Arsinoe adjusts the mask on her face. Even the lightest touch on her inflamed cuts hurts. But she must wear the mask. She wants to, after Ellis went to so much trouble. Besides, the painted red streaks will look fierce against the firelight. Though perhaps not as fierce as her actual wounds.
She steps up to the makeshift pavilion atop the cliffs, and looks down toward the people. They will see what they will see. Dressed in black pants, and a black shirt and vest, Arsinoe does not hide.
On the farthest pavilion from Arsinoe, Katharine stands, still as a statue, surrounded by Arrons. A strapless black gown hugs the young queen tight, and black gems circle her throat. A live snake slithers around her wrist.
On the center platform, Mirabella’s gown billows around her legs. She wears her hair loose, and it blows off her shoulders. She does not look at Arsinoe. She stares straight ahead. Mirabella stands as though she is the queen and there is no reason to look anywhere else.
The Arrons and Westwoods step away from their pavilions. Arsinoe panics and grabs for Jules.
“Wait,” she says. “What am I supposed to do?”
“The same thing you always do,” Jules says, and winks.
Arsinoe squeezes her hands. It ought to be Jules standing up there between the torches, beautiful, in the dress that Luke made. Back in the tent, Madrigal touched Jules’s lips with copper and red, and braided her hair with ribbons of copper and dark green, to match the ribbon edging of the gown. If it were Jules on the platform, the island would see a beautiful naturalist with her mountain cat, and they would have no doubts.
Arsinoe glances down at the beach and her head spins.
“I’m afraid,” she whispers.
“You are not afraid of anything,” Jules says, before stepping back down the cliff path to wait with her family.
The drums start, and Arsinoe’s stomach flutters. She is still weak from the boat, with a belly full of salt water.
She pushes her legs out and squares her shoulders. She will not fall or sicken. Or tumble down the cliffside to the delight of her sisters.
She looks again at Mirabella, beautiful and royal without effort, and at Katharine, who is lovely and wicked-looking as black glass. Compared to them, she is nothing. A traitor and a coward. Giftless, unnatural, and scarred. Compared to them, she is no queen at all.
In the bay, five mainland ships wait, anchored. As Arsinoe watches, each ship sends its launch; each launch carries a boy who hopes to become an island king. All are decorated and lit with torches. She wonders which one belongs to Billy. She hopes that his father was kind when he returned.
The drums quicken, and the crowd turns away from the queens to watch the launches approach. The crowd, all in black, must make an imposing sight to come ashore to, but only one suitor seems afraid: a tan, dark-haired boy with a red flower in his jacket. The others lean forward, smiling and eager.
Billy’s launch lags behind as the others come ashore. The suitors are too far below for words or introductions. That will come later. The Disembarking is all ceremony. First looks and first blushes.
Arsinoe raises her chin as the first boy bows to Katharine. Katharine smiles and drops half a curtsy. When he bows to Mirabella, she nods. When he finally bows to Arsinoe, it is with surprise, as if he had not noticed that she was there. He stares at her mask for too long. He offers only a partial bow.
Arsinoe does not move. She stares them down to the last and lets the mask do its job. Until Billy comes ashore.
Her heart warms. He does not seem weak or injured.
Billy stands below the cliffs and looks up at her. He bows, deep and slow, and the crowd murmurs. Arsinoe holds her breath.
He bows only to her.
THE ARRON ENCAMPMENT
Poisoners are allowed no poison in their Beltane feasts. Those are the rules, as decreed by the temple, so that any Beltane reveler may partake of the offerings. It seems very unfair to Natalia, when the elementals are free to blow wind through the valley, and the naturalists let their filthy familiars run wild.
On Natalia’s plate, a headless, roasted bird shines up at her, completely devoid of toxin. She will not stoop to eating it. Yesterday, it was singing joyfully in the scrub bushes. What a waste.
She stands with a huff of disgust and then goes inside the tent. The flap moves behind her, and she turns to see Pietyr.
“They should let us do as we wish with our own feast,” he says, reading her mind. “It is not as if anyone is brave enough to try our food, anyway.”
She looks out into the night, the bonfires and milling people. He is right, of course. Not even those who have had too much to drink will dare touch what the poisoners prepare. There is too much fear. Too little trust.
“The delegates may venture close enough to eat,” Natalia says. “And we do not want to be poisoning them. It would create a spectacle if they had convulsions on the rug.”
And they cannot afford to lose a one. There are fewer and fewer suitors every generation. On the mainland, the number of families who share the secret of the island has dwindled. One day, Fennbirn may be nothing more than a rumor, a legend to delight the mainland children.
Natalia sighs. She has seen a few of the suitors standing before Katharine’s feast already. The first was the handsome boy with broad shoulders and golden-blond hair. He seemed to like the look of her very much, though they will still not be allowed to speak.
“I hope you have taught her to flirt from a distance,” Natalia says.
“She knows how to use her eyes,” Pietyr says. “And her movements. Do not worry.”
But he is worried. She can see it in the drag of his shoulders.
“It is unfortunate that the Chatworth boy proved loyal to Arsinoe,” Pietyr says.
“Is it? I am not so sure. I have been assured that he will fall into line.”
“It did not seem that way on the beach. Right now he is probably lingering outside of Arsinoe’s feast, like a dog hoping for scraps.”
Natalia closes her eyes.
“Are you all right, Aunt? You seem tired.”
“I am fine.”
But she is tired. Katharine’s Ascension Year is the second of her lifetime. It will probably be her last. It was all so much easier with Camille, when Natalia was still a girl and her mother was still alive to act as the head of the family.
Pietyr stares through the tent flap.
“The country fools dare one another to come close to our feast,” he says. “Such is our influence. It is hard to believe that it will all be over tomorrow. It is hard to believe that the priestesses have won.”
“Who says that they have?” Natalia asks, and Pietyr looks at her in surprise. “You say that I am tired, but why do you think that is? You asked me to find a way to save our Kat. All day long, I have been preparing food for a Gave Noir with no poison in it.”
“How?” Pietyr asks. “With priestesses overseeing everything?”
Natalia inclines her head. No poisoner is better at sleight of hand than she is.
“Natalia, they will test it.”
Natalia does not reply. He acts as though she has not been slipping poison into things unnoticed for most of her life.
THE HIGH PRIESTESS’S ENCAMPMENT
“I do not believe the brat returned,” says Rho, standing with Luca outside the High Priestess’s tent, watching the last of the temple crates be moved.
“It is a curious thing,” Luca says. “Queen Arsinoe washing up on our beach was certainly not something I expected. But it was not her choice.”
“Her part in the story is not over yet, it seems,” says Rho. “Or perhaps the Goddess is as mindful of tradition as our Mirabella, and no queen leaves unless she is dispatched by her sister’s hand.”
“What have you heard, Rho?” Luca asks, her eyes on the crates. “About today’s debacle? What are the whispers?”
“The only whispers I have heard are about Arsinoe’s return. When they mention Mirabella’s storm they only talk ab
out her rage. Nobody suspects why the storm was actually called.”
Rho steps away to bark at one of the priestesses for failing to notice that the crate she is carrying has been damaged. She jerks it from her and cuffs her on the back of the head. The initiate, barely thirteen years old, runs away, crying.
“You did not need to do that,” says Luca. “It was in no danger of cracking.”
“It was for her own good. Had it broken open, she might have lost most of her hand.”
Rho grasps the crate and twists. The sides splinter apart. Packed inside are three dozen of the temple’s serrated knives.
Luca takes one of the knives out of the crate. The long, slightly curved blade glows ominously in the light from the festival bonfires. She does not know how old it is, but the handle is well-worn and comfortable. It might have come from any number of temples before finding its way to Innisfuil. Perhaps it came from a naturalist place and was used primarily for cutting wheat. But no matter where its origin, there is little doubt it has tasted blood.
She turns the knife back and forth. As High Priestess, it has been years since she has carried one.
“You will have to lead them tomorrow,” Luca says. “In the silence after Mirabella’s fire dance ends. Before I am to speak. Go over the top of the Arrons and get to Katharine. Do not take long. I want you to be at the fore when we take Arsinoe.”
“Yes. I will be there. The Milone girl with the mountain cat is the only one likely to give me any trouble. I will take the cat first, if it tries to stop us.”
Luca thumbs the blade of the knife and does not realize it has cut through the pad of her finger until blood wells over the edges of her skin.
“They must all be this sharp,” she says. “So it is fast and they do not even feel it.”
THE MILONE ENCAMPMENT
The Milone feast is the most popular feast of the festival, and not only because of the roasted meat of Jules’s fine stag. Almost despite herself, Arsinoe made an impression at the Disembarking. People crowd the grounds around the table and tents to get a closer look at her and her black painted mask. She was nothing like the other queens, standing on those cliffs. Now, they wonder if there is more to her than meets the eye. If there is something that they missed.
“There’s the last one,” Joseph says through a mouthful of stew. He gestures with his head into the milling bodies, and Arsinoe sees a suitor, the one with golden-blond hair, staring at her from across the tables. She allows herself a grin, and a glance toward Billy, who watches protectively from nearby.
“That makes all of them,” says Luke.
Arsinoe had not expected to see any. So much attention is strange.
“If I knew how these mainlanders enjoyed indifference, I wouldn’t have worried so much,” she says, and looks at Billy again. “I wish Junior didn’t have to stay away. Someone go and fetch him. Let the temple wag their tongues.”
Jules laughs. “Look who is drunk on triumph,” she says. “No, Arsinoe. You have broken more than enough rules already.” She touches Joseph. “Joseph and I will go and keep him company.”
“Before he starts a fight with one of the other suitors in your name,” Joseph says, and grins.
Before they go, Jules nudges Arsinoe’s shoulder. The night grows late. It will not be long before the fires burn lower and she will leave for the woods after the great brown bear.
Arsinoe looks Jules a long time in the eyes. Brave girl. Her gift is so strong, but a great brown bear may be stronger.
“I wish I didn’t need you,” Arsinoe says. “Or I wish I could go with you.”
“I will be careful,” says Jules. “Don’t worry.”
Billy is sullen when Jules and Joseph join him on the edge of the feast. He stands with arms crossed, watching the other suitor with open hostility.
“We brought you some of Ellis’s stew,” Joseph says, and shoves a bowl into his hands. “Since you haven’t ventured close enough to get any for yourself.”
“I didn’t know how close I was allowed to get,” Billy says. “And after the way we were found, I thought it best to keep some distance.”
“But you didn’t think it was a bad idea to bow only to her? Your father is going to have your head.”
“Believe me, I know. I don’t know what I was thinking.” He sips the stew.
“It was a help to her,” says Jules. “Look at all these people. What you did had a hand in this. And what you did before. Trying to take her away.”
Billy lowers his head. “I’m sorry about that. Not telling you. I had to do it, knowing what these priestesses have planned. And here she is, back here, anyway. Damn it all.”
“It’ll be all right. We have our own plan.”
“What is it?” Billy asks, and Jules whispers it into his ear. His face brightens at once. “Joseph always said you were a glorious thing. And that dress. You are ravishing in that dress.”
“Ravishing? That’s a very fine word.”
“Perhaps, but it is the right one.”
Jules blushes and slides closer to Joseph to hide beneath his arm.
“Well,” Billy says, and sighs. “You don’t need to keep me company. I intend to stay here all night until those priestesses escort me back to my launch.”
“Are you sure?” Joseph asks, but Jules tugs his arm. They wave good-bye and walk off through the crowds.
“What are we doing?” Joseph asks as she slips her hand into his.
“I thought it a good idea if we were seen,” she says. “So that when I am not here tomorrow, anyone wondering will think that I am only off in a tent somewhere with you.”
The night is filled with bonfires and laughter. Slender girls pull boys into a dance with rosy, warm cheeks, and in Luke’s gown, Jules feels as beautiful as any of them.
“I have never seen you like this,” Joseph says, and the way his eyes move over her body fills her with pleasure. “Luke will have to close down the bookshop and become a tailor.”
Jules laughs. The weight that she felt when Beltane began has lifted. Arsinoe has returned. And they will not stand by and let her be killed. They will take action, and the idea buoys her so completely that Camden leaps in a joyful circle, as if she were a kitten.
In the corner of her eye, a girl slides her fingers down a boy’s bare chest. Many couples tonight will disappear into tents or to the soft ground beneath the trees.
“How did we get here?” Joseph asks.
Jules has navigated the fires in a slow circle, so that they are standing directly beside her tent.
She pulls Joseph inside. “I feel like I should apologize, for the time I’ve wasted,” she says.
“No,” Joseph says. “Don’t ever apologize.”
She lights a lamp and closes the tent flap. Her tent is not very large, and her bed is nothing more than a thin roll of blankets. But it will have to do.
She steps close and slides her fingers under the collar of his shirt. His pulse races before she raises her lips to kiss his throat. He smells of the spices used to prepare the feast. His arms wrap around her.
“I have missed you,” she says.
“Before the Hunt, you didn’t want me,” he starts, but she shakes her head. Everything hurt before. Now, everything is different.
Jules draws his mouth down to hers and presses her body fiercely against him. She is bold tonight. Perhaps it is the gown or the energy of the fires.
They kiss hungrily, and Joseph’s hands clutch Jules’s back.
“I am so sorry,” he says.
She unbuttons his shirt. She moves his hands around to the fastenings of her dress.
“Jules, wait.”
“We have waited long enough.”
She backs up toward her makeshift bed, and they lower to their knees.
“I have to tell you,” he says, but Jules stops him with her lips and her tongue. She does not want to hear anything—about Mirabella. It is over. Done. Mirabella does not matter.
They lie down togeth
er, and Jules hands glide under Joseph’s shirt. She would touch all of him tonight. Every inch of bare skin.
Joseph holds himself on top of her carefully. He kisses her shoulders and her neck. “I love you,” he says. “I love you, I love you.”
And then he squeezes his eyes closed, and his face crumples. He slides off her and rolls onto his back.
“Joseph? What’s the matter?”
“I’m sorry,” he says, and covers his eyes with his hand.
“Did I do something wrong?” Jules asks, and Joseph squeezes her tightly.
“Just let me hold you,” he says. “I just want to hold you.”
THE ARRON ENCAMPMENT
After the feast ends, and the fires burn low, Katharine and Pietyr lie in her tent, side by side, Pietyr on his back and Katharine on her belly, listening to the last of the night’s revel. The air smells of sparks and smoke, of different woods burning, and different meats cooking. Below those warm scents, there is evergreen needles, and salt air from over the cliffs.
“Do you believe Natalia?” Pietyr asks. “When she says that she will be able to alter the Gave Noir?”
Katharine drums her fingers atop his chest. “She has never given me any reason to doubt her.”
Pietyr does not reply. He was quiet during the feast. Katharine climbs on top of him to try to cheer him with kisses.
“What is wrong?” she asks. “You are not yourself. You are so tender.” She lifts his hand and drops it on her hip. “Where is your usual demanding touch?”
“Have I been such a brute?” Pietyr asks, and smiles. Then he closes his eyes. “Katharine,” he says. “Sweet, foolish, Katharine. I do not know what I am doing.”
He rolls onto his side and then grasps her chin. “Do you remember the way to the Breccia Domain?” he asks.
“Yes, I think so.”
“It is there,” he says, and points through the tent in the direction of the southern woods. “Through the trees behind the five-sided tent with white rope. Straight back from there until you reach the stones and the fissure. You have to cross the stream. Do you remember?”