Avette did not raise her voice, but the controlled fury in her every word whipped around them like the whistle of a stormwind. Ger was nearly certain that a flash of blue light had pulsed against his eyelids between one blink and the next. In the deafening silence that followed, Avette’s slim shoulders rosewith the deepest of sighs; then she lifted her hand, still tightly fisted, and unfurled her fingers. A trickle of water fell from her palm, and she tutted to herself, shaking off the damp residue as though it were the lowest of pests.
“What a waste,” she said.
Across from her, Imogen’s lips had parted, eyes locked on the empty hand that had held her beautiful bead. She didn’t seem upset at its destruction, but there wassomethingshifting behind her dark eyes as they studied the queen’s open palm. Before Ger could even hazard a guess at her thoughts, her lips pressed tight, and she scooted abruptly forward in her seat. She dragged a handkerchief from the pocket of her puffy pink skirt and gave it a smart snap in the air before rising to approach the queen.
“A wedding is just the thing, Your Majesty.”
Slowly, Avette reached for the handkerchief in Imogen’s outstretched grasp. She patted her palm dry, then rolled her hand at Imogen as if to say,Go on.Imogen continued in a rush, hands wringing together at her waist—a gesture so far removed from her usual loose, confident poise that Ger couldn’t help but stare. Behind her, Mareda had finally torn her own gaze away from the walls, and she, too, was fixed on Imogen’s hands, those long Wielder’s fingers twisting together.
“Your claim to the throne is based on ancient, blessed laws of ascension. Laws said to honour the will of the Goddess herself. You were in line for the throne before Queen Selma and her daughtersexisted, so by the will of the Heavens, the throne is rightfully yours.”
Avette’s shoulders drew back once more. She sat before Imogen like a fickle cat; momentarily basking in the attention it craved, but poised to draw its claws at the mildest slight.
“But if you’re to honour one ancient law,” Imogen continued in a slow, thoughtful tone, “you must be shown to honour the others. Even those laws that Queen Selma herself bent to her whim, in spite of the Goddess’s will.”
Mareda glanced swiftly away; she was betrayed only by the slight catch of her breath, a white puff on the chilled air. Avette, of course, paid her no mind. Her slim fingers drummed thoughtfully on the armrest.
“If I am to be appointed by the Mother—” Avette paused, catching her error. Her hand flattened on the armrest, and she squeezed at it, fingers flexing tight. “Appointed by theGoddess… I must be seen to honour her in every way.”
“Your Majesty, you have adoptedmanymodern practices,” Doran protested. “This is the Eisalaan way; we are a modern country!”
“And a blessed one,” Imogen cut in at once, lifting her chin in Doran’s direction. “So much so that half the world pays pilgrimage to our lands. Selma was our first monarcheverto be coronated without first marrying. She was known for it throughout Adhlas, and not always in the most flattering way. Her Majesty is wise, Captain. She’s already beloved by a whole kingdom who grew up with her history as our bedtime stories; a Goddess-blessed union to her truest love is a happy ending—andthatis the Eisalaan way.”
She had lost her mind.
She had lost her damned mind, and Ger’s was whirring painfully. At some point in Imogen’s impassioned plea for the unhinged Sorceress to hunt down and entrap the Merrow King, Mareda’s focus had slid away again. She stared intently at a sidetable adorned in sharp, frozen droplets, though she flinched at Doran’s vicious scoff.
“My Lady, that is, quite frankly, insanity—”
“Enough,” said Avette. She spoke pleasantly, as though Doran were simply pouring her a cup of tea and hadn’t thought to leave room for milk — but he had the good sense to freeze at once. The room held its breath. “I will not subject my Court to such impertinence. Apologise.”
Imogen’s wringing hands stilled, then folded at her waist. She raised her chin higher, triumph flashing in her dark eyes. Though Ger did not much like how they’d gotten here, Doran’s purple face was a sight to behold.
“I am sorry,” he wheezed, as though each word were a knife to his vocal cords. “Forgive me, Lady Imogen.”
“Lovely,” said Avette. “And now you may leave.”
Bollocks.Dread was a cold trickle in Ger’s stomach. He didn’t want to leave; didn’t want to fucking be here in the first place, but certainly didn’t want to leave and miss any more of this conversation. Whatever plans they made, whatever mention of the Merrow King, or—and he nearly crumpled over the stab of panic at the very thought—any mention of Adeline, and how they might find her. Imogen knew where she was just as well as he did. Was she going to give her up? What the fuck was she playing at?
Rounding the suite of furniture, Captain Doran made a sharp, pissed-off gesture at Ger, and he reluctantly stepped around the settee to follow him out the door—only to be halted by Avette’s hand on his arm. Her touch chilled the steel armour, and his skin immediately erupted in gooseflesh, barely fighting a shudder.
“Youmay leave, Captain Doran. We hardly need two of you for an intimate meeting of the Queen’s Ladies. Your young Gard may stay, as I’mquitecertain you have more pressing matters to attend to.”
Doran’s jaw worked. He did not move at first, and beneath Avette’s paralysing, tightening grip, neither did Ger. Then, with a slow, backward stride, Doran gave a bow and wrenched the door open, striding purposefully away.
It was only when Avette released him that Ger realised his arm had gone numb, and he had to wrestle the urge to shake off the ghostly chill of her touch. She stood with a beleaguered sigh.
“Now. I believe I should like to try on my dresses in peace.”
For the next few minutes, Ger stood exactly where Avette had left him. He stared at Mareda staring at the walls, neither of them speaking as Imogen set about arranging a painted privacy screen around Avette, who admired herself in front of an ornate silver mirror. Imogen wheeled the rail of dresses to the screen and disappeared behind it for a moment, her voice a gracious hush to the queen’s imperious clip.
By the time she emerged alone, Gerard was practically vibrating, bouncing anxiously on the balls of his feet. He seized his moment as she drew close and stepped into her path, taking her wrist in his hand so she had no choice but to stop. She met his eye with just a hint of defiance, and his heart sank, weighed down with the new dread unearthed by the blaze of her eyes.
“What are you doing?” he said. “What about Adeline?”
He spoke beneath his breath, unable to keep from shooting a nervous glance at the screen. Imogen stared back at him unblinking, and Daughters forgive him, his hackles rose, tension exploding across his shoulders. He wanted to shake her. Hewanted to fucking shout, and Ger didnotshout. Not at anyone, not ever. But hemadehimself whisper, and the words raked up his throat.
“What the fuck are you doing, Imogen?”
