“So accepted. The third vow you shall offer in front of the crowd, Isabeau.” Queen Morag reaches out and dabs beads of sweat from Isabeau’s face. “You are a gift to behold. We will find you a bride, and all will be well.”
I wonder at the strange suggestion. Marriage is not a cure for anything, except perhaps loneliness. What would finding a wife change? And why is Isabeau sweating so?
Isabeau sways. “I fear I’m unwell, Auntie Mor. I was not drinking overmuch, but I feel unsteady.”
“The curse, child. The duchess wrote to me that you had been cursed. I hoped you would be spared.”
The words startle me. So it truly is a curse? Inthisworld? Now? Why would the queen not send word to the Hunter’s home instantly? Why would the dowager duchess not? Although the Hunter typically deals more with killing faeries, this, too, was once within our purview. Once, before there were treaties, curses were laid upon many a child. Faeries are capricious things, vicious more often than not, and I have read of curses. One entire family was cursed with a sleeping illness, cast into a deep unconsciousness that ended only when the angered faery was killed. What could the queen or the Maudite family have done to bring a curse upon them?
I have enough questions that I consider stepping out of my hiding place. I want answers, not just because this is a mystery about which I ought to already have been informed but also because the afflicted is someone who is still nestled in my heart. But as I stare at Isabeau, who wobbles like a drunkard, I suspect that she does not hold the answers.
Will I need to speak to the dowager duchess?my anxiety asks hesitantly. The thought of it fills me with a sensation of woe. The late duke was kind and embracing; the dowager duchess is unpleasant at the best of times. Duty insists,I will look for her at the ball, nonetheless.
One of the attendants now stands at Isabeau’s side and holds out a cup.
The queen nods. “Fortification. Drink it.”
“You have my tonic here? Why?” Isabeau’s words slur, but she drinks the mysterious tonic.
The queen glances at me before she sends a sad smile at Isabeau. “Go dance, child. You have some time before the vow renewals begin and the sun drops.”
“May I ask a question, Auntie Mor?”
The queen pauses. “Of course.”
“Is the Hunter a woman? There was a creature in the park, and a noblewoman dispatched it.” As Isabeau asks the question, my heart races. Shesawme, and she knew who I am—at least recognized my role if not my body. The magic that protects the Hunter ought to have softened the edges of her perception. Perhaps the magic of her curse is interfering with the Hunter’s magic.
The queen scoffs. “And you thinksheis the Hunter? Simply because she fought a faery? Most of them aren’t so fierce. I would suspect you could duel one. My guards have done so.”
My pride prickles at the dismissive tone. There is no faery as weak as a human. If killing them were so easy, the Hunter would not exist.
“Fine.” Isabeau paces briefly and then adds, “I would like to court her, whoever she is. Will you tell me the name of the noblewoman who could fight and defeat a faery?”
The queen laughs. “No, but I will enjoy watching you try to find her. You do know her, of course.”
“If Idofind her, will you tell me that she’s the one I seek? I must know her, Auntie Mor. I feel it in here.” Isabeau pats her chest over her heart. “I’ve only ever felt such interest in one other woman, and she refused me.”
I what?I glare at her through the curtain. I have never refused her. It hits me then like a bolt to the heart. She must mean someone else. She feels such love forsomeone else. Tears press in my eyes, and I am grateful to be hidden.
“I will confirm her identify if you do find her,” Morag says mildly, expression betraying none of the secrets she holds in her hand.
Then Isabeau broaches an equally dangerous topic—or perhaps the same one—as she asks, “There have been at least two deaths in Brimmond Wood this last month. Are you aware? Is the Hunter aware?”
“The Hunter sent a missive.”
“So the Hunter knows?” Isabeau presses.
“He does.” The queen doesn’t glance at me, and for that I am grateful.
Isabeau is like a hound on a trail, though. “May I speak to him? I want to offer my assistance ... for whatever it’s worth now that I am cursed. I can no longer stay awake when the sun rests. I fall into a deep sleep, impervious to all.”
“Let the Hunter do as he does. What harm is a little rest?” The queen’s stoic expression slips. “I would rather not lose you as well, child. Losing Isaac has broken my heart.”
“Mine, too. My father was the best man I’ve ever met, and I am lost in a world without him. Let me help the Hunter, Auntie Mor. I have trained for battle for twenty years. I need todosomething. Sitting with my thoughts, trying to make sense of this curse, I am lost.” Her voice fractures in the admission. “I amcursednow, Auntie Mor. Cursed and grieving.”
The queen glances my way before saying, “Let us discuss your curse another day.”
“It cannot be anothernight, not anymore,” Isabeau says, bitterness and anger seeping into her voice. “I have lost the stars. Why did no one warn me? Why was I left to find this out now?”
