Page 63 of Wrath of the Never Queen

Theo wrinkles his nose slightly in disgust before quickly wiping the expression from his face.

“My father will not be here for the celebrations.”

“Oh?”

“He is heading for Swordstead, now the storm has cleared.” Theo gives me a pointed look. “He will be gone for several weeks.”

“Well, I should think so—Swordstead is on the other side of the country.” Inez frowns. “I thought he had given up on this journey to the werewolves. It is unlike him to travel so far.”

I cast my mind back, recalling how often the king has left his fortress but I cannot remember even once. My brow furrows.

“Indeed.” I tap my chin before turning to Theo. “Do you know why he is so insistent on visiting Swordstead?”

Theo spreads his hands.

“I did not ask.”

“Well…will the guards not be suspicious of you spending time with me so publicly?” I ask, glancing nervously at the numerous guards positioned around the room. Their eyes glint.

“Who said I was spending time with you?” He winks at me before clapping his hands loudly. The rest of the servants turn to look at him, eyes wide and curious.

“My friends!” he calls, and I am surprised at how well his voice commands the room. “Happy Saint’s Day!”

At this, they begin cheering. Theo patiently waits while they settle, a faint smile on his lips.

“I would love the opportunity to celebrate with you all, if you will have me?” he asks the open crowd. The crowd does not hesitate, swallowing him into the masses with firm clapson the shoulder and an abundance of flowers pinned to his tunic. Theo laughs and thanks them, allowing them to welcome him into the crowd. Inez gives me a smile and a sidelong look.

“His Highness has never before joined us for Saint’s Day,” she tells me as the crowd begins to move, sweeping us through the corridors.

“Indeed?”

“Oh, he always treats us right, do not mistake me. Polite and kind to all the staff.” She watches him chatting easily to one of the gardeners. “But he was closed off.”

“Because of the curse?”

“Yes. And…” Inez lowers her eyes, but before she can say anything else, the mass of servants pulls us into the dining room.

The usual cavernous room is now lit up with strong, bright torches. Several stalls line the walls where staff have made their own wares. As the crowd thins out, spread around the room, Inez and I stroll past tables laden with jewellery, food, and other trinkets. Most popular are the fabric flowers as they are the easiest to make—small strips of colourful cotton or silk folded in a way to imitate petals and then fastened with a pin. Inez picks one out for me—a beautiful purple flower—and pins it to my dress.

The hall fills with the smell of baked goods and I find a stall selling saffron cookies. Vanya stands behind the table and inclines her head at us.

“Miss Shivani.” She folds her arms. “I must thank you for the recipe.”

She gestures to the biscuits, delicately baked and presented in neat rows.

“Of course.” I grin, happy at the mere sight of something so familiar and close to home. “They look quite incredible. My aunt would be impressed.”

A ghost of a smile crosses Vanya’s face.

“I did not think witches worshipped the Saints,” she comments, but not unkindly.

“And you are correct.” I smile and point at a cookie. “May I?”

“Of course.”

“Who do you worship, out of curiosity?” Inez asks, taking another cookie for herself.

“Well, no one, I suppose.” I take a bite and savour the buttery crumble. A rush of homesickness sweeps over me but I push it away, blocking it with obscure facts. “Did you know that ‘Saints’ are what dragons called the old gods?”

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