“I will do my best.” I smile at her thin argument for why I ought to be less injured. She cannot forbid me to hunt, but the countess often finds excuses to check on my health—and to bring the tonic that she swears aids in my health. It seems every physician offers the mixes, and I am ever grateful that mine is not as noxious as some. Isabeau’s was always a chunky green blend.
I push the stray thought of her away, ignore the drink, and peck a brief kiss on Mother’s cheek before I settle on the seat in front of her, back to the dressing table and mirror, and face tilted upward for the salve around my bruised eye.
“It’ll blacken more.” The Countess of Fleuriste gentles her touch as she rubs the bruise paste on the skin around my eye. “Much closer and you’d have been blinded.”
“I wasn’t fast enough.” I whisper it, though. “Until Father passes ...”
“I know.”
We don’t often mention that the very thing that will strengthen me will also make her a widow. Father is already old for a Hunter. His own father died young.MostHunters die young. In the interim, their Hunter-in-Training has only wits and training to keep them safe. Mine were not enough this morn—or a month ago in Brimmond Wood.
“I am sorry,” the Countess of Fleuriste says softly, pausing in her ministrations. “I wish I could have given him a son.”
“Never apologize, Mother. I would rather face a few bruises than have lost you because you kept trying to carry babies. You gave me asister and a home and a destiny. That is everything.” I hate that she feels guilt, but that, too, seems to be part of the burden of loving a Hunter.
That’s why I cannot wed.I don’t say it, but I suspect my mother knows. I simply cannot ask someone to suffer as she has, loving a Hunter and knowing that both her spouse and her child will fight faeries.
For a moment, Mother’s face looks like it will crumple in tears, but the countess is made of far sterner stuff than that. She presses her lips together, eyes closed, and then she lets out a shaky breath before saying, “Your sister is excited at the thought of seeing the queen.”
“Perhaps, we could tell Her Majesty that you only have the one daughter left, send only Rylan ...” I tease, hoping for a smile.
“Pish.” The Countess of Fleuriste smiles as she pulls and twists my hair into something artful and ladylike. “I have two lovely noble daughters, and if you are to marry—”
“What if I am not?” The words tumble out too fast, too breathless.
“Gabrielle!” Mother’s hands pull tightly, making me wince as she continues, “Women need spouses, and Hunters ... You’ll need a child to pass on the gift.”
“How do I do that? How do I carry a child, knowing I am asking them to be trained to hunt and kill? How do I deal with the urge to protect myown babeand simultaneously tell them to learn to kill and most likely die?”
“Your father did it.” The countess lifts her chin as if daring me to ask howshedid it.
I can’t ask that so directly, but I do remind her, “And he never once treated me as someone he protected or cherished, Mother. You know that as well as any. Has he ever struck you? Or Rylan?”
“Your father would never—”
“Exactly. He would never strikeyouor my sister. I cannot treat a child as he treated me.” I lift the glass of oxymel and drink it in one gulp. It’s necessary to prevent my wounds from turning, but the sour honey—a mix of vinegar and honey—has not grown less noxious with all these years of exposure.
For a moment, there is silence between us.
Mother’s smile turns sad. “It’s not only about duty. I want you to have the joy of being loved.”
“I can be loved without a marriage or children.” I hand my mask to my mother. It is a dark-blue creation, decorated with garnets and opals. One side sweeps up into what resembles a butterfly wing.
I hold the mask in place as she affixes it. With my hair falling in one long ringlet on either side, the mask makes me look almost like a flower with a butterfly perched on it.
“No bruises left to see,” the Countess of Fleuriste pronounces. “Stand. I’ll tighten you a little. Tell me when to stop, and we can pretend I cannot see the bandage on your side.”
As Mother tightens the stays over the angry marks on my side, I glance at the mirror to be sure no blood has escaped the stitches Clarissa has sewn into my skin.
For a moment, I can almost believe I am someone else. I rarely let my hair fall so loose; if it’s bound up, nothing can grab it in a fight. Seeing it loose feels like a strange kind of pretense.
“Finish dressing, child. Eligible men and women await!” Mother steps back, and I pull on my petticoat and dress. I settle the dress around my hips. It is a flattering thing, high waisted, low-cut bodice, and flowing in a way that makes the delicate silk seem like a living, writhing creature.
“You should be grateful I cannot weep,” the countess murmurs.
“Do I look so horrifying?”
“You look like a foxglove blossom. My beautiful babe somehow turned into a woman,” Mother proclaims.
