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Was he still in the forest? Was he weak from shifting into the wolf after going so long without doing it? Had one of the Carlin’s guards found him? Or Balor?
Or had he made it to unseelie? Had the Carlin locked him up somewhere in the palace? Ripped off his branch leg and cut off his other limbs so he was helpless? Everyone kept saying that Lonan’s fate was to become unseelie king, but that didn’t mean it was going to happen now. What if the Carlin kept him hidden somewhere in the palace for decades, centuries, until she died naturally and Lonan became king that way? What if I never saw him again?
I couldn’t leave seelie to find him, and my thoughts spiralled uncontrollably, endlessly, whenever I was sober.
So I did my best to not be sober.
Most of the palace staff had been making themselves scarce since Lonan’s departure. I didn’t know if it was out of respect or because they were scared of me, terrified that I might lash out at any of them like I had with Sanya. The idea of them thinking I was just like the Brid made me even more miserable.
I wanted all of it to go away. Perversely, I often found myself wishing I was back in that little cottage, ignorant of everything playing out around me. Spending my days with the cat, gardening and reading and cooking, and my nights with Lonan or the wolf. It had been easy then.
And I’d still felt like myself.
I was something else now, something I didn’t like. Had this happened to the Brid too? Had she been decent once?
I didn’t see a single other soul as I meandered through the palace hallways, a half-empty wine bottle dangling from one hand. A door closed somewhere nearby. Shoes tapped on the wooden floor before stopping abruptly. I heard some hushed, frantic whispering, and then the footsteps quickly retreated.
That was fine. I wouldn’t want to be around me either.
I walked aimlessly, periodically swigging from the bottle, splashing ruby wine on the front of my shirt and down my chin. I scrubbed roughly at my face with my sleeve, then blinked hard and tried to work out where I’d ended up in the palace.
The big, gaudy doors at the end of the hallway were familiar. I squinted at them, my vision a little unfocused, then realised where I was even though I’d only been here once before. I found myself stumbling closer and fumbling with the door until it swung open. The front room of the Brid’s private chambers smelled a little stale, having been empty for a while now. A fine layer of dust coated the gold and polished wood furniture. All the drapes were drawn, but I could feel the Brid’s painted eyes watching me from the countless portraits of her hung on the walls in burnished gold frames.
I’d told Lonan I would look in here for anything that may help with killing the Carlin, but I’d never found the time.
No, I corrected to myself. I’d never made the time, because I’d been trying to ignore it. Trying to pretend it wasn’t going to happen.
But I could look now. Maybe if I found something, I could convince Fioda to let me leave seelie earlier than her stupid seven-day timetable so I could go and help Lonan kill the Carlin. Or even kill her myself so he didn’t have to put himself in any danger, if I got there quick enough. To my wine-soaked brain, it sounded like the perfect plan.
I’d told Nua that he could come and collect anything he deemed of value, but I didn’t know whether he had. I’d also told Jora to let the staff know that they could ransack the Brid’s rooms if they wanted—I didn’t care about any of her stuff—but it looked like they hadn’t. The Folk were superstitious. They probably didn’t want to own anything that had belonged to their bloodthirsty former monarch.
I made my way unsteadily into her bedroom. The musk of her King of Boars still lingered, making me wrinkle my nose. The thick gold drapes over the huge bed were dusty. The gigantic portrait of the Brid on the opposite wall watched me as I wandered over to the ornate trunk at the foot of the bed.
I remembered Lonan suggesting that we have it brought to our room when we’d come here, but I’d forgotten to give Jora the order. I’d been trying my best to forget about the Brid, to distance myself from her.
I sank down onto the rug in front of it and took one more swig of wine before setting the bottle on the floor. After fumbling with the latches for a few seconds, I lifted the lid and peered bleary-eyed down into the trunk.
Books were neatly stacked to one side, and the folded fur throw stuffed beside them released a waft of overly sweet perfume. I pulled it out and dumped it unceremoniously on the floor, revealing a small wooden box that had been hidden beneath.
It was plain and dented, with only a single tiny, rusted latch holding it closed. It looked like nothing else in here—old and worn, not studded with jewels or edged in gold or polished to a high shine. I pulled it out and fumbled with the latch. Inside was a tiny glass jar with a wooden stopper, a plain gold goblet, and another book.
I picked up the goblet and looked into its cup. There was a dark, powdery stain at the bottom that looked like it might have been red wine once. The little vial was empty except for some flaking dark green remnants of whatever had dried up in there. I lifted it to my face, peering at it closer, before diverting my attention to the book.
It was a journal, I realised, when I opened it and saw a name scrawled in looped cursive on the first page. Rowena. Who was Rowena? Had that been the name the Brid went by before she became queen? I couldn’t see why she’d have the journal of someone else in her room, carefully stored away.
I started flicking through it, my wine-blurred vision catching snippets here and there.
Gods, my mother is a weak fool. She treats her subjects like they are the same as us, not beneath us.
I frowned hard. This had to be the Brid’s journal, then. Nua would have told me if we’d had a sister, and there was no way the Brid had ever treated the seelie Folk like they weren’t beneath her. This had to be the Brid talking about the queen before her. Her own mother.
How long must she insist on clinging to life? She is doing it to spite me, I’m convinced. She has been queen for CENTURIES, and yet it’s still not enough for her? She won’t just die with whatever pitiful scrap of dignity she has left and let me take my intended place in the throne. Selfish hag.
My mouth twisted with disgust as I read the words, then flicked to another page.
She found out that I chased a driath through the queenswood for sport today. I suppose one of the guards came across what remained of his body. Her cries were pathetic. It reminded me of the time she found those dead animals in my room when I was a little girl.
I felt sick. So the Brid had always been a murderous monster, even before she became queen. In some ways, it was a relief to know that the power now living inside me wasn’t solely responsible for turning her into what she had been.
