Myrasa recoils from the wall of flame, leaping back and returning to her seelie form at once. She tries to dart around the flame, but the wall grows, spreads, encircles her. Steam rises where her body makes contact with the fire, and she flinches away.
A tiny, winged creature zips toward the flames. As it reaches them, it shifts into a female form. She stands tall before the fiery cage, her wings no longer tiny but large and folded against her back. Shock ripples through me at the sight of my stepmother.
She looks so out of place in her elegant gown, its hem soaking up the mud around her as her silk slippers sink into the grass. Tris stares daggers at the fae caught in the circle of flames. She lifts her hand, and several vines rise from the earth within the blazing enclosure. They wrap around Myrasa, lifting her off her feet. Myrasa’s face begins to drip as she tries to turn to liquid once more, but flames now coat the ground beneath her, leaving nowhere to melt. Nowhere to escape. That’s when I realize Tris is controlling both the fire and the vines. She’s the one who lifted me away from the pond. She’s the one who has Myrasa trapped.
I’ve known fae monarchs have access to all four elements, but I’ve never seen it in practice before. Never seen Tris utilize such gifts.
My stepmother meets Myrasa’s eyes, her face composed, voice calm. Despite her controlled countenance, she’s never seemed more terrifying than she does now.
“Your Majesty,” Myrasa bites out, tone full of mockery. “Here to punish me—a creature of your own kind—for crimes committed against your precious humans?”
Tris ignores the question. “Did you orchestrate the murder of Edmund Snow?”
Myrasa winces as a tendril of fire licks up one of her legs, but she hides the expression behind a cold smile. “Yes.”
The vines squeeze tighter, wrapping around her legs, her neck, her stomach.
I find myself trembling, unable to look away. Torben places both hands on my shoulders, neither pulling me toward him nor keeping me still. Just…making me aware of his presence. Offering it.
Tris slowly turns to face me. Her composure cracks for the merest second, a frown tugging her lips as she meets my eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispers over the sound of crackling flames.
At first, I think she’s apologizing for having wrongfully accused me. Then I see how her hand is curled as if around an invisible orb. She wrenches her arm back in a deliberate motion. A vine inside the circle of flames mirrors the gesture. But unlike the queen’s hand, the vine’s gnarled fingers aren’t empty. Within them pulses a small, dark organ. Myrasa gasps. I do the same when I see the gaping cavity in her chest.
Tris isn’t apologizing for what she accused me of.
She’s apologizing for killing my mother.
Shifting my gaze to the queen, I give her a subtle nod.
Tris slowly faces Myrasa. “He was the love of my life.”
“He was a filthy—” I’ll never know what my mother was going to say, nor do I want to. For her last words are cut off as Tris closes her hand into a tight fist.
The vine does the same over the vacant, hollow heart until its pulse thuds no more.
44
ASTRID
The familiar halls of Fairweather Palace spark equal parts terror and nostalgia within me, even as dimly lit as they are now. It must be close to midnight, and most of the palace is sleeping. Much like it was the last time I was here—the night my father died and Marybeth spirited me out of the palace through the servants’ quarters. It’s hard to recall such things without seeing them in a new light. Now I know she only helped me escape because Myrasa had commanded her to do so.
I blink away the sudden image of flood and flames that threatens to invade my mind and focus on my surroundings. The two guards who flank me. The soft beat of my slippered feet thudding on the cherrywood floor. The rhythm of my pulse that quickens with every step that draws me closer to my destination.
I don’t know where exactly I’m being taken, only that I’m meeting with the queen.
I haven’t exchanged more than a few words with her since arriving at the palace a few hours ago. Before that, everything is a blur. So much so that I hardly remember coming back here at all. All I know is my stepmother insisted we return to the palace with her. The kelpie had taken me far enough from Davenport Estate that we were just as far from there as we were from the palace. And apparently, even the queen’s delivery of swift justice requires formalities—paperwork, debriefing, correspondences with the other royals on the Alpha Council. That’s how it seemed, at least, when Tris had me escorted to my former bedroom upon arrival and whisked Torben away.
I’d been too exhausted to argue then. Too filthy to deny the opportunity for a proper bath. But now that I’ve cleaned up and briefly rested—however fitfully—I can’t stop the nagging worry that I’m still in trouble. Tris may have discovered the identity of Father’s real killer, but that doesn’t mean she’s ceased hating me. For all I know, she could blame me for this. Myrasa was my mother, after all. She killed Father because he took me from her.
What’s more worrisome is that I haven’t seen Torben since we first arrived. He’d squeezed my hand, a silent reassuring promise, before Tris mentioned something about needing to bring him before the Alpha Council.
We hadn’t gotten a chance to speak much, not with how drained I felt. I’m still not entirely sure how Torben and Tris found me. How or why Tris showed up at the clearing at all, seemingly out of nowhere.
The two guards flanking me shift course, guiding me down a flight of stairs to the main floor. From there we make our way down a familiar path to a set of glass doors etched with cherry blossoms. It’s the entrance to the gardens. The guards stop before the doors and pull them open.
“The queen will see you now,” says one.
I glance from the two guards to the shadowed gardens beyond. It must be close to midnight by now. Why does Tris want to speak with me out here?
