Aria shrank as a shiver ran down her spine.
Displaying intimidation. Mark.
Straightening, she held herself as a princess should. “Dowager Countess Morton, thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”
“Widow Morton, I prefer. There’s no need to be so formal if we are to attempt honest negotiation. May I call you Aria?”
Aria stopped herself before saying yes. She had to walk a delicate line of winning this woman over while still being a strong, commanding representative of the Crown.
“A mere ‘Highness’ will do,” she said, much too late.
“Very well, Highness. This way.”
Following Widow Morton, Aria entered a rounded sitting room, her guards taking position at the door. The windows were narrow rather than expansive, limiting cold but also limiting light, and a fire crackled low in the hearth. A small table waited in the center of the room, spread with writing materials and a tea tray.
Widow Morton took the wooden chair on one side of it, motioning Aria toward the cushioned, high-backed chair opposite—a subtle nod to their difference in station. With clear deliberateness, the widow turned her own teacup face up on the tray but touched nothing else before settling back into her seat.
“As hostess, I would offer to serve, but I imagine you’ll be far more comfortable taking that role.”
Aria’s throat tightened. “A servant could—”
“Servants are not permitted to pour in my household. It would be like allowing a non-priest to perform funeral rites; the right and power is mine, so I will not have it sullied. I will, however, make an exception for royalty.”
It was a test.
Aria’s fingers twitched, and she regretted surrendering her riding gloves along with her cloak. The heavy material would have at least impeded the nervous fidget.
Royalty was not timid. Her father would have known exactly the right course of action. With a steadying breath, Ariagrounded herself in the things he’d taught her and a lifetime of watching him rule.
If she chose to pour, she would be lowering herself to a servant’s role. It would show weakness, remove bargaining power. On the other hand, if she drank something poured by a Fluid Caster, she may as well dig her own grave. The cardinal rule for a Stone Caster was to never touch them skin-to-skin, lest risk being turned to stone. The rule for a Fluid Caster was just as simple:Do not drink anything they’ve touched.A Fluid Caster could poison any liquid with a touch.
Aria’s eyes darted to the witch’s mark on the widow’s throat. The pattern was simple, a gentle swoop of lines which began at a single point beneath the woman’s jawline, widened across the left side of her neck, then dipped into another narrowing point above her collarbone—like an S that had been stretched taller until it retained only an impression of the former letter. Such an innocuous symbol for the hidden danger that was magic.
Widow Morton waited, hands folded primly in her lap. Had she touched the teapot ahead of time? Was it possible to lay a Cast in advance? Despite Aria’s efforts at research, she hadn’t found many specific details on the process of Casting, only warnings to avoid them.
Setting her jaw, Aria made her decision.
“In the spirit of our meeting here today ...” She turned over her own teacup, then reached for the teapot. She poured a steady stream of deep amber liquid, which seemed as normal as she could imagine. Then she set the pot on the far side of the tray, nearer the widow. “A compromise. We shall each serve ourselves.”
Widow Morton pursed her lips momentarily, and Aria couldn’t tell if she was disappointed or impressed. Then she smiled, her eyebrows lifting, some of the severity leaving her expression. “Impressive, Highness. Perhaps there truly is a chance for us.”
Aria worked to keep her face impassive despite the warm glow she felt inside.
Widow Morton poured her own cup, but unlike Aria’s, the widow’s tea swirled light green against the white porcelain. It did not waft steam. As the widow lifted her cup in a toast, the liquid glowed faintly before two small ice cubes took shape, gently bobbing.
Using magic seemed to cost the woman no effort at all. Not a drop of sweat, not the slight twitch of the eye. Fluid Casters could create either healing tonics or deadly poisons by the same casual wave of a hand, and Aria squirmed to witness the ability in person. Although her books agreed Casting had limitations, she couldn’t imagine what they might be.
After too long staring, she finally lifted her own cup, toasted, and sipped the warm tea, letting it soothe her insides and renew her resolve.
“So.” Widow Morton settled her cup on the tray. Though she hadn’t taken more than a sip, it was now bone-dry. “The Crown wishes to talk peace.”
Aria drew in a deep breath, catching a hint of rose hips from her tea. She rehearsed again the words she’d already rehearsed a dozen times. Reaching to set her cup on the tray, she opened her mouth to speak—
The teacup shattered in her hand.
Startled, Aria grabbed for something already gone, clenching her fingers around porcelain shards. Heat scalded her hand, dripping in tongues of flame down her sleeve, splashing onto her lap. Though she stood quickly, she felt the tea soaking down her thigh.
For one heart-stopping moment, she thought it was an attack, thought—
