“Busy. I meant to thank you for Simon’s flowers, Felicity, and I apologize for not doing so sooner. We’re still attempting to secure safer trading routes to prevent further rebel attacks, but unfortunately, they know the forest better than we do. It’s imperative that Prince Merit can travel back safely for the wedding. There’s five weeks to go and I’m sure it will fly by, so we’re preparing in advance as much as we can.”
“It’ll be nice to have Prince Merit home,” I say, knowing Card loves it when Bash’s younger brother distracts the queen. While Merit gets to escape his mother’s watchful eye by living in the Kingdom of Dreah for months at a time, Bash is under constant scrutiny. That’s part of the weight of being crown prince, I suppose.
“It will. He plans to arrive in just over two weeks, and then it’ll be three weeks until the ceremony, so I’m sure his help will be greatly appreciated.”
“These are plans that are keptsecret,” Lark interrupts from behind us.
Ava’s smile becomes tight. She knows what happened between the two of us. Everyone does. Loudly breaking up at Card and Bash’s engagement party ensured that.
“I’m sure no harm will come of Felicity knowing thatsomeday,in the near future, the younger prince of Alrick will be traveling home. The wedding is on the horizon after all,” the captain says, artfully putting him in his place.
“We don’t want the rebels finding out.”
“Are you suggesting I’m in cahoots with them?” I spit out.
The clunk of his metal armor stops.
“No, that’snotwhat I meant,” Lark says, his tone changed. I knowthat when he puts this voice on—the smooth one, the silky one, the one that is supposed to reassure me that I’m wrong and he’s right—that I should get as far away as possible.
“We shouldn’t keep the queen waiting,” I say, and march down the corridor.
I know Ava has given Lark a silent warning look behind my back. That’s just who she is: a peacekeeper, a leader.
If only the same were true of the queen who awaits me.
Queen Fern’s quarters are always kept dim, with heavy velvet curtains that block out the natural light and more candles than I can count. The wooden doors to her private chamber open hungrily, and all at once, I’m hit with an overwhelming musk of foxgloves that makes my eyes water, as if there’s a pinch of something spicier in the mix. The purple flower, to me and other florists, carries the meaning of insincerity and riddles. Secrets. But putting that interpretation aside, it’s also used as an aroma oil to regulate the heart. I’ve been summoned by the queen enough in the past five years to know that she has regular panic attacks and days consumed by the irregular beat in her chest. It’s no wonder she would want to use a child who could only tell the truth to soothe her fears.
My mother had always kept us at a distance from the royal family, probably to give me a sense of normalcy in what was already a highly unusual childhood, and her dislike of the queen shut down any questions I had. But shortly after the incident in the north, knocks came at our door with a royal command not subject to refusal, and my mother could no longer keep me—or my curse—out of the castle. Whether she went to Queen Fern and fought against it, or even considered leaving our family home and moving out of the citadel, I doubt I’ll ever know. If there’s one thing about my mother, it’s that she’ll always keep her mouth shut and pretend things are fine.
“Felicity.”
Queen Fern snaps my attention to her. She sits poised uprightin a plush chair by the lit fireplace, wavy black hair pulled over her collarbones, her brown skin a shade paler than her husband and sons from all her time indoors. She’s in a fur-lined green silk gown and has her usual fluffy blanket on her lap. Across from her is a similar chair that she gestures to with a manicured hand. “Please.”
I curtsy as always, then take my seat.
“So,” she begins. Her dark eyes study me.
I know better than to relax. This is usually when she asks me to fill her in on every detail since we last spoke, and I try to convince myself it’s for the good of the people. I tell her about the townsfolk in the lower town—whose business is taking off or struggling, who’s quarreling with whom, which families are abuzz with celebrations of marriage or pregnancy, and so on. At the end, she always makes a point of asking if I’ve seen anything suspicious. When my response is no, her shoulders relax as if the muscles around her ribs were clenched tight, suffocating her heart until she’s reassured by the truth that all in the citadel is at peace.
Today, however, she surprises me.
“I know you’ve been looking for a particular flower,” the queen says.
“You do?”
The laugh she gives is barely a breath. “Felicity, I know everything that happens in this kingdom. Of course I know. You asked every one of my gardeners and physicians. In fact, I was dismayed when you didn’t ask me for help personally. You know you can come to me for anything, dear.”
I hesitate.
I’ve never quite trusted her—how can I, when all she wants from me is information about others that they don’t consent to give? But she does this often. She floats words of kindness and attempts to make us sound close. When I was younger, I was more easily swayed. I know better now. I know what she wants from me: my curse and my silence.
I bow my head, as I can’t truthfully agree or apologize.
“The Odyssa, is that the name?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Well, then, I can help.”
