Arris considered telling his mother that Demelza was of veritas swan descent. But he hesitated. Demelza often said her father loved her, and yet he had been willing to cut out her heart. His own mother had no such emotional compunction toward her and although Arris found her exceptionally loving, Queen Yzara was not known for her mercy. What would she do to Demelza? The thought twisted Arris’s stomach. No, he would protect Demelza’s secret for as long as he could.
“Understood,” said Arris.
Still, if Demelza failed the next trial, then there was a chance there was nothing he could do. In which case, both of them would be at the mercy of everyone else.
“What exactly do you have planned, Mother?”
Yzara smiled. “You’ll see soon enough.”
All night Arris and Yvlle tried to wheedle a hint out of their mother, but with every question, the queen’s cryptic smile only stayed more resolutely in place. When Arris eventually hauled himself toward his bed, he knew this was the end. There would be no more delays of the impossible, no more experimenting in the kitchen, no more music practice on the balcony, no more reading in the trees. Once Demelza was eliminated, his arboreal future was certain.
Arris walked about his room, touching his belongings.
“Goodbye, collection of seagull poetry,” he said, stroking the spines of a pair of winged tomes. The books were sleeping, their wings tucked and pages folded inward in the manner of a dozing bird. They squawked at his touch.
“Goodbye, my strange fragrances,” said Arris, waving at his collection of vials and alembics. In an effort to create a signature fragrance of his own, Arris had distilled all manner of smells—essence of lightning bolt and bog violet, snowfall and sun-warmed rock, flea musk and spider venom. “I am sorry that we were never able to come to an agreement.”
On the Isle, fragrance was as much a frivolity as it was a force to be reckoned with. Without fragrance, Queen Vania the Vain would not have been able to stabilize relations between the aristocracy of the Famishing and the lords of the Ulva Wylds. Arris assumed that fragrance making ran inhis veins. He had always wanted something that spoke to his present and hinted at his future, but fragrance was an art… and it was not an art Arris seemed to have been born with.
Arris’s efforts had gotten progressively worse to the point that the last time he had gone to breakfast to debut a new scent—autumn woodsmoke, ink, shredded sunshine, peppercorns, and musk of the common swamp rat, renowned for its prodigious skills at reproduction—Yvlle had conjured a rain cloud into the dining hall to drench him thoroughly.
“Goodbye, moon,” said Arris, standing by his window. “I stand here, in your light, the resplendence of Wrate’s thoughtful eye, and hope that as my end days draw near—”
“Oh stop that,” said Yvlle.
Yvlle was standing in the doorway. What appeared to be a blue glass bottle of perfume was clutched in her hand.
“I would scold you for intruding upon my solitude, but soon enough, solitude is all that I shall have,” said Arris. He sighed and stroked the window.
“No, you won’t,” said Yvlle, marching toward him. “If you turn into a tree, I shall use you for kindling.”
“At least I shall have some use, then,” said Arris.
“All this because you are convinced Demelza shall lose tomorrow?” asked Yvlle.
Arris nodded. At that moment, a tiny frisson of surprise ran through him. As he had bid goodbye to his belongings, he had, of course, been thinking of Demelza leaving. Without her, he would lose certainty in the truth of the candidates’ motivations. But Arris had not been thinking of that whenhe said goodbye to his room. He was thinking of each time he had climbed into her chambers and sat in the squashy armchair by her fire. He was thinking of their conversation, the ease of their laughter, the way she had risen up on her toes to kiss him.
“She may surprise you,” said Yvlle, holding up the perfume bottle.
“What’s that?” asked Arris.
“It is in your best interest, Brother, to get some rest.”
“I would if I could!” said Arris. “But I am too frantic! And honestly, Yvlle, what is in your hand? It looks like perfume but you’re holding it an alarming angle and—”
Yvlle aimed the perfume bottle at his face and sprayed once.
“You’re welcome,” she said.
When Arris woke the next day, he was still in his dressing gown from the previous evening and was sprawled on the floor. A thin blanket had been thrown over his body and a couch cushion had been placed beneath his head. Arris scowled. He wasn’t sure whether his sister was spying on him, so he addressed the room instead:
“You couldn’t have at least dragged me to my own bed?”
Arris hauled himself upright. He felt… wonderful, actually. The last time Yvlle had robbed him of his consciousness, he had felt woolly and distracted the next day. Evidently she had improved her formula.
Not long after he had awakened came a knock at his door.
“Enter,” said Arris.
