“Certainly, Maiden,” Genevar said, pointing them toward the circular staircase. “Please, follow me below.”
The old woman led the way to the Archives. The first step plunged them into sharp, suffocating cold, unforgiving all the way down. Once they reached the ground, Genevar lit the lanterns one by one. Brianne’s eyes widened as she took in their surroundings.
“There are so many words here,” the youngest Warnou gasped.
Genevar chuckled at her enthusiasm. “Indeed, Princess. This is a room of secrets, and I am the keeper of them all.”
Brianne looked awestruck, but Katrynn shivered. “Too much responsibility.”
Genevar met her eyes. “At times it can feel onerous. But at others,” she said, crossing the room to her large desk where she located a small bound book, “it is the most wonderful gift. A magic all my own.”
She offered the journal to Sabine. The New Maiden wavered before accepting it. She stood there a moment, one hand atop the book, the other beneath it, as though she could ingest its contents without ever cracking its cover. She was frightened by the potential of such a document. She had no idea what she might find within its pages.
“Girls,” the Archivist called to Brianne and Katrynn, “let me show you the script of the New Maiden’s first sermon.” She led them to a long shelf, just far enough from where Sabine stood that they were no longer in her sight. That semblance of privacy gave her the courage to peel back the first thin page and study the careful handwriting of the girl whose soul she had inherited.
I thought that what I wanted was power, the New Maiden had written, when what I really wanted was love. I misunderstood the way the two can be seen, felt, and redeemed. They cannot coexist, not really, not ever. Now the world sits in the palm of my hand, and I have never felt more alone. I watch people fall at my feet, worship at the altar of my word, and yet to them I am an idol, not a person. I am nothing but what I can offer them, and I do not know what that means for the girl I used to be. How do I reconcile what was and what is? How can I get what I wanted, instead of what I have been given?
Sabine gasped softly, heart fluttering. It was almost like having her darkness back, comforting in its needling, the way it wormed directly into the unguarded corners of her heart and settled like a sigh.
Genevar peered around a shelf. “Maiden, are you all right?”
Sabine nodded, mutely. She didn’t know how to explain that the New Maiden’s words read like sentiments she could have penned herself. It was uncanny, to see her own fear and insecurity scrawled across the page in a hand that belonged to another. She had expected the New Maiden to be an infallible figure, but on the page, she was a flesh and blood girl, the same as Sabine.
“Maiden, forgive me if I overstep,” Genevar said gently, as she, Brianne, and Katrynn emerged from the stacks, “but your sister has told me of your recent plight. Is there anything that I can do to assist you?”
“I know not what the Second Son wants,” Sabine said. “And so I cannot comprehend Him.”
Genevar scowled. “Bad enough history had to suffer Him once. Twice is twice too much.”
Sabine was so startled that she very nearly laughed. The Second Son was a figure shrouded in such mystery that it was a comfort to hear Him discussed so casually. “What do you know of Him?”
The Archivist’s expression was far away. “Sebastien was the younger child of the Lower Banks’ leader, destined for nothing. Second sons have no right to inheritance, after all.”
So he’d had nothing to lose by abandoning his family, and everything to gain by aligning himself with power.
“In the Book of the New Maiden,” Genevar continued, “he is said to fight Her word tooth and nail, but at the end of Her life, he was the one who founded the Church.”
“So he could murder third daughters without consequence,” Brianne said darkly.
“But why would She designate him as a Favored if he was so quick to question Her?” Katrynn asked the Archivist. “Surely if he was so terrible, She would have exiled him before he betrayed Her?”
“Oh, I’m certain their enmity was played up for dramatic effect,” Genevar said. “If there was no tension in the Book of the New Maiden, no drama, it would be difficult to ensure readership. Her word is good, but word is not always enough. Platitudes without passion cannot stand the test of time.”
Sabine was intimately acquainted with that truth. She clutched the New Maiden’s writings tightly to her chest. The journal might help with understanding the dynamic between the New Maiden and Sebastien, but words would do nothing to bring her powers back.
“We may never truly know what occurred between them,” Genevar said. “But within that book I believe you will find some of the answers that you seek.”
“Do you think that will be enough to conquer the Second Son’s darkness?” Sabine cleared her throat, her voice coming out hoarse. “Without Her magic, I cannot see how to defeat Him.”
“Then we must resource your faith.” The Archivist spoke as though it was all so simple. As though Sabine’s fear was for naught.
“How?” the New Maiden whispered.
“By going back to where it all began,” Genevar said, “to the place where Her magic first emerged, and where Her word was scribed.” Sabine leaned forward, curiosity piqued. “At last, Sabine,” the Archivist said, smiling true and wide, “we must travel to the Lower Banks.”
16
Gossip moved quickly about the castle, easily taking on a life of its own. On the walk back to her chambers, Elodie was cornered by no fewer than five nobles inquiring if the New Maiden had killed a man. Another six wanted to know if Elodie and Tal were to be wed. Somehow, all eleven knew for certain that Sabine had been banished from the palace.
They each approached the queen with such eagerness, whispering theatrically as though they shared some scandalous secret. But Elodie had not delighted in her cruelty. The chilliness with which she had dismissed Sabine had left her own heart aching, and that coldness seeped straight into her bones.
After the theatrics of the afternoon, the queen wanted nothing more than to shut herself up in her bedroom, pull closed all the curtains, and wallow in complete darkness. So, when a frantic Marguerite located her in the east wing and informed her there was a visitor in her sitting room, Elodie wanted to scream. Instead, she steeled herself for yet another indignity. But the moment she opened her chamber door, all fluster was forgotten.
“Father!” She flung herself upon him violently, nearly knocking the poor man to the ground. Duke Antony Wilde steadied himself, wrapping his only daughter into a giant hug. It was then that Elodie gave in to her most elemental, childish needs and began to sob.
“Oh dear,” said the duke, as her tears ran a river down his doublet. “I thought you might be happy to see me, but I certainly didn’t expect you to be moved to tears. This is quite an honor.”
Elodie laughed, wanting to hit him and hug him closer in equal measure. She settled for the latter. When she had finally managed to compose herself, she gestured for her father to sit, wiping away her tears with the heels of her hands.
“I almost hesitate to ask, but as your father I must inquire”—he grimaced, as though he already knew the answer—“are you… all right?” After the emotional events of the day, Elodie surely looked a fright.
“I most certainly am not,” she said, gratefully accepting the teacup Marguerite placed in her hands before leaving the room. “I’ve never been more exhausted or afraid. I have no idea who I can trust, and people are only nice to me in hopes that I’ll eventually do something to benefit them.” She took a sip of tea, letting the floral liquid linger on her tongue.
“It is isolating, being queen,” her father agreed, surveying the many bite-size cakes laid out before them, “but at least you’re rewarded in miniature pastries.”
Elodie laughed, despite herself. “Try the lemon.” She gestured to a curd-filled ladyfinger. Her father took a bite, gasping in delight. “Seems to be the monarchy’s only benefit,” she confirmed. “Unfettered access to tiny cakes.”
