As she watched, the ink began to run. It trickled in tiny liquid rivers down the page, dripping from the bottom edge but vanishing before it hit the floor.
“Confused, Highness?”
Aria stiffened at the voice. It brought a winter chill, reminiscent of a frosted mountainside. Slowly, she turned. The shadowed hallway stretched before her, moonlight spilling through arched windows.
A thin sheen of water slid along one wall, drawing closer until it came to rest before Aria like a full-length mirror. Except it wasnot her own reflection looking back at her. It was a woman in a black-lace dress.
Widow Morton stood as stoic and pale-faced as her manor house. “I apologize for my deception. Though I prefer a straightforward approach, strategy must be adjusted to match an opponent.”
“What’s happening?” Aria rasped, reaching a trembling hand for the wall behind her.
Displaying fear. Mark.
“His Majesty claims my son’s death was an unfortunate necessity. I wonder how he reached that conclusion so easily; it was not easy for me. What’s happening now is also anunfortunate necessity. One hundred days, Highness. Over the next one hundred days, His Majesty’s line will die—beginning with you.”
“We talked peace! You signed—”
“There can be no peace between tyrant and oppressed. I did not begin this war; it began three centuries ago with a brand. As you seared your contempt into us, we at last sear our response into you:No more.”
Aria’s trembling stilled. The water mirror rippled at the edges, droplets bursting free to splatter stone.
“You claim to prefer honesty,” Aria said. “Then be honest. This can’t be about the brand, since our peace agreement would have removed it.”
The widow ignored her. “You have always demeaned magic, and those of us possessing it have kept our heads down out of a desire to live peaceably. Now King Peregrine has removed the option for peaceable living.”
“This is about your son. You bear a personal grudge, but you are dragging an entire kingdom into it with you!”
Lifting her chin, the widow stared Aria down from within the rippling dark. “You are a naïve child, displayed in the very wayyou speak to me. If you comprehended the smallest droplet of my power, you would flee.”
“Power to make iced tea, you mean?”
Loss of temper. Mark.Aria flinched at her own words. This was the woman she’d meant to make peace with. Instead, she was provoking her further.
Widow Morton smirked. “Tell me, Highness, what is tea?” When Aria didn’t respond, she went on, “Fluid Caster, I have been called—a frivolous title, as if I perform party tricks, turning wine to water for the enjoyment of others. But I’ll invite you to listen to yourheart. Listen as itpumps,as it picks up speed within your chest, as the thundering truth rushes through your mind. What is it pumping? What sustains yourlife, Highness?”
Aria followed the widow’s gaze down to her bandaged finger. In the chaos of other events, she’d forgotten about the broken teacup, about her injury. At the reminder, she heard the rush of blood in her ears, just as the widow predicted.
“Blood is only fluid,” Widow Morton said, “and a princess is only blood.”
When Aria looked up, she saw that the woman held a small white towel, stained red down the center. One of her servants must have delivered it to her after tending Aria’s injury. Too late, the princess realized her mistake, the worst she’d ever made.
Her father had been right. This woman had never been interested in compromise or reconciliation. She had called for blood, and Aria had delivered it right to her door.
“In the morning,” Widow Morton said, “the castle will wake as usual. But each night, they will slumber, and you will not. As the king is determined to see us divided between Casters and non-Casters, so shall you, Highness, be divided as well. By day, you will feel your exhaustion, an impulse as natural as magic, but if you succumb, you will be punished. By night, you will have your strength but no one to share it with. You will be left to wanderalone, isolated. Perhaps you might use the time to ponder the isolation of magic users, alone in a world that ought to be home. Perhaps you might use the time to finally accomplish something good.
“Regardless, as the curse draws strength from you, it will grow and spread to your sister, Eliza. When this is finished, I will see His Majesty’s family destroyed as mine has been.” The widow’s smile was cold. “One hundred days, Highness. Start counting.”
Baron knelt beside a lemon tree, pulled his gloves off, and reached through a patch of clover to the soil beneath. Was it drier than usual? He wished his magic could give him an impression beyond his physical senses, as it did when he touched liquid, but he was not a Stone Caster, so the ground did not yield to him.
“My predictions could be off,” said Walter nervously from above him. Though the groundskeeper was younger than Martin by a few decades, he stood with a permanent stoop, likely from too many hours atop an orchard ladder.
“Even if they are ...” Baron stood, brushing the dirt from his fingers and replacing his gloves. “The harvests have been declining. That much is undeniable.”
He inspected a few leaves but found no discoloration or holes. The orchard was well-tended and healthy, but a surprise cold snap two winters previous had cost them a line of trees at the edge of the estate, and the remaining trees had produced less in subsequent harvests. The loss hadn’t yet spelled disaster for the estate, but it would if Baron did nothing to fix it.
“Try the new fertilizer,” he ordered. “In the meantime, I’ll reach out to a friend to see if she can assist.”
“Yes, my lord.” Walter bowed, then hurried off.
