’m buzzing with an anticipation that isn’t entirely fear.
Meanwhile, the prince is preoccupied with everything but his bride. The three fairies of the palace follow Cyrus constantly, topping up his charm enchantments as he fumesfrom hall to hall, too furious at his father’s plans regarding Balica for any pretense of poise. If only such enchantments worked on the Council, he’d have a great deal more allies.
In the next Council Chamber meeting, the general reports that patrols managed to track an unusually large raven circling the skies, but they haven’t been able to shoot it down. It escapes into the Fairywood every time. It was last seen near the Third Dominion—closest to the Sun Capital it’s ever been.
I consider telling someone—King Emilius or Cyrus or Dante or even Camilla—of my conversations with the witch. Confess what she asked of me, so they know exactly how dangerous and otherworldly she is. But there’s too much to admit, too much to explain, and my tongue is knotted from all the truths I’ve omitted up until now. If I told them how she asked me to kill Cyrus, they’ll know that I was tempted.
If they knew about the thorn, they might even be afraid ofme.
The return of my mundane responsibilities is unexpectedly welcome as a distraction. My tower is free of rot, so I can resume receiving patrons. The sight at the base of my tower is eerie on the climb up; with all the blackened parts carved away, new tendrils are grasping upward to fill the gap. They grow so fast that if you focus, you can see it happen before your eyes.
Less pleasingly, I’ve been getting more headaches. “Out with the tower rot, in with the mental rot,” I grumble as I open my divining room door.
