The crone gripped the polished arms of her chair as she leaned forward a bit. “Then I suggest asking one of your winged males to carry you across the sea, girl.”
Nesta’s throat bobbed. “Please.” I didn’t think I’d ever heard that word from her mouth. “Please—do not leave us to face this alone.”
The eldest queen remained unmoved. I had no words in my head.
We had shown them … we had … we had done everything. Even Rhys was silent, his face unreadable.
But then Cassian crossed to Nesta, the guards stiffening as the Illyrian moved through them as if they were stalks of wheat in a field.
He studied Nesta for a long moment. She was still glaring at the queens, her eyes lined with tears—tears of rage and despair, from that fire that burned her so violently from within. When she finally noticed Cassian, she looked up at him.
His voice was rough as he said, “Five hundred years ago, I fought on battlefields not far from this house. I fought beside human and faerie alike, bled beside them. I will stand on that battlefield again, Nesta Archeron, to protect this house—your people. I can think of no better way to end my existence than to defend those who need it most.”
I watched a tear slide down Nesta’s cheek. And I watched as Cassian reached up a hand to wipe it away.
She did not flinch from his touch.
I didn’t know why, but I looked at Mor.
Her eyes were wide. Not with jealousy, or irritation, but … something perhaps like awe.
Nesta swallowed and at last turned away from Cassian. He stared at my sister a moment longer before facing the queens.
Without signal, the two women rose.
Mor demanded, on her feet as well, “Is it a sum you’re after? Name your price, then.”
The golden queen snorted as their guards closed in around them. “We have all the riches we need. We will now return to our palace to deliberate with our sisters.”
“You’re already going to say no,” Mor pushed.
The golden queen smirked. “Perhaps.” She took the crone’s withered hand.
The ancient queen lifted her chin. “We appreciate the gesture of your trust.”
Then they were gone.
Mor swore. And I looked at Rhys, my own heart breaking, about to demand why he hadn’t pushed, why he hadn’t said more—
But his eyes were on the chair where the golden queen had been seated.
Beneath it, somehow hidden by her voluminous skirts while she’d sat, was a box.
A box … that she must have removed from wherever she was hiding it when she’d leaned down to pick up her handkerchief.
Rhys had known it. Had stopped speaking to get them out as fast as possible.
How and where she’d smuggled in that lead box was the least of my concerns.
Not as the voice of the second and final piece of the Book filled the room, sang to me.
Life and death and rebirth
Sun and moon and dark
Rot and bloom and bones
Hello, sweet thing. Hello, lady of night, princess of decay. Hello, fanged beast and trembling fawn. Love me, touch me, sing me.
Madness. Where the first half had been cold cunning, this box … this was chaos, and disorder, and lawlessness, joy and despair.
Rhys smoothly picked it up and set it on the golden queen’s chair. He did not need my power to open it—because no High Lord’s spells had been keyed to it.
Rhys flipped back the lid. A note lay atop the golden metal of the book.
I read your letter. About the woman you love. I believe you. And I believe in peace.
I believe in a better world.
If anyone asks, you stole this during the meeting.
Do not trust the others. The sixth queen was not ill.
That was it.
Rhys picked up the Book of Breathings.
Light and dark and gray and light and dark and gray—
