Violet Made of Thorns (Violet Made of Thorns #1)(12)

The only setback was the passing of Sighted Mistress Felicita. She was already sick when I arrived, and later that month, she would die speaking the prophecy that still haunts us today, leaving me untrained in her traditions. Maybe it was the Fates themselves meddling; big things tend to happen all at once.

The aftermath of my robing as Seer was something I couldn’t predict—my turbulent entry into the court, the years gaining respect, the decay of Cyrus’s goodwill as his father favored me over him. I didn’t notice the latter until Cyrus closed himself off entirely. He stopped smiling at me and only spoke to lecture me. If my memory were anything less than perfect, I would think the dazzling-eyed boy I saved in the Moon District never existed.

I remember that boy, if only for this: he kept his promise, made as he held my hand tightly that first startling day we met.

I will give you a home.



* * *





A knock interrupts my thoughts.

Sighing, I extract my limbs from the balcony railing and pad downstairs. I was getting too sentimental, anyway.

At the door, the king’s footman greets me in yellow livery. “Good evening, Sighted Mistress.” He bows. “His Majesty is in the rose garden.”

Right—I haven’t had my meeting with the king yet. Smoothing down my robe, I follow the footman outside and leave my past to the past.

Dusk has given way to the dark. When I cross the bridge to the palace, the gardens beyond the gates are no more than broad, murky strokes of hedges and treetops. Budding stars wink overhead and on my sleeves. A single lantern glows on the path to the roses, where a stout figure waits alone.

The rose garden is King Emilius’s favorite corner of the grounds—or, more exactly, the late queen’s favorite, and he took up the mantle fiercely after she died. Roses used to have as many meanings as there were colors of them, but they’ve only meant one thing since Felicita’s prophecy: curse. No one grows them anymore, but they persist at the palace as a mark of boldness—a declaration that the crown doesn’t fear the future, for the prophecy will resolve in their favor.

I approach the king, inclining my head forward in a small bow. “Your Majesty. You look well.”

“Seer.” He doesn’t hunch—the most obvious sign of his health—though his hold on his lion-headed cane trembles. A blood disease runs in the Lidine men that weakens their bones and muscles late in life. It accelerated rapidly in the last year, and while it won’t kill King Emilius, it’s only a matter of time before he’s permanently bedridden. “Any news from the stars?”

The boy must die before summer’s end, or you will burn.

“None this week,” I lie.

He nods, eyes shut in thought. “Then presently, we need to deal with the problem of Auveny’s next queen. We’ve stretched our people’s patience thin enough. There are more signs of the prophecy in the borderlands.”

“The roses near the rot,” I say, like a paragon of vigilance.

“Yes. There were also reports of fields turning into roses overnight in a village farther from the Fairywood. Fortunately, the farmer affected has a reputation with neighbors, and most believe it is a hoax to cover for his poor crop.” His next breath draws out into a sigh, rasping with the anticipation of a cough. “Regardless, I have been preparing for the worst, if that damned prophecy is finally upon us—and I will require your assistance, Seer.”

I tilt my head for a better glimpse of the king’s expression, but it’s too dark to see much more than his profile; still, I know that tone well.

It was King Emilius who first asked me to be deceptive about my prophecies. To make use of the fact that no one else in Auveny can deny what I see, for no one else here has the same magic that I do. When I was younger, I still had the mind to be shocked about it. Not because he asked me to lie or that it went against the virtuous reputation I had known him by, but because someone like him had to lie. That even the power of a king might rest on the whims of a street rat.

He told me that a lie is a tool, just as much as honesty is. Both are about choosing what words to say. Both can have consequences.

What you achieve in the end is what matters.

“There will be a girl attending the Masked Menagerie unlike all the others,” he continues, turning toward me with the faintest smile. “She will make her entrance at eleven o’clock. Her mask will be a splendid green in the likeness of butterfly wings, adorned with a ransom’s worth of dragonscale, emerald, and jade, and her dress will be covered in golden fayflowers. She will be unmistakable. And she is to be Cyrus’s true love. Do you understand?”

I don’t, not for a long moment, because the only thing he could mean is…unless he does mean…“An arranged match?”

“Precisely. A fine Balican lady, set up by someone I sent along with Cyrus during his tour.”

A halting chuckle escapes me. Cyrus has gone through all this arguing just to end up with an arranged match. “That’s perfect. That’s what Cyrus should have done years ago.” And it’s one less thing I have to worry about, too.

The tips of his gray mustache lift upward. “I’m glad you agree. I hope Cyrus does as well. You must convince him that she’s his true love.”

“What do you mean?” I blink. “He doesn’t know about her?”