Page 41 of Those Fatal Flowers

The square is empty when we arrive, and Margery hands me the broom that she carries. The wood is coarse between my palms until I find the worn-in places where she typically holds it, the spots where her work has smoothed its rough exterior into something almost soft. Beads of perspiration collect on the back of my neck. I’m supposed to be preparing for a familiar ritual, and I do my best to appear assertive and proud, though only Margery can say how successful I am. With a deep breath, I flip the broom around so that its bristles face the sky. The broom’s tip cuts into the shallow drifts of snow like a blade, and I use it to carve a large circle into the ground. The ring is spacious enough that ten men can stand inside it, packed together shoulder to shoulder.

“Thomas aims to compete,” Margery says once I’ve finished, likely so that I couldn’t feign distraction.

“Do you know for certain?” I ask, knowing full well it’s a foolish question. Thomas Bailie would never let the chance to be a king fall into someone else’s hands.

She scoffs. “He didn’t tell me so, but do you really believe he means to sit this out?”

“No,” I concede, gritting my teeth.

“Tell him not to. Tell him that you’re not interested in him.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Do you really think he cares if I’m interested or not?”

Margery snaps her mouth closed into a tight, disappointed line. “Cora can’t lose him.”

Resentment blooms in my stomach at the mention of their union, at the suggestion that its success has anything to dowith me. Shouldn’t she know better than most the impossibility of trying to control Thomas’s urges?

“I thought he was dangerous,” I snap, my tone close to a hiss.

“Lady Thelia…” Margery’s blue eyes are wide, worry crinkling her brows so close together that I think they might kiss. “You know what this marriage means for her.”

Of course I do. I hear Cora’s words ringing in my ears—I’llnever want for anything—and I am suddenly grateful for the light, tasteless breakfast. Anything rich would be coming back up.

Never want for anything. Not even for me? I’ve caught her stealing glances when she thinks I’m not looking, her bright eyes filled with a curiosity that extinguishes the second she knows she’s been discovered. But it’s foolish to hope that those looks contain the same desire that’s taking root in me—I have no proof that they do, and even if they did, just like Proserpina, Cora belongs to another.

For now.

“Then hopefully he abstains for both our sakes,” I say coldly.

Margery doesn’t look convinced, but before she can continue the conversation, other townspeople begin to filter into the square to meet us. The nausea threatens again, and my right hand moves to rest atop my stomach in a vain attempt to calm it. It’s no use. My breath quickens, but I force my hand to my side. This chance, this moment, it’s what I’ve been begging the gods to grant me for centuries. I must be brave enough to take it.

Instinctively, my eyes close and a song fills my throat, the same melody that Raidne and Pisinoe sang to me as I left. I didn’t know then what I do now—that the song wasn’t only agoodbye; it was also a gift. The melody grounds me; it reminds me who I am, and when its notes fill my chest, I feel as powerful as I ever have—as if I could snap open the wings I’ve lost and take to the sky, as if I could raze this entire village to the ground. I’m singing out loud now, but I don’t care. Let them believe it part of the ritual. Only when the song ends does a smile crawl upon my painted lips as a satisfied sigh escapes them, as if this is a day I’ve always known would come and not one that I spent centuries begging for but never believed I’d see.

When I reopen my eyes, the square is full. The crowd watches me with expectant, though not enchanted, stares. As anticipated, the entire village has appeared to watch, though different camps have already emerged: the women and children to my left; a group of about sixty men, who I assume plan to participate, in the center; and a group of older and married men off to the right. Everyone is quiet, but restive, eager for the festivities to start.

And who am I to keep them waiting? I clear my throat.

“The test is straightforward,” I say. “Here behind me, I’ve drawn a circle into the earth. Those who are interested in my hand may wrestle for it. The rules are simple. You may not strike each other, you may not gouge each other’s eyes, you may not bite each other, and you may not grab each other’s”—I hesitate, looking for the primmest descriptor—“delicate areas. If you leave the confines of the circle, you lose. Two of you will fight at a time. The first person to make the other fall three times is the winner. The winner remains in the circle to compete in the next round. Any questions?”

The men nod their heads, confirming their understanding.

“Who wishes to go first?”

A young boy approaches the circle, and the crowd erupts into cheers. The excitement is so palpable that even I’mbuoyed by it. A wisp of blond facial hair adorns his chin, more of a shadow than an actual beard. He’s hardly old enough to consider taking a bride, let alone fighting for one.

Is this the age that evil starts to blossom inside a boy’s heart?

“What’s your name?” I ask sweetly.

“Lewes,” he mutters, his face flushed bright red. I grin as I motion for him to enter the circle. His bashfulness would be endearing if I didn’t know the violence that his boyish frame will someday be capable of.

“And who challenges Master Lewes?”

An older man named Marke steps forward to join the boy inside the circle. Despite the gray that tinges his hair, he’s not frail, and Lewes’s fair eyebrows raise to touch his hairline. Marke’s skin is weathered and tanned in a way that I would recognize anywhere—this man has spent his life at sea. He’s a sailor. My toes squirm in my shoes instinctively, but today, they’re only toes, not talons.

Marke assumes a wide stance to plant himself firmly on the ground, and that first action tells me that he’ll win.

“Begin!” I command, and almost instantly, Marke has one arm around the boy’s throat, pulling his thin frame up off the frozen earth. Lewes kicks his legs wildly, to no avail. Within moments, Marke has thrown him down into the snow with a surprising amount of power.

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