The Queen's 16th birthday, December 21st,
four months until Beltane,
Greavesdrake Manor.
A young queen stands barefoot on a wooden
block with her arms outstretched.
She has only her scant underclothes and
the long,
black hair that hangs down her
back to fend off the drafts.
Every ounce of strength in her slight
frame is needed to keep her chin high and
her shoulders square.
Two tall women circle the wooden block.
Their fingertips drum
against crossed arms, and
their footsteps echo across
the cold hardwood floor.
She is thin to the ribs,
Genevieve says, and
smacks them lightly, as if it might
scare the bones further under the skin.
And still so small, small queens
do not inspire much confidence.
The others on the council cannot
stop whispering about it.
She studies the queen with distaste, her
eyes dragging across every imperfection,
her hollow cheeks, her pallid skin,
the scabs from a rubbing of poison
oak that still mar her right hand.
But no scars,
they are always careful about that.
Put your arms down,
Genevieve says and turns on her heel.
Queen Katharine glances at Natalia,
the taller and
elder of the two Arron sisters,
before she does.
Natalia nods and the blood rushes
back to Katharine's fingertips.
She will have to wear gloves tonight,
Genevieve says, her tone is
unmistakably critical, but it is Natalia
who determines the queen's training.
And if Natalia wants to rub
Katharine's hands with poison oak
one week before her birthday,
then she will.
Genevieve lifts a lock of Katharine's
hair, then she pulls it hard.
Katharine blinks, she has been prodded
back and forth by Genevieve's hands
since she stepped onto the block,
jerked so roughly at times that it
seems Genevieve wants her to fall so
she can scold her for the bruises.
Genevieve pulls her hair again,
at least it is not falling out.
But how can black hair be so dull,
and she is still so, so small.
She is the smallest and
the youngest of the triplets,
Natalia says in her deep calm voice.
Some things, sister, you cannot change.
When Natalia steps forward,
it is difficult for
Katharine to keep her
eyes from following her.
Natalia Arron is as close to
a mother as she will ever know.
It was her silk skirt that Katharine
burrowed in at the age of six,
all that long way from the black cottage
to her new home at Greavesdrake Manor,
sobbing after being
parted from her sisters.
There was nothing queenly about Katharine
that day, but Natalia indulged her.
She let Katharine weep and
ruin her dress, she stroked her hair.
It is Katharine's earliest memory,
the one and
only time Natalia ever allowed
her to act like a child.
In the slanting indirect
light of the parlor,
Natalia's ice-blonde bun appears
almost silver, but she is not old.
Natalia will never be old,
she has far too much work and
far too many responsibilities to allow it.
She is the head of the Arron
family of poisoners and
the strongest member of the Black Council.
She is raising their new queen.
Genevieve grasps
Katharine's poisoned hand.
Her thumb traces the pattern of scabs
until she finds a large one and
picks it until it bleeds.
Genevieve, Natalia cautions,
that is enough.
Gloves are fine, I suppose, Genevieve
says, though she still seems cross.
Gloves over the elbows will
give shape to her arms.
She releases Katharine's hand and
it bounces against her hip.
Katharine has been on the block for over
an hour and there is much day still ahead.
All the way to nightfall her party and
the Gave Noir, the poisoner's feast.
Just thinking of it her makes her
stomach clench and she winces slightly.
Natalia frowns,
you have been resting, she asks.
Yes, Natalia, says Katharine.
Nothing but water and thinned porridge?
Nothing, nothing to eat but that for
days and it may still not be enough.
The poison she will have to consume,
the sheer amounts of it may still
overcome Natalia's training.
Of course it would be nothing at all if
Katharine's poisoner gift were strong.
Standing on the block, the walls of the
darkened parlor feel heavy, they press in,
given weight by the sheer
number of Arrons inside.
They have come from all across the island
for this, the queen's 16th birthday.
Greavesdrake usually feels like a great
silent cavern, empty save for Natalia and
the servants,
her siblings Genevieve and Antonin, and
Natalia's cousins Luccian and Allegra when
they are not at their houses in town.
Today it is busy and decked with finery.
It is packed to purpose with poisons and
poisoners.
If a house could smile,
Greavesdrake would be grinning.
She has to be ready, Genevieve says,
every corner of the island will
hear about what happens tonight.
Natalia cocks her head at her sister,
the gesture manages to convey at once how
sympathetic Natalia is to
Genevieve's worries and
how tired she is of hearing about them.
Natalia turns to look out the window,
down the hills to the capital
city of Indrid Down.
The twin black spires of the Volroy,
the palace where the queen resides
during her reign, and where the black
council resides permanently,
rises above the chimney smoke.
Genevieve, you are too nervous.
Too nervous, Genevieve asks,
we are entering the Ascension Year
with a weak queen.
If we lose, I will not go back to Prynn.
Her sister's voice is so
shrill that Natalia chuckles.
Prynn, it was once the poisoner's city but
now only the weakest reside there.
The entire capital of Indrid Down
is theirs now, it has been for
over 100 years.
Genevieve, you have never
even been to Prynn.
Do not laugh at me.
Then do not be funny, I do not
know what you are about sometimes.
She looks again out the window,
toward the Volroy's black spires.
Five Arrons sit on the black council.
No less than five have sat on it for
three generations,
placed there by the ruling poisoner queen.
I am only telling you what
you may have missed being so
often away from council business,
coaching and coddling our queen.
I do not miss anything, says Natalia,
and Genevieve lowers her eyes.
Of course, I am sorry sister,
it is only that the council grows wary,
with the temple openly
backing the elemental.
The temple is for festival days and
for praying over sick children.
Natalia turns and
taps Katharine beneath the chin.
For everything else,
the people look to the council.
Why do you not go out to the stables and
ride, Genevieve,
she suggests, it will settle your nerves,
or return to the Volroy.
Some business there is
sure to require attention.
Genevieve closes her mouth.
For a moment it seems that she might
disobey or reach up toward the block and
slap Katharine across the face,
just to relieve her tension.
That is a good idea, Genevieve says,
I will see you tonight then, sister.
After Genevieve has gone, Natalia
nods to Katharine, you may get down.
The skinny girl's knees shake
as she climbs off the block,
careful not to stumble.
Go to your rooms, Natalia says and
turns away to study a sheaf
of papers on a table.
I will send Giselle with
a bowl of porridge,
then nothing else besides
a few sips of water.
Katharine bows her head and
drops half a curtsy for
Natalia to catch from the corner
of her eye, but she lingers.
Is it, Katharine asks,
is it really as bad as Genevieve says?
Natalia regards her a moment,
as though deciding whether
she will bother to answer.
Genevieve worries, she says finally, she
has been that way since we were children.
No, Kat, it is not so bad as all that.
She reaches out to tuck some strands
of hair behind the girl's ear.
Natalia often does that
when she is pleased.
Poisoner queens have sat the throne
since long before I was born.
They will sit it long after you and
I are both dead.
She rests her hands on Katharine's
shoulders, tall, coldly beautiful Natalia.
The words from her mouth leave no room for
arguments, no space for doubt.
If Katharine were more like her,
the Arrons would have nothing to fear.
Tonight is a party, says Natalia,
for you on your birthday,
enjoy it Queen Katharine, and
let me worry about the rest.
Seated before her dressing mirror,
Queen Katharine studies her
reflection as Giselle brushes out her
black hair in long, even strokes.
Katharine is still in her robe and
underclothes and is still cold.
Greavesdrake is a drafty place
that clings to its shadows.
Sometimes it seems that she has spent
most of her life in the dark and
chilled to the bone.
On the right side of her
tableau is a glass sided cage.
In it,
her coral snake rests fat with crickets.
Katharine has had her since
she was a hatchling, and
she is the only venomed creature
Katharine does not fear.
She knows the vibrations of Katharine's
voice and the scent of her skin.
She has never bitten her, even once.
Katharine will wear her
to the party tonight,
coiled around her wrists like a warm,
muscular bracelet.
Natalia will wear a black mamba.
A small snake bracelet is not as fancy
as one draped across one's shoulders but
Katharine prefers her little adornment.
She is prettier, red and yellow and
black, toxic colors they say.
The perfect accessory for
a poisoner queen.
Katharine touches the glass and
the snake lifts her rounded head.
Katharine was instructed to never
give her a name, told over and
over that she was not a pet.
But in Katharine's head,
she calls the snake Sweetheart.
Don't drink too much champagne,
Giselle says as she gathers
Katharine's hair into sections.
It is sure to be envenomed or
stained with poison juice.
I heard talk in the kitchen
of pink mistletoe berries.
I will have to drink some of it, says
Katharine, they are toasting my birthday,
after all.
Her birthday and her sister's birthdays.
All across the island,
the people are celebrating the 16th
birthday of the newest
generation of triplet queens.
Wet your lips then, says Giselle.
Nothing more, it is not only the poison
to be mindful of, but the drink itself.
You are too slight to handle
much without turning sloppy.
Giselle weaves Katharine's hair
into braids and twists them
high upon the back of her head, wrapping
them around and around into a bun.
Her touch is gentle, she does not tug.
She knows that the years of
poisoning have weakened the scalp.
Katharine reaches for more makeup,
but Giselle clucks her tongue.
The queen is already powdered too white.
An attempt to hide the bones
that jut from her shoulders and
to disguise the hollows and her cheeks,
she has been poisoned thin.
Nights of sweating and
vomiting have made her skin fragile and
translucent as wet paper.
You are pretty enough already,
Giselle says, and
smiles into the mirror,
with those big dark doll's eyes.
Giselle is kind,
her favorite of the Greavesdrake's maids.
But even the maid is more beautiful
than the queen in many ways,
with full hips and color in her face.
Blonde hair that shines even though
she has to dye it the ice blond
that Natalia prefers.
Doll's eyes, Katharine repeats,
perhaps, but they are not lovely.
They are big black orbs
in a sickly visage.
Looking into the mirror,
she imagines her body in pieces,
bones, skin, not enough blood.
It would not take much to
break her down to nothing,
to strip away scant muscles and
pull the organs out to dry in the sun.
She wonders often whether her
sisters would break down similarly,
if underneath their skin
they are all the same.
Not one poisoner, one naturalist,
and one elemental.
Genevieve thinks that I will fail,
Katharine says,
she says I am too small and weak.
You are a poisoner queen, says Giselle,
what else matters but that?
Besides you are not so small, not so weak.
I have seen both weaker and smaller.
Natalia sweeps into the room
in a tight black sheath.
They should have heard her coming,
heels clicking against the floors and
ringing off the high ceilings,
they were too distracted.
Is she ready, Natalia asks,
and Katharine stands.
Being dressed by the head of the Arron
household is an honor, reserved for
festival days and
the most important of birthdays.
Giselle fetches Katharine's gown,
it is black and full skirted, heavy.
There are no sleeves but
black satin gloves to cover the poison
oak scabs have already been laid out.
Katharine steps into the gown and
Natalia begins to fasten it.
Katharine's stomach quivers,
sounds of the party assembling have
begun to trickle up the stairs.
Natalia and
Giselle slide the gloves on to her hands.
Giselle opens the snake's cage,
Katharine fishes out Sweetheart and
the snake coils obediently
around her wrist.
Is it drugged, Natalia asks,
perhaps it should be.
She will be fine, Katharine says and
strokes Sweetheart's scales,
she is well mannered.
As you say,
Natalia turns Katharine to the mirror and
places her hands on her shoulders.
Never before have three queens of
the same gift ruled in succession,
Sylvia, Nicola, and
Camille were the last three.
All were poisoners raised by Arrons, one
more and perhaps it will become a dynasty.
Perhaps only the poisoner queen
will be allowed to grow up and
her sisters will be drowned at birth.
There will be nothing too surprising
in the Gave Noir, Natalia says.
Nothing that you have not seen before,
but just the same,
do not eat too much,
use your tricks, do as we practiced.
It would be a good omen,
Katharine says softly, if my gift were to
come tonight on my birthday
like Queen Hadly's did.
You have been lingering in
the library histories again.
Natalia sprays a little bit of jasmine
perfume onto Katharine's neck and
then touches the braids piled
onto the back of her head.
Natalia's ice blond hair is
fashioned in a similar style,
perhaps as a show of solidarity.
Queen Hadly was not a poisoner,
she had the war gift, it is different.
Katharine nods as she is turned left and
right, less a person than a mannequin,
rough clay upon which Natalia
can work her poison craft.
You are a little skinny, Natalia says,
Camille was never skinny.
She was almost plump,
she looked forward to the Grave Noir
as a child to a festival feast.
Katharine's ears prick at
the mention of Queen Camille.
Despite being raised as
Camille's foster sister,
Natalia almost never talks about
the previous queen, Katharine's mother,
though Katharine does not
think of her that way.
Temple doctrine decrees that
queens have no mother or father,
they are daughters of the Goddess only.
Besides, Queen Camille departed
the island with her king-consort
as soon as she recovered from
giving birth, as all queens do.
The Goddess sent the new queens and
the old queen's reign was ended.
Still, Katharine enjoys hearing
stories about those who came before.
The only story about Camille that Natalia
tells is the story of how Camille took her
crown, how she poisoned her sisters so
slyly and
quietly that it took them days to die.
How when it was over, they looked so
peaceful that, had it not been for
the froth at their lips, you would have
thought they had died in their sleep.
Natalia saw those peaceful
poisoned faces for herself.
If Katharine is successful,
she will see two more.
You are like Camille, though,
in other ways, Natalia says and sighs,
she loved those dusty books in the library
too, and she always seemed so young.
She was so young, she only ruled for
16 years after she was crowned,
the Goddess sent her triplets early.
Queen Camille's triplets were
sent early because she was weak,
that is what the people whisper.
Katharine wonder sometimes how
long she will have, how many years
she will guide her people before
the Goddess sees fit to replace her.
She supposes that the Arrons do not care.
The Black Council rules
the island in the interim and
as long as she is crowned,
they will still control it.
Camille was like a little sister to me,
I suppose, Natalia says.
Does that make me your niece?
Natalia grips her chin, do not be so
sentimental, she says and
lets Katharine go.
For seeming so young,
Camille killed her sisters with poise.
She was always a very good poisoner,
her gift showed early.
Katharine frowns, one of her own triplets
had showed an early gift as well,
Mirabella, the great elemental.
I will kill my sisters just as easily,
Natalia, Katharine says, I promise,
though perhaps when I am finished they
will not look like they are sleeping.
