Page 3 of Burning Crowns

‘Oh!’ she spat, and looked down at what she had thought was a perfect plum.

It was rotten and mealy in her hand. A maggot wriggled at her. Rose spat again, and threw the plum as far as she could. A shudder rushed through her, but she shook it off. The plum was on the ground. That was why it was rotten.

With a trembling hand, she plucked another from the nearest tree. Though it looked beautiful and ripe, she knew as soon as the plum touched her lips that it was rotten, too. She dropped it, a feeling of great dismay coming over her. As Rose stood in the orchard, trying to make sense of this sudden and strange decay, it began to rain. Slowly at first, the droplets heavy and hard as they hit her skin. Rose hurried back to the palace, the shower becoming a downpour, until she was utterly soaked to the bone.

She tried to tell herself it was nothing, that it was only two rotten plums and an unexpected spring shower. It wasn’t a sign, it was spoiled fruit and rain, and nothing more.

Be reasonable, she told herself, as she ducked into the shelter of the palace.Do not fear something as silly as this.

But even after she returned to her bedchamber and took a scalding-hot bath, she could not stop shivering, and the sour taste in her mouth still lingered.

Wren

CHAPTER 3

Wren stood on the banks of Lake Carranam, trying to rub the goosebumps from her arms. The water rippled amber and gold, illuminated by the sun’s dying rays. Even though it was the first day of spring, there was a chill in the wind. There was a chill in Wren’s bones, too. But that had been there long before today.

‘Tonight will be perfect,’ said Rose, squeezing Wren’s arm. Rose stood beside her, looking beautiful in her new gown. It was pale green and embroidered with fine lace flowers to reflect the coming of spring. Agnes had threaded daisies through Rose’s hair, which hung in loose curls down her back. ‘Our ancestors are smiling down on us. I just know it.’

Wren’s gown was a simple sheath of midnight blue, cinched at the waist. Around her neck, she wore a sapphire gemstone that had once belonged to her mother, and in her braid, a vine of delicate winter flowers, still pricked with thorns. She had told her sister she wanted to represent the passing of winter, but as she had threaded those fine white flowers through her hair that morning, she couldn’t help picturing the kingdom of Gevra in her mind, and the proud spires of Grinstad Palace jutting up from the snowy mountains.

Rose had approved of the symbolism in her sister’s choice. Winter was behind them now, and with it, the terrible rebellion that had once threatened Eana’s future.

Since their return home, Wren and Rose had held several royal audiences, throwing open the golden gates of Anadawn Palace to their subjects. The town of Eshlinn had been rebuilt, the surrounding forest planted with thousands of saplings. The Anadawn Royal Fleet had been purged of traitors and reformed with willing young soldiers, grain stores across the country were now refilled, farmland had been redistributed and thirty-seven new infirmaries were now open. With more healers than ever, the witches of Ortha found themselves in high demand. In the last few months, many had spread out, some travelling as far as Norbrook to settle, while others journeyed south, to where the Amarach Towers were thrumming with new apprentices, itching to read the secrets of the sky.

Slowly but surely, the twins were establishing themselves as true leaders. Witches who were respected in their own country, not feared. Queens who intended to usher the kingdom into an era of peace and prosperity. A new dawn had come. Tonight, they were marking it by celebrating the Festival of Imbolg a few miles east of Anadawn Palace on the banks of the oldest lake in Eana.

At the palace’s invitation, thousands of people had gathered at Lake Carranam to celebrate the festival. Under the watchful guard of Anadawn’s soldiers, they revelled in the swell of music. Some danced under the setting sun, while others congregated by the serving tables, drinking wine and feasting on the treats that Cam and his team of cooks had prepared for the occasion. Celeste, Rose’s best friend, had already gone back for seconds. There were crispy potato croquettes, roasted lamb bites,figs with goat’s cheese and honey, pear and almond tartlets, spiced carrot cake and chocolate stars.

The twins stood apart from the revelry, watching their kingdom celebrate. Rose giggled at the sight of Shen Lo dancing with Grandmother Lu, the old witch cackling as he spun her far too fast. Although it was a long way to travel, the newly crowned king of the Sunkissed Kingdom wouldn’t dream of passing up an invitation from the queens of Eana.

He was, after all, hopelessly in love with one of them.

Wren glanced sidelong at Rose. ‘Aren’t you going to dance with Shen?’ she said, amused and secretly pleased by the ongoing mutual fawning between her sister and her oldest friend.

Rose smiled, coyly. ‘Once he asks me.’

‘Why don’t you ask him?’

Rose wrinkled her nose. ‘BecauseIam the prize, Wren.’

‘He hasn’t been able to take his eyes off you all night,’ Wren pointed out. ‘Maybe he’s nervous.’

‘I’ve never known Shen Lo to be nervous about anything,’ said Rose, a note of warmth creeping into her voice. ‘Although I will admit my dressisparticularly fine this evening.’

A cold breeze swept through the clearing. The lake rippled and Wren looked down, scowling at her own reflection.

‘Stop admiring yourself,’ said Rose. ‘Vanity is unbecoming of a queen.’

Wren snorted. ‘You spend hours looking in the mirror.’

‘Yes, butneverin public. Or at least not so obviously.’

Wren didn’t know how to tell Rose that she wasn’t looking at herself. When she peered into the waters of Lake Carranam, she swore she saw Oonagh Starcrest looking back at her. The twins never spoke of their ancestor – who was still hiding in the wilds of Gevra,likely gathering her strength – but with each passing day, Wren saw more of Oonagh in her own haunted eyes. A strange emptiness yawned inside her, reminding her of everything she had given up in pursuit of blood magic: the healing strand of her magic, and therefore her peace of mind.

Rose still didn’t know about any of that.

Wren didn’t know how to tell her.

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