Page 14 of Those Fatal Flowers

Cora’s spine straightens, and those red lips press into a cold, thin line. But she acquiesces and slides into the empty seat to her right. In the halo of her radiance, I can’t help but feel silly by comparison. But all eyes are on me, not her. The vast fortune they believe me to have helps me compete with her natural beauty.

I step onto the platform with the other high-ranking members of the village and take my seat beside Thomas. My hands press into my stomach, and I keep my eyes trained on the empty plate on the table before me. I fear if I look at her, I won’t be able to look away. Or worse, she’ll vanish.

And then, there it is: the same elusive smell that intoxicated me last night. So it was she who guarded my side. The realization is enough to pique my curiosity, to encourage meto speak, but before I can, Thomas is once again talking.

“Rose, fetch these ladies something to drink!” he says to a wisp of a girl, then turns to me. “Wine or ale, Lady Thelia?”

“Wine, please.” I respond slowly, trying to hide my irritation at his intrusion. Men, always inserting themselves where they’re not wanted. He snaps his fingers, and the girl pours me a large glass of the scarlet liquid before moving to fill Cora’s cup as well. It doesn’t go unnoticed by either of us that Thomas didn’t ask her preference. She swirls her goblet aggressively before taking a long pull from it. A knot grows in my abdomen, and I follow her lead with my own large gulp. The alcohol warms my throat, but it does little to calm my nerves.

The excitement dies down enough that everyone begins to eat. A spark of jealousy kindles in my stomach as I watch them. There’s Margery, bouncing a baby on her knee. Another woman scolds her own children, but she does so with a smile on her lips. These people have families; they have lives. Things that I was forbidden from having a long time ago.

But maybe that’s not true anymore.

The thought dampens the glint of rage, and with my resentment tempered, relief floods in. I’m no longer the center of attention.

“If you’re looking for a worthy suitor, the most likely candidate is already betrothed,” a man says from behind Mistress Bailie. He moves to stand behind Thomas. “I’m Master Will Waters. His oldest friend.” He claps his hands onto Thomas’s shoulders to emphasize his point, laughing as he does so, before nodding to Cora. “And Cora’s older brother.”

As I observe them in the candlelit glow of the hall, I’m surprised to see how much the two siblings look alike. He’s a large man, no doubt, but his features are soft and gracile—almost feminine. The same dark curls frame his face, which is markedly softer than the hard lines and sharp angles ofThomas’s. However, where Cora is reserved and calculating, Will is exuberant. It would be hard to remain cold toward him if thoughts of my past didn’t immediately sour me against him. The last time I let my defenses down around a man, I allowed evil to go unpunished. I won’t make that mistake again.

Will’s intrusion is far from subtle. Thomas and Cora have an arrangement, and Will senses Thomas’s curiosity toward me. Nervous thoughts begin to swirl, but the sight of Thomas’s eyes darkening at the mention of his betrothal keeps me anchored to the conversation. He wears the same expression as a child who realizes he won’t be allowed to play with a new toy.

I lift my chin away from Will in the best display of dominance this body allows. When the lie spills from my lips, it does so easily. “A competition will be held to win my hand. It’s tradition.”

“A competition?” Thomas responds with glittering eyes. A flicker of something flashes across Will’s face, but it ripples away too quickly for me to catch exactly what it is—indignation at Thomas’s disrespect toward his sister? Irritation at the allure I hold for him?

Jealousy?

“What type of competition?” Will draws his gaze back tome.

“A display of strength,” I respond. “Becoming the heir to Scopuli’s throne is an honor not fit for the weak.”

“When will it be held?”

“As soon as—” I start at the same time Thomas asks loudly, “What’s the hurry?”

Will drops his hands from his shoulders. Only now do I realize he’d been touching Thomas this whole time, as if he were reluctant to let go.

“Let the woman rest and regain her strength before we send her on her way with a new husband-to-be in tow,” Thomas adds.

“Of course, I didn’t mean to be rude. I hope you can understand that a man is simply eager to try his luck for such a reward.”

I feel the color rising in my cheeks, and I turn to look at Cora. She’s nearly finished her meal, while my plate remains untouched. I take another sip of wine and reach for a stale roll from a basket in the center of the table, but the gesture is for show. I’m not hungry.

Despite an apparent shortage of food, there’s no shortage of alcohol. Rose, the girl who poured my wine, finds herself rather busy, refilling goblets all around the room. The din grows as people start talking louder and moving heavier, banging the tables with their fists, clinking glasses. I scour the room, counting the women as best I can. When I can’t make it past ten without realizing I’ve double-counted someone or losing my place, I determine that the alcohol hit me harder than I intended.

Proserpina and I used to sneak sips of Bacchus’s wine when Ceres hosted feasts. We’d hide beneath the elaborately set dinner tables and wait patiently until the adults were ripe with drink and my sisters lost interest in keeping an eye on us. Only then would we snatch their goblets from above and return them once they were drained. One or two glasses was enough to send us scampering from the banquet hall, giggling as we dashed through the emptied corridors of the palace. If anyone ever knew what we were up to, no one stopped us. Only Ceres had the authority to scold her, and the Mother of the Fields was still jovial back then. The memory is a warm one, and without thinking, I reach for Cora’s hand beneath the table.

Cora’s face snaps to mine as she pulls her hand away. The look of shock I wear betrays my situation, and although she’s irritated at first, her expression softens. When she stands, she motions for me to join her. Whether her intention is to rescue me or simply to draw me away from the crowd, I don’t care—I’d follow this woman anywhere.

“Lady Thelia, you must be exhausted. Would you like me to walk you home?”

This is the most she’s spoken all evening. At first, the sound of her voice sends my expectations soaring, but although it’s just as lovely as last night, Proserpina isn’t in it.

“Yes, thank you,” I reply softly, trying to hide my disappointment. I’m suddenly desperate to escape the room’s hundreds of appraising eyes. Thomas studies us both, as if calculating how this could play in his favor. If he discovers an answer, his expression doesn’t reveal it.

“Of course. Good night, Lady Thelia, Mistress Waters,” he says.

We exit into the chilly night air. I wrap my arms around my frame as a shiver traces down my spine. The wine has made my mind foggy, but there’s a sense of security under the cover of Nox’s cloak; out here, I allow a few tears to fall as I watch the outline of the woman I love walk ahead of me. The woman I lost.

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