Violet Made of Thorns (Violet Made of Thorns #1)(6)

“What do you want?” I say to the sky.

Nothing speaks back. Maybe because I don’t believe in the Fates’ influence, not truly, and what do gods do all day besides find the barest reason to be insulted?

Fog curls from my breath like smoke. The reminder of Felicita’s prophecy unsteadies me most: blood and roses and war. If the prophecy is true—if it’s here—

Why would it be because I saved Cyrus seven years ago?

Why would the Fates have wanted him to die?

People think that because I have the Sight, that makes me some messenger of the gods. As if I understand these forces or how my magic works. I’ve dreamed across time and now I’m hearing voices—

But I never know why.

If the Fates control our future, I don’t understand to what end. Here in Auveny, the belief is that the Fates judge us. That if we are generous, honest, not too chatty, placable, forgiving, they might twist our threads so we find love and earn our heart’s weight in gold. Everyone has heard of the miller’s kind daughter who marries richly, of the maid who coaxes the man out of a beast, of faithful girls in locked towers waiting for their knights.

But I don’t believe in anything that supposes it knows me better than I know myself.

I am a better liar than I am a prophet. I don’t believe there’s reason to our destinies. I don’t believe the world is just. I believe in wolves—in con men and crowned men who wear wickedness as if it were a talent. Who don’t ask for judgment before devouring what’s theirs. They know the future is no better than a roll of rigged dice, so they may as well do the rigging.

Kings and their dukes have been writing futures with nothing but lies and smiles. I understand this power more than any of some fleshless voice in the dark.

I shut my eyes and remember what the voice said: The boy must die before summer’s end, or you will burn.

Or. If it isn’t a threat, then it’s a choice.

It means I can be saved, if he dies.

I brace myself against the railing, knuckles turning white. For now, they’re only words. For now, it’s only a nightmare.

No one needs to know about this.

With one last glance to the quiet sky, I turn back to the tower, shutting the balcony doors behind me.





When I wake again, I find a spot of blood on my sheets. My cycle started earlier than expected—a bad surprise on an already terrible morning. I bundle the bedding and place it in a basket, where a chambermaid will pick it up.

Downstairs, the statuette on the offering fountain is whole and faceless and dull to the touch. It was a dream, then. That makes last night even more unnerving.

My dreams always come true.

I cover the statuette with a cloth.

I glance around the divining room. It looks just like it did yesterday. Not much of note: a table and chairs for my readings, a small carpeted sitting area, and a hearth. I did my best to clean up this place years ago. Centuries of Seers built up clutter, and people are too afraid of committing accidental blasphemy to throw anything away. I did the next best thing and stuffed everything I didn’t need into the cabinets to never see light again.

Outside, a bell tolls. I blink, a memory jogged. I’m forgetting something.

Another toll. Clang.

Oh. My weekly meeting with the king—

Clang.

Shit. I stick my head out the window. There’s another toll from the clock tower, which will be followed by eight more, judging by the sun’s position overhead.

I overslept. I am late.

Stupid nightmare, stupid—whatever it was. Not to take a page from the prince’s book, but I have more urgent worries than cryptic warnings, which do feel silly in the light of day. King Emilius might not threaten me with flames, but his gaze could wither every rose in his garden when he’s disappointed.

I never disappoint him.

I pull a comb through my hair and pin it back, no time to braid it. I put on a clean dress and my robe, which currently shimmers a bright, cloudless blue. The Seer’s robe is an Auvenese heirloom, cut from a piece of the heavens, according to legend. The fabric changes to match the skies overhead.

It also has very spacious sleeves. I grab two cold buns from the hearth, shove one in my mouth, and the other into one of my sleeves. Stars willing, I won’t be shaking out crumbs at His Majesty’s feet, but better that than a growling stomach.

I rush toward the palace. Halfway across the gardens, I realize I’m brushing shoulders with too many strangers on the tiled pathways. There are more guards patrolling too, though languidly, as if there is no real danger afoot.

Am I forgetting something else?

Following the flow of traffic, I circle around to the front of the palace, where a raucous well-dressed crowd blocks the entrance. At the outer gates, guards are letting a spare amount of people in from the even larger mob outside.

My darting eyes land on a fidgety girl at the bottom of the entryway steps who looks young enough to intimidate. I clear my throat and lean toward her. “What are people waiting for?”

“O-oh! Sighted Mistress!” The girl drops into a curtsy. Her dress is plain, though well made, and I don’t recognize her as any daughter of nobility. If the guards are allowing in commoners, there must be an open audience. “The prince is making an announcement about the ball.”

“The what?”

“The ball. Did you see the flyers? They’re all over the city.”