Page 32 of Those Fatal Flowers

A knock on the door interrupts us. Emme opens it and a weathered Elizabeth draws inside, Ambrose crying in her arms.

“Sorry to bother you,” Elizabeth says, her voice cracking.

“You’re no bother, child. What’s the trouble?”

“It’s my goat again.” Ambrose squirms, and Elizabeth shifts him to her other hip. “I can’t get any milk from her…”

The child in her arms sobs harder, and Elizabeth coos into the top of his head. When she looks back to Wenefrid, I notice that dark circles ring the young mother’s eyes. “Can you try? You’re always able to coax something out of her, and he’s starving.”

“Come, I’ll show you my technique,” Wenefrid says, pushing herself to her feet. “Lady Thelia, can you take him?”

I balk, hands rising to my chest. “Oh, I don’t think that’s—”

But Elizabeth is already handing Ambrose to me. The moment she releases him, the boy unleashes an ear-piercing scream.

Emme moves to follow them.

“Wait—” I start, but Wenefrid turns to me with a warm smile.

“We’ll only be a minute. Just bounce him gently.”

Before I can speak another word of protest, the three women are gone.

I didn’t think it possible for the boy to cry louder, but he loses his grip on reality the second his mother vanishes from sight. I pull him closer to my chest and do my best impression of Elizabeth’s coos, bouncing him gently in my arms. His hair is soft beneath my fingertips, little copper curls that catch the muted light that filters in through the slats in the window shutters.

There’s only one way I know to soothe him. I sing—a quieter melody than I’m used to, almost a whisper, that promises to tell him his future glories if he can quiet himself long enough to hear them. I don’t expect much without the curse’s magic, but Ambrose reminds me that my voice is beautiful without it. The little boy’s wails dwindle into hitching sobs, which eventually soften into the occasional whimper. When he rests his head against my shoulder, I know I’ve won. Exhausted by the tantrum, he lets his thumb find its way into his mouth. It takes only minutes before the child is asleep.

I keep swaying and humming, and my eyes fall closed as well. A strange sensation settles over me—an expansive feeling in my chest that’s hard to put words to, and so I don’t try. Instead, I marvel at the little body so warm against mine, so breakable. At what age does evil sink its teeth into a boy? Because the sleeping child in my arms seems shockingly innocent.

“Oh!” Elizabeth makes a surprised sound, and my eyes snap open to find her and Wenefrid smiling in the doorway. When she speaks again, her voice is much softer. “I’ve been trying to calm him for the past hour but haven’t been able to.”

To my dismay, my arms are reluctant to return him. Why do I suddenly feel so exposed? “He must have just tired himself out.”

Elizabeth’s blue eyes twinkle as she pulls Ambrose in close. “You’re good with him.”

“I should be heading back to the Bailies’.” I brush out my skirts, suddenly eager to put time and distance between myself and this moment.

“I’ll walk with you,” Elizabeth says, and after bidding Wenefrid goodbye, we both return to the streets.

Mistress Bailie is seated at the head of the table with Thomas to her left. A large roasted bird that’s already been carved rests before them, and their plates are piled with its meat.

“There you are, my lady,” Thomas says, motioning to the empty setting to his mother’s right. “Please, won’t you join us?”

I’ve barely had time to settle into my chair before Agnes clears her throat.

“Perhaps this isn’t my place,” she begins, “but those women are far below your rank. Surely you know that?”

She’s testing me and my story, and, of course, she’s right. Proserpina would never have run off to spend the entire day with commoners. I slide my hands, my fingers stained blue by the bayberries, beneath the table and away from her prying eyes.

“You’re right,” I offer, and when Agnes smirks triumphantly, I add, “it’s not your place.”

Her expression sours into a scowl.

Thomas rushes to change the subject. “Now that you’ve settled in, tell us more about the challenge for your hand, my lady.”

I think of my wings, my talons, my old form to give me the strength to keep from melting beneath the heat of theircombined attention. Thomas tears into a bite of meat as he waits for my answer; juice from the roasted bird leaks from the corners of his mouth.

“On Scopuli, it’s tradition to hold a wrestling match for a woman’s hand,” I say, bringing a finger to my chin to mirror where the juice runs. “The men fight until only the strongest remains.”

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