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Chapter 3

T he wind howled against the frosted mountainside. Aria shivered, urging her horse forward. With her free hand, she pulled her cloak more tightly around her but found the black wool lacking. At the palace, it was barely autumn, with a whisper of chill in the air painting the leaf edges gold. But up the mountain in Northglen, winter had come early, reaching fingers like icicles inside every hem of her clothing and raising goose bumps on her neck, her wrists, her ankles.

Perhaps the chill was not entirely from the wind.

She looked up at the towering structure before her, taking in its looming pillars and pointed fa?ade. The cream stone looked pale in the frigid air, like a woman staring down a storm, her cheeks colorless in the cold.

Morton Manor, home to Dowager Countess Morton, potentially the most dangerous woman in the kingdom and one her father insisted couldn't be reasoned with.

Aria had never before hoped her father was wrong.

She swung down from the saddle, then adjusted her silk vest and thick trousers. Had the countess agreed to meet at the palace, Aria would have worn a proper gown, but she'd done the best she could with a meeting in Northglen. She'd worn a deep purple shirt that hid the grime of travel, along with a pale-yellow vest. An embroidered falcon rose across her left shoulder—an artistic representation of the royal crest. She'd secured her tiara by braiding her hair directly over it; she didn't envy her maid, Jenny, the task of untangling later.

Aria gave care of her horse to a Morton stablehand and approached the manor. A footman met her at the door, bowing low, and she heard herself announced in the echoing hallway as "Her Royal Highness, Princess Aria de Loegria."

The two burly guards behind her shifted. It must have felt strange for hired mercenaries to serve as personal guards to a princess, but she couldn't very well have brought members of the royal guard. They would have told her father what she was doing.

Willful disobedience. Mark.

That shouldn't have earned a mark; after she succeeded , she would prove this meeting wasn't a mistake. But the quill in Aria's mind did not obey her commands. It hadn't for a long time.

The warmth of the manor's interior made her chilled skin tingle. A servant stepped forward to take her heavy cloak, and she gave a brief nod of thanks, walking forward with purpose.

Halfway down the hall, she met her hostess.

"Your Royal Highness, you truly came."

Dowager Countess Morton stood a few inches shy of Aria's height, though her slimming black dress gave her the appearance of a taller frame. She wore her light brown hair bundled in a knot on her head, held in place by a cylindrical hat bearing a slanted black veil that shadowed her eyes without concealing them. From the moment Aria had entered the hall, those pale blue eyes had watched her like a falcon observing a field mouse, and considering the falcon's royal symbolism, Aria clearly heard the countess's silent message: I am queen here.

Aria shrank as a shiver ran down her spine.

Displaying intimidation. Mark.

Straightening, she held herself as a princess should. "Dowager Countess Morton, thank you for agreeing to meet with me."

"Widow Morton, I prefer. There's no need to be so formal if we are to attempt honest negotiation. May I call you Aria?"

Aria stopped herself before saying yes. She had to walk a delicate line of winning this woman over while still being a strong, commanding representative of the Crown.

"A mere ‘Highness' will do," she said, much too late.

"Very well, Highness. This way."

Following Widow Morton, Aria entered a rounded sitting room, her guards taking position at the door. The windows were narrow rather than expansive, limiting cold but also limiting light, and a fire crackled low in the hearth. A small table waited in the center of the room, spread with writing materials and a tea tray.

Widow Morton took the wooden chair on one side of it, motioning Aria toward the cushioned, high-backed chair opposite—a subtle nod to their difference in station. With clear deliberateness, the widow turned her own teacup face up on the tray but touched nothing else before settling back into her seat.

"As hostess, I would offer to serve, but I imagine you'll be far more comfortable taking that role."

Aria's throat tightened. "A servant could—"

"Servants are not permitted to pour in my household. It would be like allowing a non-priest to perform funeral rites; the right and power is mine, so I will not have it sullied. I will, however, make an exception for royalty."

It was a test.

Aria's fingers twitched, and she regretted surrendering her riding gloves along with her cloak. The heavy material would have at least impeded the nervous fidget.

Royalty was not timid. Her father would have known exactly the right course of action. With a steadying breath, Aria grounded herself in the things he'd taught her and a lifetime of watching him rule.

If she chose to pour, she would be lowering herself to a servant's role. It would show weakness, remove bargaining power. On the other hand, if she drank something poured by a Fluid Caster, she may as well dig her own grave. The cardinal rule for a Stone Caster was to never touch them skin-to-skin, lest risk being turned to stone. The rule for a Fluid Caster was just as simple: Do not drink anything they've touched. A Fluid Caster could poison any liquid with a touch.

Aria's eyes darted to the witch's mark on the widow's throat. The pattern was simple, a gentle swoop of lines which began at a single point beneath the woman's jawline, widened across the left side of her neck, then dipped into another narrowing point above her collarbone—like an S that had been stretched taller until it retained only an impression of the former letter. Such an innocuous symbol for the hidden danger that was magic.

Widow Morton waited, hands folded primly in her lap. Had she touched the teapot ahead of time? Was it possible to lay a Cast in advance? Despite Aria's efforts at research, she hadn't found many specific details on the process of Casting, only warnings to avoid them.

Setting her jaw, Aria made her decision.

"In the spirit of our meeting here today ..." She turned over her own teacup, then reached for the teapot. She poured a steady stream of deep amber liquid, which seemed as normal as she could imagine. Then she set the pot on the far side of the tray, nearer the widow. "A compromise. We shall each serve ourselves."

Widow Morton pursed her lips momentarily, and Aria couldn't tell if she was disappointed or impressed. Then she smiled, her eyebrows lifting, some of the severity leaving her expression. "Impressive, Highness. Perhaps there truly is a chance for us."

Aria worked to keep her face impassive despite the warm glow she felt inside.

Widow Morton poured her own cup, but unlike Aria's, the widow's tea swirled light green against the white porcelain. It did not waft steam. As the widow lifted her cup in a toast, the liquid glowed faintly before two small ice cubes took shape, gently bobbing.

Using magic seemed to cost the woman no effort at all. Not a drop of sweat, not the slight twitch of the eye. Fluid Casters could create either healing tonics or deadly poisons by the same casual wave of a hand, and Aria squirmed to witness the ability in person. Although her books agreed Casting had limitations, she couldn't imagine what they might be.

After too long staring, she finally lifted her own cup, toasted, and sipped the warm tea, letting it soothe her insides and renew her resolve.

"So." Widow Morton settled her cup on the tray. Though she hadn't taken more than a sip, it was now bone-dry. "The Crown wishes to talk peace."

Aria drew in a deep breath, catching a hint of rose hips from her tea. She rehearsed again the words she'd already rehearsed a dozen times. Reaching to set her cup on the tray, she opened her mouth to speak—

The teacup shattered in her hand.

Startled, Aria grabbed for something already gone, clenching her fingers around porcelain shards. Heat scalded her hand, dripping in tongues of flame down her sleeve, splashing onto her lap. Though she stood quickly, she felt the tea soaking down her thigh.

For one heart-stopping moment, she thought it was an attack, thought—

But Widow Morton leapt to her feet with a soft oath and called for servants.

Witnessing her clear surprise, Aria relaxed. Only an accident.

There was a flurry of movement around the princess: hands to whisk away the broken pieces, towels to sop the spilled liquid. At least one of the towels came away from Aria's hand bloodied.

Clumsiness. Mark.

Not clumsiness. She'd not dropped the cup. Inattentiveness.

"It must have been cracked and failed beneath the heat," Widow Morton said, giving word to Aria's thoughts. She grimaced. "I'll have someone bandage your hand while I deal with my kitchen staff."

After issuing a few more orders, she left the room, and Aria retook her seat as a woman approached to dress her wound. The woman wore a dress with a deep V-shaped collar, her neck clear of any brand. Her blonde hair—mussed where strands had come free of her bun—was the palest wheat shade Aria had ever seen, wisping around her head in a halo of light. Aria tried to focus on studying that beauty rather than on her stinging hand as the servant applied an herbal paste to numb the wound before bandaging it.

The sharp pain faded to a low throbbing. "Thank you," she managed, but the servant was already gone, ducking from the room.

Aria spent a moment reassuring her guards, who'd come to flank her at the incident, and they resumed their posts while she tried not to think about how terribly this meeting seemed to be going.

The widow returned and took her seat with a deep frown. "I'm sure you assume that was some kind of sabotage. I—"

"Accidents happen," said Aria.

Too late, she realized her father would have used the moment to his advantage, pressuring the widow's guilt for leverage.

Wasted opportunity. Mark.

After staring for a moment, Widow Morton nodded an acknowledgement. "I would hear what you have to say, Highness. What reparations are you prepared to make for my people? What is yourcompromise?"

"My father—"

"Not him. I would know what you offer."

Aria hesitated. She held no power of her own; she was only a representative. "My offer is His Majesty's."

"I see." The widow seemed disappointed, so Aria rushed into details of a compromise she thought her father would approve, if only the widow accepted it first.

"In your letter, you requested freedom of magic, yet Casters are already permitted to practice magic freely so long as they submit to registration by branding. Therefore, it must be the branding you object to. As our compromise, we could do away with the witch's mark." Briefly, she outlined a new registration system that could be maintained by palace scribes, open to the public should they wish to consult the list of Casters in the kingdom. For everyone's safety, it was still important that Casters be known entities, of course.

"Of course," the widow agreed, her expression unreadable. "Safety of the public." Her sharp eyes held Aria pinned. "And one question more—what reparations is His Majesty prepared to make for me ?"

Without meaning to, Aria clenched her hands, sending a fresh jolt of pain through her injured finger.

"The incident with your son was most unfortunate. No one desired his death," she finally said. Her father's words.

"Surely His Majesty did, else he would have left his sword sheathed."

Flinching. Mark. "Charles Morton was a spy within the palace, infiltrating a meeting of the king's private council. His Majesty acted in accordance with the law."

Though Aria knew the words to be truth, her soul shrank. An apology parted her lips, but she clenched her teeth, closing her mouth. Apologizing would indicate wrongdoing; it was her responsibility to stand steady in her father's place, no matter how difficult the situation. The law is the law.

Widow Morton's cold smile rattled Aria's heart just as wind rattled the windows. In the silence, the countess angled her gaze away, considering something distant.

Aria allowed her a stretch of uninterrupted thought.

"One hundred days." The widow clicked one fingernail lightly against the table between them, a steady countdown to some unknown. Tick, tick, tick . "One hundred days marks the traditional mourning season. Who do you think it was, Highness, who decided the death of a child could be erased in a mere three months?"

Aria felt something slipping beyond her reach.

In desperation, she said, "Widow Morton, I wish to avoid violence. You threatened blood in your letter, but my father commands an army. Even if you hoped to gather other Casters to your cause, you would always be outnumbered, and a rebellion will not avenge your son, nor will it bring about more favorable laws for Casters."

"No," the woman said softly, her fingers falling still. "There is no easy path forward for me, and it is not my desire to spread more death."

A surge of hope rose within Aria, nearly lifting her off her chair. "Then let us reconcile! Please."

Slight though it was, the widow's shoulders slumped. "It appears I have no choice. My path forward will be through you."

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