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I force myself through three readings, mumbling futuresthat are half-nonsense. People are transparent enough; it’s not hard to figure out what they want to hear, even while my head is pounding. Insecurities hide in their speech, hopes are locked away in a laugh.
A mother arrives at my tower with her two daughters. One is around my age and the other is too young to do anything but sigh and kick the table. The elder daughter had been preparing to move to the Sixth Dominion to be a nurse for her wealthy cousins, but travel remains dangerous, as beasts sporadically get past the army’s cordon.
My hands are sweaty when I do the reading. I see a little of her arrival in her threads, but not much more.
The mother stops me midway, asking, “Sighted Mistress, forgive me if I’m out of place, but are you sick?”
I clap my hand over my forehead. It’s burning hot.
Fatigue slams into me midday. I try to stay in bed, but going to sleep is terrifying. I dream and wake, dream and wake. I only remember snatches of what I hear and see; what stays is a neck-sticking dread of being watched in some other part of my mind.
The witch taunts from the deepest shadows:
How our fortunes have changed because I dare claim power. I was defiant like you once, when I didn’t know better. You choose the hard way. But you will learn.
The edges of my thoughts fray, turning into the fanged, gaping maw of a beast.
The beasts are hungry. He will die and war will rise. You will be his damnation.
The darkness shatters into blinding light. I sit up in bed and sunlight strikes me in the eyes. Cursing, I pull thecovers over my head and fall back into my pillow, restfulnessdrained.
I receive worried visits from Camilla and Dante over the next few days, but I do feel better after bedrest. After my fever broke, no more voices disturbed my sleep.
Several groggy mornings have passed when a familiar falcon taps at my windowpane.
Its beady eyes stare me down as I unlatch the window. Tied to its leg is a cream-colored note with Cyrus’s seal. Figures—kiss the prince a few times, and suddenly he won’t stop sending me letters.
The message is as simple as his others:Hear you’re feeling better. Can you meet in my study?
Sometimes, when sunlight falls across my divining table, I think of Cyrus leaning against it. Of the brush of his lips against my neck, sly as a secret. I should crumple this note, like I do his others. I should keep ignoring him, because his wedding is nearly here, and it seems imprudent to ruffle things now that we’ve settled into another calm.
Or I could give him a taste of his own medicine.
Craving for a scrap of joy, I can hardly resist. I tie my braid neater. Rummaging in the back of my wardrobe, I pick out a dress with a heart-shaped neckline Camilla would whistle at. It’s a flattering dark rouge, embroidered with silver-threaded dragonflies, and sashed around the waist. A little more delicate and shapely compared to myusual outfits, but not obviously alluring, like I’m going out of my way to tempt him.
Which, maybe I am.
On top, I throw on my robe. This is an official visit, afterall.
As I cross the bridge to the palace grounds, I lay out conversations in my head for every reason why Cyrus might call on me. If he asks about his father’s plans for the wedding, I’ll pretend I know only bare details. If he needs a favor, I’ll request some light blackmail. In lieu of trust, that’s the only currency that matters.
Then there are less innocent scenarios. I swallow as I remember the burn of his mouth. The sleeves of my dress only just cling to my shoulders; how easily he might slip it off if that was all he wanted to do.
I pinch myself.
Weaving through less populated paths, I enter the outer courtyard through a side entrance. Most of the creamy flowers have dropped from the magnolia trees and I can’t find an unblemished one to pluck. The flutter of a purple cloak catches my eye in the opposite archway, followed by the glint of gold-tipped boots heading in the direction of my tower.
“Cyrus?”
The boots double back. Itishim. “Good morn—ing.” Something seems to stick in his throat when I walk toward him and the folds of my robe drift apart to reveal my dress underneath.
“I thought you said to meet you in your study.”
“I thought you would ignore my letters again.” Cyrus gives me a once-over as my attention turns up toward thesound of wing beats and he thinks I’m not looking. His falcon has settled on a sagging branch overhead. “You’ll catch a cold like that,” he says.
“Not if you keep staring. What do you want this time?”
He pauses, as if seeing me like this has made him reevaluate his request. “My blushing bride has prewedding jitters, and it would be helpful if the Seer could resolve them.”
