Page 24 of With Wing And Claw

He blinked at her, apparently stupefied. ‘Beg your pardon?’

‘A mop,’ she repeated, more of a bite to her voice than intended. ‘And a bucket of hot water with some soap. No human assistance necessary. It’s not exactly a fun job, I’ll grant you that, but it’s significantly better than living with the stench of rotting blood. Anything else with which you need my help?’

His hollow expression suggested he was far from done. ‘You … you’re suggestingIclean it?’

‘Or anyone else you persuade to do it in your place,’ she added, sending him a forced smile in a belated attempt to soften the blow of her irritation. Behind her, someone was unmistakably sniggering. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I have some other matters to take care of. Thanks in advance for your efforts.’

He was still stammering half-hearted objections behind her as she strode off. Around her, small groups of fae hastily made way, conversations quieting as she passed – all of them sharing the worry, no doubt, that she might appoint them to the cleaning force as well if they made the mistake of catching her eye.

Perhaps she should. She’d consider it if the bloodstains weren’t gone by the end of the day.

She made it two stairs down before the next interruption, a flock of fae demanding to know what burial arrangements would be made for those who had fallen in battle at the White City. Unwilling to admit she hadn’t spent that much thought on the hundreds, if not thousands of dead warriors yet, she promised them a plan would be announced the next morning – enough to send them on their way again, exceptthat they were replaced within minutes by an even more unwelcome arrival.

Orthea of Orontes’ house.

The Mother’s Master of Ceremony was dressed in a lavish golden dress, its skirt so voluminous it seemed to fill half the hallway – the sort of dress that pointedly ignored the fact that any sort of battle had taken place in recent days, let alone adefeat. Her smile was honey-sweet as she gave the most minimal curtsy in the history of faekind. Her green eyes, on the other hand, glared daggers.

‘Howfortunateto find you here, Thysandra.’ It didn’t sound as though the meeting was at all coincidental; knowing Orthea, she’d lain in wait ever since she’d heard the demon threat had been taken care of. ‘I was just wondering about the upcoming Hunter’s Moon festival, as it happens. Do you have any instructions for the celebration, perhaps?’

Gods damn it. The casual cruelty of Hunter’s Moon was thelastthing she wanted to think about.

‘Let’s keep things small this year,’ she said, not slowing down so that the other female was forced to hurry along with her, skirts whooshing dramatically. ‘No big banquets. Just the hunt itself, I’d say, followed by a relatively simple meal.’

It came out a little curter than she’d aimed for.

Once, she’d believed them friends, herself and Orthea. Once they’d roamed the academy halls together, studied together, giggled their way through feasts together; Thysandra had pilfered the other girl’s wardrobe and returned the favour by writing in a larger hand at tests. Then Creon had been born, the Mother had no longer graced her with a seat at the royal table – and all of a sudden, she’d sat alone during meals.

She’d stopped caring long ago. Shethoughtshe had, at least – but the power felt unnervingly good in her hands all of a sudden, and she couldn’t help a twinge of spiteful satisfaction at the twist of the other female’s face.

‘Small.’ There was an unequivocal glint of contempt in Orthea’s scowl. ‘Because of the gods-damned Alliancestarving us?’

‘No,’ Thysandra impatiently said, although that was in fact exactly why she’d suggested the approach. ‘Because our High Lady died three days ago, a thousand of our people aren’t even laid in their graves yet, most of us have lost family and friends, and maybe a night of lavish feasting and fucking is notentirelyappropriate right now, don’t you think?’

‘Oh – oh yes, ofcourse.’ Orthea might be an opportunistic viper, but she’d never been slow to adapt. ‘I was absolutely planning to include a memorial theme this year – I thought that would go without saying. But to keep things so small …’ An affected peal of laughter. ‘Do you really think the Mother would want us to neglect ourselves and our sacred days in her name?’

A hysterical laugh burst free from Thysandra’s chest with such speed that it was all she could do to disguise it as a muffled cough.

Have you gone mad? she wanted to shriek.The Mother drove me to neglect myself even while she was still alive. I promise you she never cared about your wellbeing either. Actually, it turns out she never cared about anything other than keeping herself on that throne of hers – so now that she’s failed to do that, do you really think she’d give a shit about the size of your bloody Hunter’s Moon festival?

But Orthea had never been called a traitor’s daughter. Orthea wouldn’t know the meaning of sacrifice if it hit her in the pretty green-eyed face.

And Thysandra really shouldn’t be making any new enemies if she could at all avoid it. Her former friend might have grown into one of those bone-idle courtiers whose job had only ever been to provide the Mother with endless entertainment, but even if her ties with the army were weak, she held far too much sway with the others of her kind.

‘Regardless of what the Mother would have wanted,’ she said, quickening her strides, ‘Iam not in the mood to celebrate her violent death, nor am I planning to give the impression that I’m doing so. I imagine I might not be alone in that.’

Not a threat. A reminder, though, that those whohadbeen at the White City might feel more inclined to mourn their High Lady and themany others fallen in battle, and that not all of them would be kindly disposed to the notion of feasting their grief away.

A warning, too, that Thysandra would be the last to soothe those inevitable misgivings.

‘Ah,’ Orthea said curtly – more displeased, presumably, by the fact she had been outmanoeuvred than by the outcome of the discussion itself. ‘I see. I’ll make some appropriately modest plans, then,Your Majesty.’

The title was an unmistakable sneer.

Thysandra smiled as if it had been a genuine token of respect and continued her walk to the archives without pause, shedding her conversation partner within seconds. Perhaps a glimpse of centuries-old fury did still show on her face, though, because no one else approached her on the last staircase to her destination; she reached the fireproof steel doors of the archives unbothered by anyone, although observed by at least fifty pairs of ogling eyes.

She slipped into the parchment-filled halls beyond so swiftly her wings almost caught between the doors.

The archives were strangely unchanged, her first reflexive scan of the hall told her, although they were quieter than the last time she’d visited them – rows of towering cabinets, equipped with slender ladders to prevent wingbeats from disturbing the perfectly organised piles and folders. Usually, a small army of human scribes would be flitting around the aisles. Now only dusty silence answered her as she cautiously strode into the hall, her hand once again on her dress just in case someone tried to exploit the lack of witnesses.

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