And Marozia—ever clear-eyed in her perception of others’ desires—seemed to perceive this question from her, too. A smile touched her lips.
“I did not exchange words with the princeyet,” she said. “But today I will. My tears moved him to a rage of his own. He was horrified by the crimes committed against his wife’s house—I heard he tore apart his room in a fury! I knew he nursed a secret affection for me. This action by the king has brought it out. We are saved, Agnes. I will be queen, just as our grandmother wished it.”
Agnes stared down at her wrapped hand. At the ring that glinted subtly through the bandages. Her throat burned like a bed of cinders.
Marozia combed through her hair, her ministrations rough and hurried. She undid the old braids and began twining new ones. She took silver pins and arranged the braids into a crown, held aloft from her neck. The pins were tight, pressed too close to Agnes’s skull. As Agnes sat there, naked, this ordinary act—Marozia fixing her hair—suddenly seemed grotesque. So aberrant that a princess should perform such a base and common task. It was almost disgusting.
These were the freakish customs of their bloodline that made Drepane revile the House of Teeth. And the other folk of the island did not even know the whole truth of it. They did not know that the ladies of their house drank from their mothers’ breasts until they were old enough to have breasts of their own. They did not know that they slept nude with their cousins and sisters and mothers until their bodies were too big for a single bed to hold. They did not know that the ladies belonged to the house, in form and in spirit, such that any act upon theirperson was righteous and glorious with purpose, so long as it strengthened and extended their bloodline. They did not know that Agnes had tasted the meat of an infant fresh from the womb.
The dress for Agnes was the color of a near-faded bruise. Marozia buttoned it and then jerked Agnes up by the arm, out of her seat. Two locks of hair came loose from her braided crown and fell against the sides of her face. They feathered her jawline as Agnes kept her gaze trained on the ground.
“The king has asked for our presence in the great hall,” Marozia said.
Agnes froze.
“Do not be afraid. He will not offend our house so grievously again; even he is not fool enough to scuttle such a useful alliance. If anything, I believe he means to repent for his actions. I am sure he and the prince have had words in private.”
Agnes looked down again at the ring on her hand. In all this time Marozia had not remarked upon it; likely she had not even noticed. And so, as Agnes had chosen her own torment before, she chose to follow Marozia out of the chamber and into the corridor, trailing the princess and the Mistress of Teeth like a tethered ghost.
XXIX
Mistress of Teeth
Someone had scrubbed the floors of the great hall very solicitously, for there was no blood to be seen or smelled in the air. Agnes was filled with wonderment at how they had managed to banish even the scent so quickly. The stench of blood had seemed overwhelming, infinite and total, the running of it as thick as tar. But as she approached the dais with Marozia, Agnes was given to understand: The table was not the same table. The one she had bled upon had been replaced. Chopped to pieces, she figured, and then burned. The only evidence of her torment was the bandaged hand she kept clutched to her breast.
But there were subtler signs, which Agnes only noticed as the room began to fill. There were no leeches in attendance, and there ought to have been, for it was their task to copy down and disseminate all royal pronouncements. The Most Esteemed Surgeon was absent, as were Truss and Mordaunt. More peculiarly, there was a single member of the Dolorous Guard present, who seemed only there to help the king to his throne atop the dais. Bearing Nicephorus’s weight alone must have been a toil; his armor creaked and squealed with effort. But then when the king was seated, he waved the guard away.
Something had shifted in the foundation of Castle Crudele last night while Agnes had thrashed within the dark waters of her dreams. She did not yet know what.
Liuprand stood before the dais, in his doublet of midnight blue. His bruise was faded now, but his face was otherwise a great tragedy: the violet circles of sleeplessness ringing his eyes, the alarming paleness ofhis cheeks, devoid of their natural golden glow. His hair was mussed, a lock of it falling down across his forehead.
And then there was the sword at his hip. Agnes had never seen him with a sword before, nor a weapon of any kind. He kept one hand resting upon its hilt, and the other curled into a fist at his side. Agnes looked for any kind of redness upon his hands—I heard he tore apart his room in a fury—and found it. A rosy hue, like dawn breaking over the white cliffs of his knuckles.
She saw something else there, clutched between his fingers. A scrap of parchment.
Liuprand lifted his head and met her gaze without hesitation, without contrition. He unclenched his fingers, just briefly, yet long enough for her to see the words scrawled upon the paper, her words.Thank you.
They were the first true words she had communicated to him, and he held them like they were the most precious thing. The scrap of parchment was so small that no one else would notice, and even if they did, it was so innocuous they would never think to inquire about it. They would look but they would not see. Agnes glanced down at her ring, which shone so brightly to her, but to no one else within the room. No one but Liuprand.
Their gaze was broken as Marozia stepped between them, nearing the very foot of the dais. She curtsied to the king, low and deep, and after a moment, Agnes did the same. From beneath the fringe of her lashes, Agnes stared up at the king, at his many chins, at his bulbous and broken nose, at his small, watery eyes, which held so little within them. No light, but no shadow, either.
Agnes would have hated him less if he had looked upon her with contempt, with revulsion. Yet she seemed to almost pass beneath his attention. And as she rose, a lusty hatred rose with her.
“You seem hardly worse for the wear, Lady Agnes,” he said, amusement lifting the corner of his unappeasable mouth. “Someone has seen to your wounds.”
This time, Liuprand would let nothing lie; not a word from his father would go unchallenged. He stepped forward, hand still resting on the hilt of his sword.
“Yes,” he said. “I sent Waltrude to her. And if there is truly so little damage done, then she is lucky.”
The king’s gaze flickered mildly to his son. “Your compassion for the lady is stirring.”
There was a very small sound from Marozia beside her. Just the faintest catch of her breath. Agnes glanced over at her cousin and saw her bite down on her lower lip. It pleased Agnes, in a slick, pitiless way. How easily this sentiment occurred to her was frightening. She tucked it away in a hurry.
“Stirring, too, is your commitment to resolving the matter with the House of Blood through diplomacy.” The king raised his voice and looked out upon the small gathered audience. “Perhaps I was too easily seduced by the proposition of violence. I believe there is another way forward.”
Liuprand’s eyes narrowed. “And what way is that?”
The king leaned forward in his seat, steepling his hands over his enormous stomach. Another smile played at the corner of his wormy lips. And then, slowly, horribly, he dragged his gaze across the room toward Agnes.
