“Then we are in agreement,” Nicephorus said. He clapped his hands together, and the sound made Agnes flinch. “The title Mistress of Teeth will be transferred to the lady Agnes. Then let us see the Master of Blood refuse such a noble and propitious match!” With a jerk of his chin, he gestured to Liuprand. “My son, will you do the honors?”
Confusion clouded Liuprand’s features. Agnes, too, found herself bewildered again. It was Marozia who first understood. She uttered a small, wordless noise of protest, and her fingers clenched around the necklace of teeth.
“Go on,” Nicephorus urged.
Slowly, his movements made heavy and stiff with chagrin, Liuprand approached Marozia. Her breathing was quick; Agnes saw the labored rising and falling of her cousin’s chest. She even thought she saw tears springing to the corners of her eyes, glistening like shards of precious stone. Liuprand raised his hands hesitantly, but before he could touch her, Marozia reached back and swept the hair off her shoulders herself. She held her great mane of dark curls aloft while Liuprand unclasped the necklace and drew it from her throat.
It was not grief that Marozia exuded. Agnes knew her cousin as well as she knew her own hands. Anger rose off her in great waves. It gusted toward the king, but he was too far away to feel it. It blew toward Liuprand, andhefelt it: He stepped briskly away from her, drawing up his shoulders—almost shivering, cowed by his own wife. His fingers had barely grazed her, yet this was the only touch that had occurred between them since their wedding day. The discomfort of the moment was so obvious that even the king seemed to notice; one of his pale eyebrows rose.
But most of Marozia’s anger was reserved for Agnes. The cold cloud of it enveloped her, raising gooseflesh down her limbs. Agnes had not known Marozia capable of this icy type of rage—but perhaps she was finally coming into her inheritance. This was Adele-Blanche’s poison, seeping through the generations. Marozia could not truly remain unspoiled. Agnes had not moved even a muscle, yet to Marozia’s mind, she had marched over and yanked the necklace violently from her throat.
And this anger filled Agnes to the brim, like sips of heady, unwatered wine. The poison was in her, too. There was no antidote for one’s own blood.
Liuprand stepped behind her—so close that she could feel the heat of his body. It sent fleeing some of Marozia’s wintry anger. Because Agnes’s hair was, as always, aloft in its braided crown, he did not have to lift it from her throat. He merely had to sweep away some of the soft, feathery strands so they would not be caught in the clasp. Or perhaps he did not have to. Perhaps he only chose to, brushing his fingers so gently across the back of her neck that she shivered.
He did not speak, nor did she. He drew the necklace around her throat, faintly grazing her jaw as he wrapped it. Agnes did not have her cousin’s full bust, so the third strand hung down deep between her small breasts, low enough to nearly touch her rib cage. Despite having been pressed to Marozia’s skin, the teeth were cold, and she felt her own skin prickle.
Liuprand was so close that she could hear his breathing—irregularand short, as if this small act required great effort. His fingers fumbled with the clasp. Once, twice, it caught and then slipped. He exhaled softly. Against the back of her neck, his fingers actually trembled, and it made Agnes tremble, too. Never before had he seemed at all fragile to her—not Liuprand the Golden, blood of Seraph. But as his hands shook, and as he breathed unevenly, all of a sudden he seemed as shy and hesitant as a very young boy in the presence of his paramour. She chastised herself for this thought. It was a dream she was not allowed to dream, more treasonous than any seeds she had planted or smoke she inhaled.
This whole process could not have lasted very long, but the time was somehow infinite, a tender, languid unfolding of moments. Then the clasp was fixed with a softsnickof finality. The necklace settled against her skin, across her collarbones, between her breasts. It was like a coiling serpent, like a prisoner’s manacles. It both choked her and armored her. It was an affront to the legacy of her house and the secret wish of Adele-Blanche. Agnes had only heard her whisper it once, offhandedly, and often she thought she had simply imagined it, for the sentiment had never been repeated. But her grandmother did not ever speak without depth of meaning or height of reason.
A pity you were born to the spare and not the heir. I would rather see a clever mind on the throne than a simple pretty face.
Marozia, of course, had not heard this offhand comment. She was not invited to listen and learn at Adele-Blanche’s feet. She had tutors for her harp and seamstresses for her gowns and leeches to treat the occasional blemish. And she had Agnes for every other whim or desire, Agnes to warm their shared bed. But she did not have their grandmother’s esteem. And Agnes thought for the first time that Marozia truly knew that, comprehended the fullness of her dismissal. Or else tears would not right now be threatening to spill from her dark eyes.
As Liuprand stepped away from her, Nicephorus nodded approvingly.
“The bauble suits you,” he declared. “As does the title. She is the spitting image of Adele-Blanche, no?”
He directed this question at Liuprand, his stare leering and expectant.
Liuprand lifted his gaze to look at her. It was a lidded gaze, tempestuous and dark. Each time Agnes thought she had uncovered him, he confounded her again; she could not read the emotion within his eyes now. Without taking his gaze off her, he said lowly, “I do not see the resemblance.”
Did he mean it as an insult? His voice was not cold, though it was not warm, either. Perhaps he meant to cheer his wife’s spirits by slighting Agnes, but Marozia did not even appear to notice. She had her fist clenched at her breast as if feeling for the vanished necklace, her fingers closing around empty air. Almost unconsciously, Agnes lifted her own hand. She let the teeth roll under her fingers like pebbles on the riverbank. Her grandmother’s inheritance. A hope dashed and a wish fulfilled at once.
And a portent of Agnes’s doom.
“Well, Mistress of Teeth,” the king said, raising his mighty head, “prepare yourself for your betrothal. Pack your gowns and choose which handmaidens will attend. The House of Blood is not far, but the journey is a treacherous one. Pretty yourself, too. Some powder on those pale cheeks. I must not risk insulting the Master of Blood with my offering. A beautiful bride is essential to this mending of alliances and soothing of ills. Oh, and the Master of Blood has been alone for so long. I know he resents the coldness of his bed. He will be so happy to have a woman for his fondling, he will fall upon you with insatiable lust. I hope you are firm enough, despite that fragile shell, to satisfy these hungers without being eaten to the bone.”
XXX
A Very Heavy Silence
Agnes sat in the half dark, a golden cage upon her knee. The metal chilled her skin even through the fabric of her skirts. But the cage was empty, and the moth was on her shoulder. It nuzzled her cheek. Its body was warm and soft, though the comfort it offered was cold.
The carriage trundled along, jostling and jolting over what seemed to be more rough stone than road. Agnes had to cling to the seat so she was not thrust against the carriage wall or hurled forward. If she were hurled forward, she would land in Liuprand’s lap.
Liuprand. He had not taken his eyes off her since they had climbed together into the carriage, though he was yet to speak. His blue eyes smoldered like burning glass, giving them the quality of chiaroscuro, equal parts light and shadow. Agnes could not be entirely sure, but she suspected that the carriage’s third passenger was what prevented his speech.
Waltrude sat on the bench beside her, crinkly lips pressed together. She had an overall discomfiting presence, her gaze shifting unreadably from Agnes to Liuprand and back again. She knew her place and would not speak unless directly addressed, but Agnes sensed there were words on the tip of her tongue just barely restrained.
The wet nurse was not, perhaps, the most natural choice for a companion—though Agnes had few options. Ninian would never be persuaded to leave Marozia’s side, and Castle Crudele’s other handmaidens regarded the strange silent lady with suspicion and unease. Liuprand had suggested Waltrude, and Agnes had no good reason to refuse him. The trust between the two was palpable, their gazes foreach other tender and full of well-worn love. And at Liuprand’s request, Waltrude had come to treat Agnes’s wounds with great gentleness. This in turn engendered trust in her. It would have to be enough.
Agnes did not think the nurse’s wizened body could survive standing between her and her betrothed, but it was preferable to having no allies in her new home at all. Well, aside from the moth. It sat placidly upon her shoulder, gray wings folded and sheathed, legs curled under itself like a cat’s.
A wedding gift,Liuprand had said bitterly. Those were the last words he spoke to her before they stepped into the carriage, many hours ago.
The House of Blood was not far away, but, as the king had promised, the journey was indeed treacherous. It went down a road favored by thieves and other lawbreakers, through a forest of twisted black trees. They were mangled and ugly, as if they had each been struck down by a powerful bolt of lightning, and though the bare branches offered no concealment, the mist was thick enough that Agnes knew there were knives and clubs and greedy-eyed villains hiding within.
