The section of the tower given to my parents for practice was long-abandoned, tools of its original purpose left to gather dust until their shapes were obscured in thick cobwebs. I sat and watched my mother clean while my father prepared a basic remedy for nausea. Ginger root and peppermint filled the air, a pleasant distraction from the dank stench of decaying wood and iron.
“My guess,” said Mother, toying with some forsaken forceps, “is either a torture chamber or some kind of alchemists’ laboratory.”
I looked around. “Too many windows for a torture chamber.”
“You lack imagination, my love. Just imagine, someone’s got you tied up, they’re removing your fingernails by the quick. You see a servant girl carrying water in the courtyard below and cry out for help, but the girl does nothing. Either she’s ignoring you, or she can’t hear you. Isolation is a form of torture, too, you know.”
My smile faltered. Father grabbed a jar of dried flowers, and I quickly came to his side. Tapping him on the shoulder, I shook my head. “Not that one.”
He blinked, baffled by my assertion. Observing us, my mother came around and took the little glass into her own hands, studying it briefly before reaching for a container of valerian root. “Why not? Pennyroyal’s an excellent cure for digestive upset.”
“Because it can bring on monthly bleeding,” I said, snatching the dried flowers away. “So, no Pennyroyal, no feverfew…”
Mother’s brow climbed. Beside her, Father scratched his head. “But this is my standard tincture for nausea. I’ve made it hundreds of times.”
“Not right now,” I said firmly, allowing my father to read my lips. “Not for me.”
The silence was excruciating. Father set down the mortar and pestle, and Mother dropped the valerian jar so that it crashed and shattered on the stone flooring.
“Already?” She moved closer to my father for stability and placed a hand over her heart. “You’ve only just married. How can you be sure?”
My lips thinned.
Father couldn’t contain his smile for long, but Mother’s startled horror remained evident even as her husband pulled me into his embrace.
“Alana.” She held her breath. “If you have a son…”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I arrive. For now, I have help. I will not be alone. And I have you two, don’t I?”
“Oh, Petra, leave her be,” Father growled, turning to face his wife with such an undercurrent of anger that it took me by surprise. “Whatever you’re grumbling about, just be happy foronce. You know pregnancy is hard enough without everyone sowing worries.”
Well, that comment didn’t help the anxiety, either, but his heart was in the right place. I patted his hand.
“I know,” Mother exhaled, meeting my gaze. Queen or not, there was no escaping that look from her. “I am grateful that you will not have to rear a child alone. It was difficult, especially those early years…having to keep a constant watch on you, an ear out for unwelcomed visitors. Even with a normal little girl, it would have been enough to drive any parent to madness. I only...I want your suffering to end, Alana. And a son you cannot speak to—”
“When we get there, Mother.”
The three of us were silent, for only a moment. Father resumed his work and left the women to do our glaring. As he finished, he added a swirl of honey to the tincture, then passed it to me. “Here, Little Bird. This will help. I’ll prepare a few sachets to keep available for your next bout.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m surprised I didn’t piece it together beforehand. You never fall ill; must have taken you rather by surprise.”
“I figured it was the sugar,” Mother added. “These nobles and their damned—”
A shriek pierced the air from somewhere below. We collectively hesitated, with Father’s hands still on the pot of honey and Mother’s criticism cut short. Running footsteps and shouting voices echoed up the stone walls.
I moved to the door, the tincture clutched in my hand. My parents were close behind, descending the spiral stairway as the volume of whatever scene awaited us grew louder. Beneath the voices, there was a rustling, fluttering noise, like fabric being shaken, or...
We reached the second floor’s corridor and stopped short, blocked off by Marcy’s extended hand.
Crows. Dozens of them, perhaps more than a hundred, packed the length of the hallway so densely that the carpet was barely visible between their feathered, black bodies. They perched on the wall sconces and tapestries and windows, flapping their wings and cawing out in a deafening roar.
Servants cowered behind their aprons for protection, pressed flat against the wall. The guards tried to shoo the birds, who either ignored them or moved from harm’s way before returning to their original positions. In the center of it all was Angharad, kneeling on the floor with her arms over her head and sobbing.
“Alana!” Angharad screamed, trying to move only for the birds to peck at her feet. Only in the center of that circle was she unharmed.
It was a breach of protocol, to publicly address me with such familiarity, but under the circumstances, I could forgive her.
