Imelda stared at her, quickly recovering. “You’re…you’re the sister who got lured away… Father said you slept in that glass casket for ages…”
The witch queen smiled, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. It clinked like wind chimes.
“My brother always was too cautious for his own good. Ichosethat casket. It was a trade: Sleep…formagic.”
With that, she lifted her sleeve, showing off the potions stitched to the cuff of her gown. When she raised her arm, a shudder ran through the guests. The king paled, and someone whimpered.
Ambrose wished he could just take his dagger, slash off a potion, and run, but Imelda’s eyes went wide. She was practically quivering with questions. He could see them burning inside her.
If he caused a commotion and forced them to flee, she’d never forgive him.
And judging by the witch queen’s power, he couldn’t even be sure they’d get too far.
“Let us talk, shall we, niece? We are long overdue for a family reunion…”
Imelda looked over her shoulder, turning to Ambrose.
The queen regarded him, her smile a bloodless slash on her face.
“Your beloved may join, of course. Come, nephew. Follow me.”
The queen snapped her fingers, and the wedding party continued. The candles flickered overhead as he followed the queen and Imelda into the shadowed halls of the castle.
The horse cloak snorted and neighed.
Extract thy sword, and we shall charge upon the crowd and trample the queen!
“No.”
Very well… Let me charge upon the crowd and trample the queen!
“No!”
But Imelda—
“Knows what she’s doing,” Ambrose said quickly.
He took off the cloak.
How rude—
Ambrose switched the cloak inside out and clasped it back around his neck, muffling the horse cloak’s newest rant.
He hoped he hadn’t made a liar of himself. The way Imelda was looking at the witch queen, with something like wonder in her eyes, made him uneasy. The witch queen led them away from the reception hall, down a corridor lined by torches. The moment they passed a torch, the light guttered out behind them. All the while, the potions clinked together around the cuff of her sleeve.
Ambrose had grown used to Imelda’s constant chatter, and her abrupt silence worried him. He wanted to look into her face, but the passage was too narrow for them to walk side by side, concealing her expression entirely.
“My father—” Imelda started hesitantly.
“Was a sweet little fool, if I recall correctly.” The witch queen laughed dismissively. “I did like him, though. He always did my bidding, rather like a puppy.”
“He used to watch over me and my sisters fiercely,” Imelda said defensively. “Because he loved us…and because he lovedyou. He thought you were stolen away from them, forced to sleep in that casket until a king kissed you—”
“Posh and nonsense.” The witch queen laughed again. “But I had to feed that lie to my family, or else they never would have understood why I sought something more than what my little kingdom had to offer. I wanted the husband, the throne, the adoring subjects, I suppose…but I also wanted power. And I knew how to get it. Power likes a sacrifice. My sleep, my youth, my childhood…for knowledge.”
“But you’re the reason why—”
The witch queen whirled around. “Iam the reason whyIam free. Can you say the same for yourself, child?”
