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A hollow feeling drew her attention to the open page of the book. It was one of the first pages. On the left was blank paper, but on the right…
Cora launched a step back as bile rose in her throat.
Rust-colored ink crisscrossed the sheet, almost too faint to see beneath the dim lighting. It was a pattern of intersecting lines like a tapestry.
A blood weaving.
She understood then that the book had been enchanted to kill anyone who dared open it. The clasp had pricked Lurel’s finger, drawn her blood, and woven it with whoever’s this page contained. Perhaps even Queen Linette’s, considering the similarity of their deaths—blood that seeped not from any ordinary wound but the eyes, nose, and mouth.
Cora’s breaths grew sharper as panic threatened to seize her. But she couldn’t give in. Neither to panic nor to sorrow. She needed to be strong. For her brother. For Khero. For the safety of Ridine Castle.
She swallowed her fear and let anger take its place, let it crawl down her arms, spiraling through the inked sigils she bore, driving the dark energy away from her, shoving it back, back, until it retreated into the pages of the book. Then she slammed the cover down, containing the energy. She sneered down at the closed book, the dark leather cover hiding the blood weaving that marred the inner page. She turned her scowl to the vials littering the table, then to the volumes of books cluttered upon the bookshelves around her. The objects leered, taunting her, but unlike their master, they were easily destroyed. One simply had to know how. And Cora did. She was the only person in the castle who could make this room safe again.
She’d been wrong when she’d told Lurel the tower wasn’t haunted. It was. Now she was determined to rid every last scrap of Morkai’s memory, his essence, his energy, if it was the last thing she did.
16
Mareleau blinked several times as if that could help her make sense of the words that just left Uncle Ulrich’s mouth.
“My cousin,” Mareleau said.
Ulrich nodded, not bothering to look at her from his seat opposite her in the coach they rode in.
“Lurel.”
Another nod.
“She’s…dead.”
“A tumble down the stairs, the letter says. Just a few days ago,” he said, tone distracted. His attention was consumed by the letter in question, although not by the subject matter Mareleau expected. While she continued to reel over the upsetting news, her uncle was already mumbling his approval that the council meeting would commence upon their arrival at the castle that afternoon as planned.
Mareleau blinked at him again, willing his countenance to reflect her internal unrest. But no, he remained unflustered, his grin stretching above his clean-shaven double chin, his gray eyes free of sorrow. Surely he should do more than saya tumble down the stairsbefore moving on. The girl was his niece, after all.
“My condolences,” Breah said. She was the only other person in the coach with them, as Mareleau’s other two lady’s maids were riding separately. Mareleau turned a furrowed brow to the girl beside her, trying to determine if she too was reeling despite her simple words. Breah had served alongside Lurel. Even though she’d shown a stronger preference for Ann and Sera, she must feel the way Mareleau did. She must feel…
Well, how did Mareleau feel? Shocked, she supposed. Lurel was younger than she was. She’d been perfectly fine and healthy when last they’d spoken. Which was, of course, when Mareleau had informed her that she’d selected the girl to serve Princess Aveline. Mareleau’s decision had been an easy one. Of all her maids, it pained her the least to part with Lurel.
But now it struck her that she’d had an indirect hand in Lurel’s fate. Much as had been the case with Prince Helios’ death. She hadn’t felt as sorry as she should have that her Heart’s Hunt had gotten one of her champions killed. There was little that could fluster her. Little that could shake her composure. She’d experienced her share of grief, of life’s unfairness. But this was the closest Mareleau had ever come to feeling death’s touch.
Lurel, her irritating, naive, endlessly prattling cousin…was dead. And Mareleau, the ever-unshakable, ever-scheming, ever-resilient newly crowned queen, felt smaller and weaker than she ever had before. What was this horrible feeling? Guilt? Grief? It felt almost as bad as when she’d broken Larylis’ heart with her lie.
Her hand went to the nape of her neck, seeking loose strands of hair. She was desperate to move her fingers, to wind them through a braid like she often found herself mindlessly doing, but her silver tresses were pinned in a coronet.
“Stop touching your hair,” Ulrich snapped, glancing up from the letter and tucking it into his waistcoat pocket.
She dropped her hands to her lap. Heat rose to her cheeks at having been chastised by her uncle.At least I have hair to touch, she wanted to say. His dark tresses, cropped just below his ears, looked more like an upside-down bowl that did his dour face no favors.
“Lurel was Princess Aveline’s lady’s maid,” he said. “Now that she is once again without a proper attendant, you might loan her another one of yours.”
Panic constricted Mareleau’s chest. She had to choose another girl to serve Aveline? Make another choice that would lead to consequence, for better or worse?
“Certainly not me,” Breah said in a rush, sitting up straighter. Ulrich arched a brow at her, so she swiveled toward Mareleau. In a much more composed tone, she said, “Sera would do a wonderful job, Majesty. She’s much more skilled at serving a princess than a queen. Wouldn’t you say? I can’t imagine you’d be able to part withme.”
Mareleau had to admit Breah was right. If she had to keep only one of her maids, it would be Breah. She was the only sensible one of the bunch. That didn’t mean she considered the girl a friend. Katra was the last lady’s maid she’d calledfriend. And that girl had betrayed her by trysting with her suitor.
The memory made her stiffen and reminded her why she kept her maids at a distance. Why she refused to coddle them. Katra’s betrayal had broken Mareleau. It had taught her the futility of friendship and the necessity of being sharp. Suspicious. Relentless. In a way, she was grateful. The experience had made her cold enough to fight for what she deserved. To care less about those who only pretended to care about her. To extend her heart only so far as she was willing to let it be broken.
She’d done enough of that lately with Larylis. Now it was time to be a queen. A leader. Someone who could sit tall in the face of tragedy instead of wanting to curl up and plait her hair like a child. She couldn’t fall apart just because a family member took a tumble down the stairs.
