Page 81 of A Court of Hearts and Hunger
“After you left the way you did?” He scoffs. “Not likely. Besides, judging by what I’ve heard of tonight’s activities, you’re quite the conjurer in your own right. How did you accomplish such dramatic growth within a controlled framework? Did you use the Arganel method? Or strict power attenuation? Perhaps an expurgation syphon?”
“A blend of all three.”
He vents a frustrated scoff.
“Ever the purist,” I say.
“Ever the rebel. When will you understand that sticking to one form of conjuration yields superior results?”
“I’m not here to argue conjuration methods with you,” I reply. “I am here to enjoy the bloody glee of this new Court.”
“Then you’re a fool,” he says tersely, “and you’ll die on that slab, with the Queen’s claws in your chest. Despite what you think of me, Sugarplum, I’d be sorry to see it. You have a keen and creative mind. You could have been great, if you had worked harder to overcome your Seelie sensibilities.”
“Your advice, as always, is unwanted.” I flick his white cravat and chuck him under the chin. “Be well.”
His growl of displeasure follows me as I saunter away, and I smirk, because there’s a malevolent satisfaction in still being able to get under his skin. Except for that one quick fuck in his workroom, he and I were nothing but stern master and saucy pupil, a dynamic I enjoyed whenever he wasn’t disassembling pitiful human captives.
It appears I was right… he’s not interested in letting me back into his good graces, or his house. Good thing Clara and I never counted on that.
God-stars, something else is happening—the crowd is stirring, brightening with fresh interest. What is it now?
Oh, gods-shit. The Queen has risen from her throne, and she’s walking toward Clara.
The music dies slowly as I fight my way through the crowd toward the platform. I must be there when the Queen sees her portrait, in case she detests it, in case she tries to harm Clara.
At the Queen’s direction, Clara turns the easel to face the rest of the courtyard. “A portrait of Her Majesty."
I’m near enough to have a good view. The portrait is a masterpiece, portraying the Queen on her throne, sitting demurely in the beaded white dress.
It’s a beautiful image—and far too Seelie for this gathering. The revelers snarl and hiss, shouting curses at Clara in the Evertongue and in obscure Fae dialects.
The Queen lifts her hand for silence, which falls instantly. “It is technically perfect,” she says. “But it is not me.”
A deeper stillness drops over the square.
Tension thrums along my limbs as I prepare to leap onto the platform, to defend my darling.
The Queen smiles at Clara, a feigned sadness thinly veiling the carnivorous hunger beneath. Her white claws elongate slowly. “This portrait, like all the others I’ve had done, does not reflect my truth.”
“I know, Majesty,” Clara says smoothly. “That’s why I painted two.”
And she lifts aside the top piece of parchment, revealing the second painting underneath.
It’s the Queen again, but with one arm raised high, holding a glistening heart. Her hand is gloved in crimson, and blood is dripping down her arm, all the way to her shoulder. She’s dressed in a scarlet gown that reveals every line of her body. Her head is tipped back, exultant, and her teeth are bared in a savage smile. Lines of crimson snake outward from her, linking her to several indistinct, monstrous silhouettes in the background. She stands on a mound of blackened bodies, smoke curling from their fire-blasted skulls.
A single tear of blood trails down the cheek of the portrait. From my place by the steps, I can barely see it. Perhaps Clara meant it for the Queen’s gaze alone.
As a final touch, Clara added a scarlet medallion on the Queen’s chest, just above her breasts—an intricate tattoo of interlocking lines and symbols. It’s the most detailed part of the painting, but the Queen bears no such mark in person. I wonder where Clara got the idea for it.
This portrait is messier, wilder, smudged in a few places. Other than the tear and the tattoo, it lacks the pristine detail of the first one. But it captures the Queen’s essence in a way the first painting doesn’t. It is a monstrous glory, a triumphant devastation—with a hint of pathos.
It is the Eater of Hearts, reigning alone, the isolated monarch of a dead world.
The Queen freezes.
She steps nearer to the portrait. Extends one bone-white, pointed claw and touches the faint red path of that single tear.
I let my own claws emerge, mentally preparing to seize a handful of spells from my other pocket.
