“I deem very few worthy of living, but given the position you’ve put me in,” she says with a shrug. “Yeah, maybe I do.”
Astrid studies her. The raised shoulders, the way her eyes keep darting to the door and the windows, how her hands keep pulling at the tight material of the scarlet suit she’s obviously been encouraged to wear.
“The night of the welcome dinner was the first time I learned of your existence,” Astrid admits. She needs Skylar to know this if she’s ever going to bring her around to the idea of working together.
There’s a scoff and Astrid twists toward Skylar, who’s not looking at Astrid—she’s eyeing the platters of food in front of her with loathing, as if they did something to personally offend her.
“You should all be ashamed of yourselves,” Skylar sneers at Astrid. “The brazen waste of food”—she gestures at the electric plates keeping it hot—“of magic, it’s honestly disgraceful.”
Astrid’s mouth falls open. Is she lecturing her, of all people, aboutwasting magic? “I completely agree, but then I thought this was what you Vatrans were used to while my people struggled and starved.”
“Are you serious? You think this is common around Vatra? People can barely afford to eat, let alone heat their food with Vitalas.”
Astrid frowns. “Wait, you have to pay for Vitalas?”
“Pay for it?” Skylar leans in, placing her arms on the table, and Astrid notices then the silvery lines covering her hands and her lower arms—dozens and dozens of scars. “We have to fuckingbleedfor it. I didn’t juggle blades for shits and giggles.”
Astrid doesn’t know why she’s so shocked—the king hasn’t exactly proven himself a benevolent leader. But to profit from something that costs him nothing… It seems he’s not only holding back magic from Arturea but withholding it from his own people. Which begs the question: Why? The Heart’s power is infinite; a truly unlimited energy source. It’s why the Heart is so valuable—whoever has it will never run out of magic. Never run out of energy.
“He is such a prick,” Astrid says.
“What, like you witches don’t do the same, like you don’t have your own hierarchies? Hypocrites.” Skylar turns away, poking at some nondescript fish in a bowl and plonking it on her plate.
“No, we don’t, actually,” Astrid says, helping herself to vegetable tagine. She doesn’t eat meat; very few witches do. The thought is abhorrent when you spend your days talking to animals, even if they are technically familiars. “Electricity, heating, access to any kind of energy like that is seen as a basic human right. People should be able to heat their homes or cook their meals or bathe their children and not worry about the cost of it.”
Skylar is silent, then cocks her head. The sneer is gone. “Perhaps you could have a word with your counterparts, get them to see sense. Or have a little empathy.”
“You are my counterpart,” Astrid replies dryly, and Skylar visibly starts. Like she forgot that she’s a Vatran royal. Because she isn’t, not really. And Astrid’s a little disgusted with herself. Whatever attitude Skylar has, however she behaved at the Blood Binding, or now, it’s nothing compared to what she’s suffered—and Astrid should havebeen better. Shouldbebetter. She has to duel this woman. Has to kill her. The least she can do is show her some respect.
She picks up a bottle of claret and pours Skylar a glass, then one for herself, draining half of it before turning back to Skylar, who’s watching her warily—although with less animosity now. Astrid is about to apologize when she thinks better of it; this woman doesn’t want platitudes or a “sorry,” not when it changes nothing.
“I think I can help you”—Astrid lowers her voice—“with the… thing you’ve been trying to… do.” A spymaster Astrid will never be.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Little Witch.”
Stars, what is it with these siblings and their nicknames for her? She’s not sure what’s worse, “Dimples” or “Little Witch.”
“I think you know exactly what I’m talking about,Little Dragon.” Skylar stiffens, the knife she’s holding now looking less like a dinner utensil and more like a weapon. Oh, she did not like that. “But if you want to play it that way, then fine, I’ll say this, apropos of nothing: I am a potion genius, as your dear brother has probably told you. What he doesn’t know, however, is that my vials can break through almost every known magical ward or barrier, and crucially can do so without tripping any alarms.” Skylar barely reacts, but Astrid sees it, the spark of interest as her head turns infinitesimally toward Astrid. “There is only one method of security I have yet to find a way past, and that is when a ward is tied to a person’s signature, a signature like, as a random example—blood.” And this is why Astrid needs Skylar’s help. She shares blood with the king.
Skylar is silent for a moment. She takes a bite of her food and chews slowly. Astrid waits.
“You’ve just shared something I could use against you,” Skylar finally says. “I could tell Daddy Despot. I don’t think he’ll be very happy, do you?”
“I know exactly what I’m risking in telling you, and it’s up to you what you choose to do with that information. But let’s just say, we have the same goal. We can help each other.”
Skylar’s eyes narrow and Astrid wonders if she’ll lunge for her, but instead she raises her wine and downs the whole glass.
“I don’t need your help.” But there’s little conviction in her words; she sounds like she’s trying to convince herself. Astrid knows not to push it—she’s planted the idea, and now she’ll have to wait and see what Skylar’s next move is.
Her mother’s voice breaks through the din, raised, a tremor of unrestrained fury cutting through it.
“When were you going to warn us about this?” Her mother’s fingers are clenched into fists on the table.
“Surely, Gwen, you should have realized?” the king drawls. “Or was that part of your plan? Dump the girl at our feet so late in the day, she wouldn’t be able to bond with a dragon?”
“You send her to that island and you risk my daughter’s life, as well as your own heir’s.”
The room fades away, white noise filling Astrid’s ears.
