Chapter Fifteen: Wren

The day after her encounter with Rathborne in the rose garden, Wren’s attempts at avoiding Rose’s best friend came to a grinding halt. She had taken dinner in the dining room with Chapman, scarfing down braised beef, honey-glazed carrots and fondant potatoes, before departing for the library. There, under the excuse of evening study, she began to plan the Kingsbreath’s murder. In a place with so many prying eyes and ears, Wren needed to make a clean kill – something quick and untraceable. It wasn’t long before her research led her to poison.

Celeste found her tucked up in an armchair, buried under a mound of historical tomes.

‘Got you!’ she crowed, as she swept into the library. Wren snapped her chin up, her heart suddenly clattering in her chest. Rose’s best friend matched the description she had memorized – she was tall and slender, with deep-brown skin and black curly hair that bounced just a little with each step. She had arched cheekbones, warm brown eyes and lips that were curved and smirking.

Wren shoved the pamphlet about poisonous plants she had been secretly reading down the side of her armchair, just as Celeste plucked a book from her lap. It was a mind-numbing treatise on the trading laws of Eana. She held it aloft by one corner. ‘You’ve been taking this whole coronation thing far too seriously lately,’ Celeste said, wrinkling her nose. ‘I keep telling you, Rose, a truly good queen knows how to let her hair down.’

Wren yanked the book back, pretending to care about the drivel inside it. ‘Can’t I wait until the crown’s on my head first?’

Celeste stuck her tongue out at her. ‘I want my best friend back. I miss our sleepovers.’

‘Chapman thinks I can’t keep anything in my head. I’m trying to send him a message.’

Celeste perched on the arm of Wren’s chair. ‘Since when have you cared what Chapman thinks?’ She was so close now that Wren could smell the jasmine in her perfume. ‘You should be far more concerned about my opinion, and frankly, I can’t believe you’ve been avoiding me!’

Wren pulled a face. ‘I had an awful headache. Didn’t Chapman tell you?’

‘Oh yes, he told me you were too out of sorts to see your best friend, but you certainly weren’t too ill to go on dates with your new lover.’ Celeste reclined dramatically across the top of the armchair. ‘Don’t tell me that’s important coronation business, too. I feel as if I’m being replaced.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Wren rolled to her feet and busied herself putting away the stack of books. ‘I tried to get out of seeing Ansel, too, but he’s just so … attached to me.’

‘Well, you’ve changed your tune. You wouldn’t stop talking about his floppy hair and poetic heart after your first date. You even went and commissioned a cake for him, for goodness’ sake.’ Celeste’s laugh tinkled around them, and Wren relaxed a little. Rose’s best friend was a breath of fresh air. It was a shame she had to live in constant fear of being caught out by her.

‘Well, of course I like Ansel,’ said Wren, deftly covering her misstep. ‘But I suppose there’s more to love than nice hair and pretty words.’

Celeste arched a perfectly manicured brow. After all these years, I’m glad to see you’ve finally started listening to me.’

Wren laughed, breezily. ‘Only on rare occasions.’

Celeste got to her feet. And speaking of good hair and pretty words, I must tell you about my escapades with Archer Morwell, you know, the blacksmith’s son? The one with the shoulders. I’ve been meeting him down by the mill.’

‘You mean he has actual shoulders?’ Wren fanned herself. ‘Don’t tell me he has a nose, too.’

And quite a mouth.’ Celeste waggled her eyebrows, and Wren laughed again. Shen was her closest friend in the world but he’d projectile vomit if she ever tried to have this kind of conversation with him. Perhaps she had been missing out.

‘Tell me every sordid detail,’ Wren said, eagerly. ‘I’ve been starved of gossip.’

Celeste threaded her arm through Wren’s. ‘I’ll tell you on our way to the kitchens. Cam’s been asking for you.’

Down in the kitchens, Wren stared in silent wonder at the Gevran ice cake Rose had commissioned. It was a work of art. Five layers of white sponge had been painstakingly sculpted to resemble a glistening castle. It was lavished with ivory frosting, a silver mist curling around its base, while delicately spun sugar dripped like icicles from each mouth-watering tier.

‘It’s incredible,’ she breathed. ‘It looks just like Grinstad Palace.’

Cam, the head cook, stood behind the cake in his apron and white hat, beaming like a proud parent. ‘Well, I certainly hope your prince agrees. I told you I’d get it right eventually.’

It was late. The kitchens were empty, save for the three of them, the air warmed by the glow of the ovens and the comforting flicker of firelight. Wren smiled at the cook. She had liked him immediately. He was short and plump, with a round, smiling face, tanned skin and hazel eyes. She was impressed, too, by her easy rapport with him. Against the odds, her sister had managed to find some true friends at Anadawn.

Celeste traced a whorl of frosting. ‘So, when can we sample this magical cake, Rose?’

‘Hands off the masterpiece!’ Wren swatted her hand with a spatula as the fireworks of a glorious plan exploded in her mind. If she was going to poison Willem Rathborne, then she would need the perfect opportunity. ‘I’m going to serve it at a special welcome dinner for Prince Ansel in three days’ time.’ She beamed at her own cleverness. ‘It will be a small, private affair.’ With just a sprinkling of poison. When Celeste’s face fell, Wren was quick to reassure her. ‘Don’t worry, you’re still invited, of course. And I’m going to invite Willem, too. I’ll send word to Chapman first thing in the morning.’

Celeste’s frown only deepened. ‘What makes you think the Kingsbreath will come? You know he barely leaves his bedchamber these days. Father says he’s gone as skittish as a mouse.’

This only made Wren wonder again about what had set the Kingsbreath so on edge recently, and whether there was a deeper reason for his ill-advised alliance with Gevra. She resolved to find out what was bothering him. For one thing, she was interminably curious about it. And for another, if her poisoning plan failed, she might turn up something she could use against him.

‘Of course he’ll come to dinner,’ she told Celeste. ‘Dear Willem is just as invested in this marriage as I am.’

Not to mention, he wouldn’t dare risk offending the prince of Gevra – or his fearsome brother – by not attending. In fact, Wren was counting on it. She smiled as she plucked a lemon from the fruit bowl and tossed it in the air. It calmed her to have something to do with her hands.

‘If you say so,’ said Celeste, uncertainly. She returned her attention to the cake. ‘You’ve really outdone yourself, Cam. How on earth did you get it to sparkle like that?’

‘That’s the snow dust.’ He made a show of dropping his voice. ‘Elliott knows a Gevran trader up at Wishbone Bay. Had to give him a twenty-pound tuna for a sprinkle of that.’

‘I must tell Marino to keep an eye out for it,’ said Celeste. ‘He’s keen to dip his toe into the spice trade this summer, even though I keep prodding him towards rum.’

‘Maybe you should just commandeer your brother’s ship,’ suggested Wren. ‘I’ve never taken part in a mutiny but I think it would be a lot of fun.’ She grabbed a lime and began to toss it back and forth, yellow giving way to green and then yellow once more. She thought of the wrecked trading ships that sometimes washed up in Ortha after a bad storm and wondered if she would ever go treasure-hunting along the beach with Shen again.

‘In the meantime, I can have another word with Elliott,’ said Cam. ‘Let’s see what kind of exotic liquor he can barter from the pirates down at Braddack Bay.’

Celeste beamed. ‘Is there anything your wily husband can’t get his hands on?’

‘Depends what you’re looking for,’ said Cam, with a conspiratorial wink.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she sighed. A bit of excitement, maybe?’

The cook released a full belly laugh. Wren felt the warmth of it in her fingertips. ‘Celeste Pegasi, what could be more exciting than a Gevran prince staying under this very roof? It’s been years since we’ve had a wedding at Anadawn.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘I meant exciting for me.’

‘Why don’t you take your chances with the Gevran boats when they come in?’ Cam waggled his eyebrows. ‘Let’s see what they bring to Anadawn.’

Wren tried not to picture Alarik Felsing gliding down the Silvertongue. She couldn’t think of anything worse than serving the witches up to him on a platter, while chaining herself to his hapless younger brother for the rest of her life. She prayed she’d never have to see that day. She grabbed a plum from the fruit bowl and tossed it in the air as she wandered around the kitchen. ‘What about Archer Morwell? Isn’t he exciting enough for you?’

‘Archer is yesterday’s news,’ said Celeste, dismissively. ‘You know how restless I get.’

Wren snorted. ‘Well, I’m sure there are plenty of other fine pairs of shoulders right here in Eshlinn.’

‘Then why did you go all the way to Gevra for your suitor?’

Why indeed.

Celeste turned from the mouth-watering cake. ‘Then again, if the Gevrans are all built like Prince Ansel’s guard, I think I’ll be in luck. Frankly, it should be a crime to be that handsome. Do you know what his name—’ She gasped. ‘Rose! Since when can you juggle?’

Wren let the fruit drop with three distinct splats. ‘I can’t.’

Cam chuckled. ‘And this from the same girl who has to hold her wine goblet with two hands.’

Wren picked up the fruit and hastily returned them to the bowl. ‘His name is Tor Iversen,’ she said, breezily. ‘That’s what you were asking just now, wasn’t it?’

‘Tor.’ Cam rolled the ‘r’ sound with his tongue. ‘I like it.’

Celeste was still staring at the bruised fruit.

Wren cursed her own foolishness. In a bid to settle her nerves, she swiped a tart from a nearby tray and shoved it into her mouth. It melted on her tongue, butter and sugar creating a symphony of delight. ‘Mmm, so good.’

‘Princess, NO!’ cried Cam. ‘That one’s full of cinnamon!’

Wren stopped chewing.

The cook was flapping about the kitchen like an addled bird.

Celeste was staring at her again. ‘You hate cinnamon.’

Oh, rotting carp.

There was an awkward stretch of silence. Wren spat the tart into her hands. ‘Oh no! Ew! Ew! Get it away from me!’ She balled the half-chewed mouthful into a cloth and flung it across the kitchen, where it splattered against the wall.

Cam sighed and shook his head. ‘Well, that was unnecessary.’

Wren briefly considered crawling into the oven and bursting into flames until only the ashes of her regret remained. First the juggling mistake and now the bloody tart – she had been trained better than this. She was supposed to be clever, careful.

She smoothed the strands around her face. ‘Sorry, Cam. It must have crept up on me. Sneaky cinnamon.’ She summoned a sheepish smile. ‘Where were we? Oh yes! Handsome Gevrans.’

Cam swept his arms wide. ‘I was just about to formally announce that this kitchen is always open for burly Gevran soldiers.’

Celeste turned to Cam, her suspicion softening into wry amusement. And what would Elliott say to such a generous invitation?’

‘Celeste, darling, Elliott appreciates the finer things in life. That’s why he became a trader in the first place.’

‘Speaking of fine things.’ Celeste scooped a blob of frosting on to her finger and popped it into her mouth. ‘I hear Princess Anika is a beauty. They say she’s as fierce as a snow tiger. And you know how I like a challenge.’

‘Oh, you are bad.’ Cam descended into uproarious laughter. Wren joined in, feigning giddy excitement about her upcoming wedding, and finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Celeste started to relax around her again, sharing titbits of palace gossip and delighting in Wren’s re-enactment of her disastrous date with Prince Ansel.

‘Right,’ said Cam, rubbing his hands. ‘I’d better get started on this special dinner menu. Three days isn’t very much time at all, but lucky for you, I’m an artiste.’ He glanced at Wren, his forehead creasing as he studied her. ‘And it will give me a chance to feed you up, too. I swear you’re wasting away on us, Rose.’

Celeste cocked her head. ‘I thought I was just imagining it.’

Wren hugged her arms around herself, trying to obscure the sinewy limbs the Ortha cliffs had given her. ‘It’s just nerves. With the wedding so close and everything.’

‘Well, I have the perfect remedy for that.’ Cam removed a tray of cookies from the oven. Almond and butterscotch. Still warm. And on my honour, not a hint of cinnamon.’

‘Well, thank the Great Protector for that.’ Wren grinned around a cookie as she popped it in her mouth. Cam wrapped another one in a handkerchief and slipped it into Wren’s pocket. Somehow, it was even better than the tart. Back in Ortha, when the nights were cold and the sea wind was howling through the cracks in Banba’s creaky hut, she often wondered what she was missing out on at Anadawn.

On Wren’s ninth birthday, Thea had stayed up all night baking a flour cake and Banba had risen before the sun to fetch honey straight from the hives to drizzle over it. The three of them had walked down to the shore together, Banba dulling the wind so all the gulls could hear her sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to her granddaughter. Wren had held the meagre cake to her chest like a spell that might lift them up and away to better times. To better cake.

‘I would give you all the luxuries in the world if I could, little bird.’ Banba had cut a slice of cake and held it in her sand-stained fingers. There was sand in everything back in Ortha; even in their teeth. ‘But for now, let this cake be a promise.’

‘There are better days ahead, Wren.’

‘For you, and for all of us.’

And now, here Wren was, within reach of the crown. She could taste those better days already – the flavour of an oven-warmed treat as it melted on her tongue and the slip of a silk nightgown against her skin. The warmth of a fire in her bedchamber, the bubbling caress of a morning bath. And friends, like these ones, who would gladly chatter away the evening hours in the warm belly of a sugar-laced kitchen.

Rose’s life wasn’t so bad, after all.

And once Wren had removed Willem Rathborne from it, it would be even better.

After saying goodnight to Celeste, Wren silenced her footsteps with an enchantment and sneaked across the palace to see if the Kingsbreath had made another visit to the west tower. When she spied his guards hovering on either side of the door, she drew back into the shadows. Curious. Rathborne confined himself to his bedchamber all day but was keeping a strict nightly routine. Whatever was in that tower must be important to him. Wren made careful note of this discovery in case she might need it when the time came to kill him. If her dinner party failed, she could meet him in his precious tower with a sharp smile and her trusty dagger. Not quite a clean kill, but she would relish it all the same.

She took off before she was spotted by one of Rathborne’s guards. Oil portraits turned to silver suits of armour as she shuffled through the halls of Anadawn. She was so distracted by what Rathborne was doing in the west tower that she startled at the sudden thunder of footsteps up ahead.

Wren slipped into an alcove between two towering suits of armour and flattened herself against the wall. The footsteps grew louder, their shadow spilling across the stones like ink. She scrunched her eyes shut.

Don’t look to your right.

Don’t look to your right.

Don’t look to your—

‘Princess Rose?’

Wren snapped her eyes open. ‘You,’ she breathed.

Tor was standing in front of the alcove, wearing a look of utter bemusement. Elske sat at his feet, her bright blue eyes pinpricking the darkness. ‘Exercising again, Your Highness?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Wren smiled as she smoothed her skirts. At least this time, she was dressed. ‘I never miss an opportunity to raise my heart rate.’

‘You must be very fit.’

‘And you are very bold,’ she chastised. She lingered over his damp uniform and the tousled sweep of his hair. ‘Were you out in the rain just now?’

‘I’m afraid storms never bother Elske.’ Tor’s lips flickered. And I have heard a little rain now and then is good for a soldier.’

‘Well, it certainly suits you.’ Wren grinned, wickedly. She was dancing in the flames again, but oh, it was such fun. And it made a pleasant change from having to plot a murder. ‘And it’s nice to know you’re in the business of taking sage advice. Perhaps I can persuade you to take a treat, too.’

At Tor’s look of alarm, she burst out laughing. ‘Mind out of the gutter, soldier. That was hardly a euphemism.’ However much Wren wanted it to be. She stuck her hand in her pocket and took out Cam’s cookie, wrapped in the handkerchief. ‘I’m simply offering you one of my cook’s delicious cookies.’ She held her hand out. ‘It might well change your life.’

Tor glanced at the cookie, but didn’t move to take it.

‘It’s almond and butterscotch. I’m sure Cam would tell you he made it with love, too,’ said Wren, mildly. ‘Although I can’t speak to that particular flavour.’

Elske sniffed at the cookie, then looked up at her master.

Tor rested a gentle hand on her head. ‘Thank you, Your Highness, but I don’t eat when I’m on duty.’

‘Sheesh,’ said Wren, as she unwrapped the cookie. ‘Are all Gevran soldiers so tightly wound?’ When Tor didn’t reply, she halved the cookie and slipped a piece into her mouth. She closed her eyes as it melted on her tongue, revelling in its buttery goodness.

She swore she heard the soldier’s breathing hitch. She swallowed thickly, then opened her eyes, dangling the other half of the cookie between them. Are you sureyou’re not hungry?’

Tor’s throat bobbed. ‘I’m sure, Your Highness.’

‘I admire that Gevran restraint.’ Wren slipped the other half in her pocket for later. ‘Though I hear your King Alarik is lacking in it. He has a dark reputation on these shores, you know. It is said that his only friends are his beasts. He’s cruel beyond measure and vicious in war. And he has a block of ice in place of a heart. Is it true?’

Tor’s face shuttered at the mention of his king. He stood a little straighter. ‘King Alarik has established himself as a strong ruler these past few years. Any country would be foolish to move against Gevra.’

Wren licked her teeth. ‘I can practically taste your training.’

A muscle flickered in his jaw. ‘You mistake training with loyalty, Your Highness.’

‘Well, then Ansel is lucky to keep such loyal company. Indeed, not even a mouth-watering cookie can rattle your resolve. Though I have to say, your wolf impresses me far more.’ She turned her curiosity on Elske. ‘She really is a beauty. I’ve been thinking I’d like to get one for my birthday.’

Tor’s chuckle rippled all the way down Wren’s spine. ‘Elske was raised for war, Your Highness. She may seem harmless but she is brutal when she needs to be.’

Wren raised her eyebrows. If this soldier was trying to frighten her, he wasn’t going to succeed. He was only making her more curious. ‘Like her master, then?’

His smile tightened. ‘In a manner of speaking.’

Wren’s thoughts turned to Rathborne, and what she had in store for him. ‘How many men have you killed for Gevra?’

Tor held her stare. A storm moved in his eyes. ‘Enough.’

‘Did you lose sleep afterwards?’

‘There is no sleep in war, Your Highness.’

And of course Gevra was a warring nation. If Wren didn’t do something soon, they would bring their famed brutality to these shores. She tried to keep her anxiety from her face but Tor was watching her too keenly now, and her palms were beginning to sweat. ‘When do you find the time to sleep?’ she said, striving for that easy lightness between them.

Tor gestured at the wolf. ‘We take turns on the night watch.’

‘I’d be lying if I said that sounded effective.’ Wren looked at Elske, who was now drooling liberally all over his boots. ‘Aren’t you worried she might run off while you’re sleeping? To play with someone more fun, and say … princessy?’

Tor’s laugh was surprisingly musical. It made Wren’s stomach flip. ‘Elske would only leave my side if I commanded it.’

‘I can be very persuasive.’

‘It will take more than a butterscotch cookie, Your Highness.’

Wren dropped to her knees and scratched beneath Elske’s chin. ‘How much more?’ she pretended to ask the wolf. ‘Name your price, sweetling. I’m wildly wealthy.’

Tor towered over her, the silver flecks in his eyes alight with curiosity. ‘There’s something different about you tonight, Your Highness …’

The back of Wren’s neck began to prickle. ‘Oh?’

As if some unspoken command had passed between them, Elske started sniffing at her skirts.

Wren stood up, abruptly. The air changed as Tor took a careful step towards her. Too little too late, she got the sense that she had wandered unwittingly into a storm.

He raised his hand, slowly, and she watched half-frozen as he reached for something behind her ear. ‘Your hair …’ he said, more to himself than to her. ‘I think it’s changing colour.’

Wren’s heartbeat faltered.

Seize control, hissed a voice in her head.

She slapped his wrist away. ‘I would advise you to keep your hands to yourself, soldier.’

Tor blinked. ‘Forgive me. I only meant—’

‘To touch the crown princess of Eana,’ said Wren, with all the iciness she could summon. It was well past midnight and her morning enchantment was wearing off. Those rose petals were weaker than she thought!

Tor raked his hands through his hair, wearing a look of such violent remorse that Wren almost felt sorry for him. He gathered himself in an instant, stiffening as he became a soldier once more – someone to fear, someone to avoid.

Wren was already backing into the shadows, hiding her changing appearance. ‘Consider this your first and only warning, soldier. To save yourself from any further embarrassment, I would suggest never mentioning this little run-in again.’

‘As you wish, Your Highness.’ The Gevran was a statue in the dark. Wren sensed the rising swell of his suspicion with every silent footstep she took away from him.

Banba’s scowling face haunted her as she made her way back to the east tower. Wren had gone looking for trouble tonight, and she had found it in the stormy gaze of a Gevran soldier. She was as thoughtless as the witch Lia, who had drowned herself in the Ortha Sea. If she didn’t pull herself together soon, the next time Wren slipped up could be her last. And if she doomed herself with her own carelessness, then she would doom all the witches of Eana, too. She cradled that fear as she fell asleep, dreams of Rathborne’s snarling face giving way to visions of him twitching and foaming as he died painfully at her feet.

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