Avina hesitates, clearly wanting to inquire further, but a set of footsteps ascending the spiral staircase to their prisons forces her mother’s arm through the crack. She grips the silver cord and pulls it into her hands.
Unsurprisingly, the unwelcome guest stops at Aura’s door. The Princess makes no move to acknowledge the stranger, who bears a torch that illuminates their silver-cloaked figure.
Avina shifts along the floorboards above her, undoubtedly listening intently.
“Oh fuck, what do you want?” Aura curses as Isabel’s features come into focus when her hood falls back.
Gone is the haughty woman, full of poise and self-assurance. A sickly creature has taken her place, unlike the flushed cheeks and firm chin of the young woman who stood by Lavinia in Kaldrgataness. Even her luscious brown hair is thinning around her waxy cheeks.
“Pregnancy doesn’t agree with you, Issie.” Aura quips, leaning back in the creaky chair.
As she assesses her state, Isabel Kilton’s dark brown eyes reflect a heavy anguish.
“Here.” She drops two sacks onto the floor. One opens, and an orange rolls onto the dirty floorboards. “I have enough food for your mother.”
“What is this?” Aura gestures at the fruit. The mere appearance of it makes her stomach rumble.
Isabel paces, tangling her bony fingers through her greasy hair. “Can I not bring you a meal devoid of mushed oats?”
“No, you cannot, Isabel.”
Aura observes a franticness in her ex-lover, who examines her own trembling hands before pressing them to her extended stomach.
Isabel huffs as she snatches one of the sacks and storms out, slamming the door. Aura can hear her footsteps up the spiral staircase to Avina’s cell, delivering the pack to her equally starving mother.
When she reemerges into Aura’s prison, grief etches itself on her face.
“You have no reason to trust me, Aurie.” Isabel settles on the edge of the splintered cot. “But I do have a request.”
Aura’s laugh is hollow. “After everything you have done to me, what makes you think I will listen to anything you-”
“I am dying.”
Aura assesses her closely at the bluish tinge to her skin.
There may be truth there.
“I will not apologize for my actions. You’ve no idea the tortured life I lived under the Manchineels.” Isabel turns away, biting her lip in a simple act more genuine than she has ever shown. “Please, Aura, listen to my request and then choose to dismiss me.”
Aura nods curtly.
Isabel staggers to her feet, her hand clutching her stomach with an unusual gentleness. She shuffles out of the room and down the stairs.
“I do not trust her,” Avina whispers through the crack in the ceiling.
Aura nods as Isabel reenters, tugging in an older woman dressed in rags with milky, tired eyes.
“I thought perhaps you would respond better to a real Seer.” Isabel perches on the tattered cot, leaving Aura to face the wizened woman whose frown lifts into pure happiness at the sight of the Princess.
“Only when Salt melts Ice will peace descend upon the realm. Child of the Salt Province, let me look upon your strength.” The Seer shuffles forward, touching her curls with delicate reverence. “You melted his heart, oh praise Volund, Calder has finally found peace in you.”
“Tell her, Seer.” Isabel prompts, not unkindly. “Tell her what you told me of my son’s fate.”
Aura assists the elderly woman into the only chair in her cell, which hardly creaks under her frail body.
“Tell her,” Isabel says as if it is a plea for her life.
The Seer sighs, reluctantly. “The grandson of the last Timber King will sit on the unified throne of Treland. That much is certain from the Norn.”
