Chapter Thirteen: Wren

Hours after her disastrous piano performance, Wren sent word to Chapman that she would be spending the evening reading about the inspiring life of Thormund Valhart, Eana’s longest-serving king. Once she was left to her own devices in the library, she donned her cloak and slipped out of a side door into the courtyard. Thunder rolled across the plains of Eshlinn and the rain was still bucketing down with a vengeance. The sky was starless, the moon skulking behind a thicket of clouds. Save for the occasional fork of lightning, and a lone silver-breasted starcrest circling overhead, the palace gardens languished in darkness.

Wren dug her fingers into the soil beneath the rose bushes, but the earth was too sodden and compacted. She turned on the flowers, grabbing fistfuls of petals instead, stuffing them hastily into her drawstring pouch. Rain dripped off the tip of her nose and the thorns pricked her fingers, but she didn’t care. The roses wouldn’t be as strong as the Ortha sand, which bore the footprints of the witches, their sweat and songs and tears, but earth was earth, and since she needed it for her enchantments, Wren couldn’t afford to be picky. The flowers had grown rooted in Eana soil, so for now, their petals would have to do.

After she stripped the red roses, Wren turned on the yellow bushes. They were taller, winding up to the sky as if they were trying to escape Anadawn. She rose to her tiptoes, reaching for another fistful—

A hand closed around her wrist.

Wren froze.

‘What are you doing?’ A flash of lightning lit up Rathborne’s face, too close to hers. His eyes were narrowed, his frown sharpening the angles of his features.

Fear pooled in Wren’s throat. For years she had imagined what it would be like to get this close to the Kingsbreath, but she had never pictured it like this. Alone and unarmed, in a dark and raging thunderstorm.

Rathborne tightened his grip, gently squeezing the bones in her wrist. Wren heaved a terrified breath, trying to regain control of her emotions, but panic flooded her. The petals tingled against her palm, the sudden surge of anxiety coaxing the flow of her magic. ‘Rose, darling. Have you lost your tongue?’

‘Perfume,’ said Wren, weakly. ‘I’m … m-making a new scent.’

‘You know how I feel about you being out here at night.’ Rathborne dropped her hand. ‘Isn’t your prince keeping you busy?’

‘I … Yes. Of course.’ Wren released the petals before they could betray her, and curled her hand into her chest. She felt injured by his touch, his nearness. She reached blindly through her haze of hatred, searching for the right tone – one of respect, of deference. ‘But the truth is, Prince Ansel and I still barely know each other. I … we … that is to say, the prince and I were thinking, it might be an idea to postpone the wedding by a few months …’ So I can get my crown, and with it, the freedom to make my own decisions ‘So we can spend more time together,’ she lied.

Rathborne stared at Wren. ‘I arranged Prince Ansel’s early arrival at Anadawn for precisely this reason,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘I’ve gone out of my way to grant your request for more time together.’

‘But—’

‘Rose, darling. You are being very ungrateful.’

Wren frowned. ‘It’s just I’ve been thinking a lot about—’

‘Don’t think, Rose.’ Rathborne patted her head, then moved his hand down along the side of her face, his fingers pressing ever so slightly against her jaw. Wren wanted to open her mouth and bite them off. ‘I’ve told you a hundred times, when you think too much, you worry. You’re going to make yourself ill.’

Wren exhaled through her teeth, and tried one more time. ‘I just think if we wait until after my coronation, then things will be so much clearer. I can decide whether—’

‘Did you hit your head?’ said Rathborne, abruptly.

Wren blinked. ‘Pardon me?’

His eyes flashed, and his voice took on a dangerous edge. ‘You seem to have forgotten who makes the decisions around here, Rose. I have spent too long crafting this alliance for you to cancel it on some mindless whim.’

Wren’s anger surged, overcoming the swell of her panic. ‘Well, perhaps we should rethink the alliance, too,’ she said, boldly.

‘Only a fool would renege on a deal with King Alarik,’ snarled Rathborne. And what would we do about our witch problem, then? Continue to let them fester like a wound in the side of this country? Let them gather and grow until they force another war upon us? Do you want them to take over our noble kingdom and destroy everything it has become?’ He shook his head in revulsion, before answering for her. ‘No, of course you don’t.’

Wren dug her fingernails into her palms and tried to keep her voice steady. ‘I just don’t see why we have to be so rash.’

‘As long as the witches exist in this land, they could strike at any time.’ He raised his finger in warning. ‘There is always room for trouble, Rose. You should know that better than anyone. So, wear your veil and your white dress and let King Alarik do what he was born to do. After all, there’s no army as brutal and unyielding as the Gevrans. It won’t be long before we can have peace in Eana at last.’

Wren was swept up in a hurricane of rage as Rathborne’s plan came into sharp focus. In return for having a foot in each continent, Alarik Felsing was going to set his army loose on the witches. For a heartbeat, she considered throttling the Kingsbreath right there in the rose garden. But they were surrounded by guards, and she knew, even in the eye of her fury, that there was a better way to handle this. To handle him. Willem Rathborne was clearly not a man to be reasoned with. It wouldn’t be wise to waste her breath – or rattle her careful composure – by trying.

‘The wedding will stand, even if I have to carry you down the aisle myself.’ He leaned in close, until Wren could smell the rancid stench of his breath. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

She nodded, mutely.

Rathborne tutted under his breath. ‘I don’t know what’s got into you today. I didn’t raise you to be so quarrelsome. Not to mention, Prince Ansel would think you a lunatic if he saw you out here ripping your roses apart. I don’t have to remind you how important your good reputation is. We have been cultivating it for eighteen years.’ Wren didn’t miss the way he lingered over the word ‘we’. He stepped aside, shooing her like a dog. ‘Don’t let me catch you like this again. I’d hate to have to lock you in that tower of yours …’

He returned to the darkness, leaving the whisper of his threat hanging in the air.

Wren clutched her drawstring pouch as she hurried out of the rose garden, not daring to look over her shoulder. She only allowed herself a breath of relief when she was safely back in her bedroom, shirking her sopping dress and loosening the strings of her corset.

The pathway to the crown had become infinitely more dangerous. Not only did Wren have to contend with a moon-eyed prince obsessed with marrying her, but with Ansel came a bloodthirsty alliance that would spell the end of the witches for good. Wren couldn’t let that happen – she wouldn’t.

There was only one course of action left. Since Willem Rathborne was intent on making her go through with the wedding and all the brutality that would come with it, she had no choice but to remove his influence over Rose’s life as soon as possible. Wren sat at her vanity and dragged a brush through her hair, her green eyes blazing in the mirror. It was time to plot a murder …

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