#Review - Poison in Their Hearts by Laura Sebastian #YA #Fantasy

Series: Castles in Their Bones (#3)
Format: Hardcover, 544 pages 
Release Date: June 18, 2024
Publisher: Delacorte Press
Source: Library
Genre: Young Adult / Fantasy / Epic 

Immerse yourself in the final book in the epic fantasy trilogy from the author of the New York Times bestselling Ash Princess series. Follow three princesses and the destiny they were born for: seduction, conquest, and the crown.

They were promised for marriage since birth, and raised to bring down kingdoms, but the true destiny of the triplet princesses of Bessemia has always been to die—and one of them already has. Since Sophronia’s murder, princesses Daphne and Beatriz have discovered the truth: they are pawns in their mother’s game, which will end with her as empress of not just Bessemia but the entire continent of Vesteria. Only the princesses have their own plans.

Beatriz and Daphne are still separated by a continent, and there are enemies everywhere, but now they have allies who stretch across the borders of Vesteria: Sophronia’s husband, the deposed King Leopold; Violie, a former spy for Empress Margaraux; and Beatriz’s missing husband, Pasquale, and his lover, Ambrose. Now, with their allies’ help and the magic of the stars, the princesses are ready to make their final stand.

But whispers of an ancient prophecy follow them—secrets from their past are yet to be revealed—and every move they make, the empress seems to be one step ahead them. If there’s to be any hope for the princesses, the girls will need to use every skill their mother taught them, trust in the magic in their veins, and defy fate itself. And if they can’t, all is lost for the people of Vesteria.

Poison in Their Hearts, by Laura Sebastian, is the third and final installment in the author's Castles in Their Bones trilogy. This is a series that is set in a place called Vesteria but with different countries like Bessemia, Friv, Cellaria, and Temarin. 17 years ago, Empress Margaraux wished upon the stars for daughters using a person called an empyrea. She was awarded with Sophronia, Daphne, and Beatriz. They were promised for marriage since birth, and raised to bring down kingdoms, but the true destiny of the triplet princesses of Bessemia has always been to die—and one of them already has. 

Since Sophronia’s murder, princesses Daphne and Beatriz have discovered the truth: they are pawns in their mother’s game, which will end with her as empress of not just Bessemia but the entire continent of Vesteria. Temarian has already fallen thanks to Sophronia's death. Beatriz and Daphne are still separated by a continent, and there are enemies everywhere, but now they have allies who stretch across the borders of Vesteria. Beatrix's husband Bairre; Sophronia’s husband, the deposed King Leopold; Violie, a former spy for Empress Margaraux; and Pasquale, and his lover, Ambrose. 

Now, with their allies’ help and the magic of the stars, the princesses are ready to make their final stand. But whispers of an ancient prophecy follow them—secrets from their past are yet to be revealed—and with every move they make, the empress seems to be one step ahead of them. There are dangerous people like Cliona waiting to betray them in a moments notice. If there’s to be any hope for the princesses, the girls will need to use every skill their mother taught them, trust in the magic in their veins, and defy fate itself. And if they can’t, all is lost for the people of Vesteria.

So, as you can imagine, the story revolves around Violie, Beatrix, and Daphne. While Daphne seemingly is the most dangerous sister in this story, Beatrix could easily become the most powerful sister with her magical abilities. As for Violie, she more than makes up for her actions that led to Sophie and Leo being overthrown, and Sophie being killed. This story has betrayal, magic, romance, suspense, and a really interesting ending that I find no fault whatsoever in. Especially when Violie and Leo are closer to saying those three words. The only thing missing in this story is Bairre not learning who he really is, and what happened to him when he was a baby. The authors idea that magic comes from stars and stardust, stardust being able to deal with smaller wishes, but those called Empyrea have the ability to call down the stars themselves, which is how our Princesses’ came to be in the first place was truly unique.   

Daphne

From where Daphne sits in the little-­used parlor in the north part of Eldevale Castle, she has a perfect view of the main gate. All morning while she sips her tea, people have come and gone. A mail carriage, a produce wagon, several dozen courtiers on horseback off to shop on Wallfrost Street or hunt in the woods. Each time anyone approaches the gate, Daphne sits up straighter, but each time she slumps back again, disappointed.

“Something’s wrong,” she says aloud, stirring her tea and tearing her gaze away from the gate just long enough to glance at Cliona and Violie. The three of them have been sitting around the small table by the window since breakfast, Cliona and Violie chatting and Daphne pretending to listen. If she were less distracted, she might find herself bemused at what fast friends Cliona and Violie have become despite how different they are—­Cliona the privileged Frivian lady secretly working for the rebellion her father is the head of, Violie a common-­born Bessemian maid who’d been secretly working as a spy for Daphne’s mother until her allegiances changed. If Daphne were less distracted, she might even be unnerved by their friendship. After all, not long ago, Daphne considered both girls her enemies.

Not anymore, but Daphne is far more accustomed to having enemies than friends, so the adjustment is taking some time.

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Cliona answers with a sigh. “But something tells me you aren’t talking about King Bartholomew’s plan to move the court to Notch Castle a month ahead of schedule.”

That distracts Daphne for only a second before she shakes her head. “The winter has been unseasonably warm, as I understand it. Perhaps he means to enjoy the weather better.”

She looks out the window again as two armored guards ride through the gates. Alone.

“Bea­triz should have been here by now. She should have been here two days ago,” Daphne says.

It’s been a week since Daphne used stardust to speak with her sister in Bessemia, and Bea­triz said she was on her way to Friv. She was taking a more circuitous path than Daphne followed when she left home to come to Friv—­Bea­triz had to in order to avoid their mother, who would surely be looking for her—­but even allowing for delays, she should be in Friv by now.

“Any number of things could have delayed her,” Violie says, setting her teacup down. No, Daphne thinks. Not Violie. Even in her own thoughts, Daphne should think of her by the alias she’s living under, and as far as most of Friv knows, the girl sitting across from her isn’t Violie, she’s Sophronia—­Daphne’s other sister, who was murdered by a mob in Temarin. Daphne needs to get used to calling her by her new name—­or at least Ace, the nickname Violie had as a child that they agreed Daphne could call her to avoid suspicion—­but it’s more difficult than she thought it would be. The idea of the ruse still sours Daphne’s stomach when she thinks about it, about someone else living Sophronia’s life, but it was the only way to keep Violie from being executed for attempting to murder Queen Eugenia—­a murder Daphne herself ended up committing.

Daphne shakes her head. “No, I just . . . I feel it. Something is wrong.”

“Are you thinking to use stardust again to talk to her?” Cliona asks, frowning. “I can ask my father for another vial, but I think he’s getting suspicious.”

Daphne considers it for a moment. “No,” she says finally. “It’ll be the same as it’s been the last few days, and I’m not keen on facing the repercussions again.”

Every time Daphne has tried to talk to her sister via stardust, all she’s heard is an empty silence that makes her head ache like one too many glasses of ale.

Though she tries not to, Daphne can’t help but won­der if that’s what would happen if she tried to speak with Sophronia. If Bea­triz has joined their sister now. The thought makes her sick.

No. Bea­triz isn’t dead. She can’t be. Daphne would know if she were.

Wouldn’t she?

Daphne pushes the thought from her mind. Bea­triz has always managed to take care of herself—­wherever she is, whyever she’s delayed, she can handle it. In fact, Daphne thinks, she pities anyone foolish enough to try to stand in her sister’s way. She forces her gaze from the window and focuses on Cliona.

“Why would it be troubling that the court is moving to Notch Castle early?” she asks, grasping onto the distraction offered.

“Because,” Cliona says, adding another spoonful of sugar to her tea, “in the centuries-­long history of the Clan Wars, Notch Castle alone remained impenetrable. Its location, in the mountains, makes for a natural defense, and everything about the castle amplifies that. If Bartholomew was anticipating an attack, that would be the smart place to be.”

Daphne considers this. Bartholomew would be right to anticipate an attack, either one of her mother’s making or one designed by Cliona’s father and his rebels. Daphne suspects the former, but she knows Cliona is more concerned by the latter. Friends they may be, but Daphne knows Cliona doesn’t tell her everything the rebels are planning. This, though, Daphne can guess at herself. With Daphne and Bairre married and public support high in their favor, the rebels have every reason to remove King Bartholomew from power, paving the way for Daphne and Bairre to eliminate the monarchy altogether from their new thrones.

“If my mother realizes I’ve turned against her,” Daphne says slowly, “there will be far worse places to be than Notch Castle.”

Cliona’s jaw tightens, and Daphne sees her mind turn. “The rebellion believes Friv is facing bigger threats than a power-­hungry upstart empress,” she says finally.

“You mean your father believes that,” Daphne infers. Cliona’s father, Lord Panlington, is King Bartholomew’s closest friend, but he’s also been working to dethrone him for the last two decades. When Cliona doesn’t protest, Daphne looks to Violie for support—­after all, few people know what the empress is capable of better than Violie, who worked as one of her spies until recently—­but Violie is distracted, gazing out the window with a furrowed brow.

Heart leaping, Daphne follows her gaze, but just as quickly her heart sinks again, leaving dread in its wake.

A single rider on a pure white horse pulls to a stop at the gate, but it’s his livery that gives Daphne pause. He’s dressed head to toe in Bessemian blue.

“Your mother’s sent a letter?” Violie asks.

“A letter would come in the post,” Daphne says, setting her teacup down and getting to her feet. She can think of very few things that would entice her mother to send her personal messenger to Friv, and none of them are good.

Daphne and Cliona make their way to the entry hall without Violie in case the messenger is someone who might have seen Sophronia before and recognize that Violie isn’t her. As soon as they reach the castle’s ground floor, they meet Bairre, flanked by two guards, coming from the entry hall. When his eyes meet Daphne’s, she knows that whatever he has to say is bad.

“My mother sent a messenger,” she says, so he doesn’t have to. “We saw him come through the gates.”

Bairre nods. “He said he would only speak to you and Sophronia,” he tells her.

Daphne’s stomach sinks and she spares a glance at the guards accompanying him. “I’ll speak to him, but my sister is feeling indisposed. I’d rather not disturb her.”

Bairre nods, understanding her meaning. As he leads her through the hall to the entry, she glances sideways at him.

It’s been a week since they were married, but she still has difficulty thinking of him as her husband, difficulty thinking of herself as someone’s wife. Perhaps that is, at least in part, because the marriage hasn’t been consummated.

It was an agreement they came to on their wedding night, a protective measure to use to dissolve their marriage if the empress tries to turn it into a weapon against them.

“If she’s received word Sophronia is alive, she’ll want to verify that,” Daphne says. “Of course, we expected as much, didn’t we?”

Bairre gives a terse nod, but neither of them says that so much of their plan hinges on chance. And it will be a lot easier if the messenger is one Daphne doesn’t recognize, one who is unlikely to recognize that Violie isn’t, in fact, Sophronia.

Any hope of that, though, is dashed as soon as Daphne steps into the entry hall, finding herself face to face with Bertrand, a man who has been in her mother’s service for as long as Daphne can remember.

“Your Highness,” Bertrand says, bowing deeply.

“Bertrand,” Daphne replies with a smile, leaving Bairre’s side to step toward him, extending her hands to take his, like she’s greeting an old friend. “How good to see you again.”

“And you as well, Princess Daphne,” Bertrand says, squeezing her hands before releasing them. He glances over her shoulder, but when he sees only Bairre, Cliona, and the guards accompanying her, he frowns. “Is Princess Sophronia not with you?” he asks.

“Queen Sophronia isn’t feeling well,” Daphne says. “I’m sure she’ll be terribly disappointed to miss you, but the . . . trauma of escaping Temarin and all that passed since has taken its toll on her, I’m afraid. I’m loath to interrupt her rest for any reason. You understand, I’m sure.”

Daphne punctuates those last words with another squeeze of his hands, this time pricking his skin with her poison ring.

“Oh,” Bertrand says, jumping and pulling his hands out of Daphne’s. She frowns.

“Are you all right, Bertrand?” she asks, all wide-­eyed worry. “You look exhausted—­unsurprising, since you’ve had quite a journey.”

Bertrand shakes his head, like he’s trying to clear it. When he looks back at Daphne, his eyes have gone glassy and unfocused. “Exhausted,” he echoes. “Quite a journey.”

Aetherleaf powder leaves its victims drowsy and suggestible, precisely how Daphne needs him for her plan to work.

“I thought as much,” Daphne says with a sympathetic smile. “Why don’t you rest up for a bit? Perhaps Sophronia will be well enough to say hello at supper.”

“Supper,” Bertrand says.

“Yes, exactly,” Daphne says, glancing up at Bairre and giving him a small, triumphant smile. “Come, I’ll show you to a guest room.”



As Daphne escorts Bertrand down the hall, giving no outward indication of exactly how much weight he is putting on her arm, she monitors his steps, the rate of his breathing, and the speed of his motions. When she’s satisfied the drug has fully taken hold of him, she glances over her shoulder to ensure that Bairre and Cliona are keeping the guards at a safe distance. Satisfied, she begins to speak in Bertrand’s ear, her voice low and soft.

“You enjoyed a lovely dinner with Queen Sophronia and me. Didn’t you think she looked well?”

“She looked well,” Bertrand echoes, nodding his head.

“She was so thrilled to see you, Bertrand. She asked after your wife and son back in Bessemia and you had a lovely conversation about them. Sophronia is always so thoughtful that way, isn’t she?”

“Thoughtful, yes,” he says.

“But you had far too much to drink at dinner. It’s a bit embarrassing how in your cups you became—­when you wake up in the morning you’ll be anxious to leave the castle at once to return to the empress.”

“Return to the empress.”

“And when you see her, you’ll tell her how you saw Sophronia, how well she looked, how you spoke with her and she was just as you remembered her. Can you do that?”

“Can do that.”

“Tell me, then,” Daphne says. “What will you tell my mother?”

“I saw Queen Sophronia,” he says, his voice drowsy but the words clear. “She looked well, we spoke and she was just as I remembered her.”

“Very good, Bertrand,” Daphne says.

He is leaning too heavily on her now, all but dragging her to the stone floor.

“Guards,” Daphne says over her shoulder. “I fear Bertrand had a bit too much to drink on his journey. Will you help him to bed before he hurts himself?”

“Of course, Princess,” one guard says, sweeping forward to relieve her of her burden.

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#Review - Stardust in Their Veins by Laura Sebastian #YA #Fantasy

Series: Castles In Their Bones (#2)
Format: Hardcover, 576 pages
Release Date: February 7, 2023
Publisher: Delacorte Press
Source: Publisher
Genre:Young Adult / Fantasy / Epic

Immerse yourself in the second book in a fantasy trilogy from the New York Times bestselling author of the Ash Princess series. The sequel to Castles in Their Bones is the story of three princesses and the destiny they were born for: seduction, conquest, and the crown.

Princesses Daphne, Beatriz, and Sophronia have trained their entire lives for one purpose: to bring down nations. Their mother, Empress Margaraux of Bessemia, is determined to rule the continent of Vesteria, and her daughters are her weapons. Promised for marriage since birth, they are her ticket across enemy lines. And also her decoys.

Still, not even Empress Margaraux can control the stars. Sent to their new kingdoms, orders in hand, the princesses have found their own paths, changing the course of their mother’s plans entirely—and tragically. Sophronia chose love, and for that, she lost her life. 

Daphne and Beatriz can hardly believe their sister is dead, but both are determined to avenge her. And now, separated by a continent—and their mother’s lies—they see more clearly with every passing day that they might not be working toward the same end.

The stars whisper of death, but Daphne and Beatriz are just beginning to understand the true power coursing through their veins. And their mother will do anything to keep them under her thumb—even if it means killing them all.

 

Stardust in Their Veins is the second installment in author Laura Sebastian's Castle's In Their Bones trilogy. Key Characters: Empress Margaraux, Princess Beatrix, Daphne, and Violie, a new character who was a secondary character in the previous installment. Violie was witness to Princess Sophronia's murder 5 days before this story begins. This is a world with 4 main Nations: Temarin, Friv, Bessemia, and Cellaria. Princesses Daphne, Beatriz, and Sophronia trained their entire lives for one purpose: to bring down nations.

Their mother, Empress Margaraux of Bessemia, is determined to rule the continent of Vesteria, and her daughters are her weapons. Promised for marriage since birth, they are her ticket across enemy lines. And also her decoys. As the story beings, Sophronia chose her own fate and has been executed. As Sophie was my favorite in the initial installment, that blow really took me as a shock. Thanks to the events behind what happened to her, things are now going in a direction that I don't think anyone will figure out until the final installment is released.

Beatrix has been sent to Cellarian Prison while her husband Pasquale has been disinherited and imprisoned in yet another prison awaiting judgment. Beatrix has the unusual power of wishing on a star and making wishes. Her wish reunites her with Pasquale where they will eventually find their way back to Bessemia where Beatrix will begin her own plan to gain her revenge against her mother while learning more and more about her gifts, mourning the loss of her sister, and finding allies in the most unlikely of places.

Meanwhile, Daphne in Friv is preparing to marry Bairre. Daphne’s story is also intriguing, though she isn’t as quick to turn against her mother. This isn’t surprising considering she is probably the most similar to the Empress. However, we do see her attitude change as the story progresses. It’s interesting to see how she deals with new and surprising revelations, the grief of losing her sister, and her conflicted feelings toward Bairre. Daphne is forced to choose between what she wants, and what her mother has trained her to be.

To add even more mystery, Violie, who was Sophie's maid, has escaped what happened to Soph with King Leopold. Violie, curious enough, was hired by Margaraux to be her spy. She has a quiet strength about her, and a determination to keep her promises to Sophie. We see her and Leopold and the tension at the beginning of their relationship, as they both feel great guilt that they could not save Sophie's life. We slowly see the beginnings of a friendship between them, built on their shared grief, and grow on the hope that they will make Sophie proud.

The first half of this book is slow. There’s a lot of traveling to get our characters from point A to point B and we have to read about all their traveling even though not a lot of interesting things happen while they travel. The pace picks up in the second half of this book, which was necessary. I do believe the third book will be the best of all three, and I am trusting the author not to let me down in my expectations. A Certain Empress must pay for her machinations.

Beatriz

Bea­triz paces her cell at the Cellarian Sororia nestled in the Alder Mountains, ten steps from wall to wall. It has been five days since she was brought here, sealed away in this sparse chamber with only a narrow bed, a threadbare blanket, and a pitcher of water set on a small wooden stool. It has been five days since she heard her sisters’ voices in her head, as clearly as if they were standing in the room beside her. Five days since she heard Sophronia die.

No. No, she doesn’t know that, not really. There were a dozen explanations for it, a dozen ways Bea­triz could make herself believe that her sister was still out there, still alive. Whenever Bea­triz closes her eyes, she sees Sophronia. In the silence of her room, she hears her laughter. Whenever she manages to sleep for a few hours, her nightmares are haunted by the last words she spoke.

They’re cheering for my execution. . . . There is so much more at play than we realized. I still don’t understand all of it, but please be careful. I love you both so much. I love you all the way to the stars. And I—­

And that had been all.

Bea­triz doesn’t understand the magic that made the com­munication possible—­that was Daphne, who’d done it once before to speak with Bea­triz alone. The magic had cut out then, too, but it was different the second time, like she could still feel Daphne’s presence a few seconds longer, her stunned silence echoing in Bea­triz’s mind before she too cut out.

But Sophronia can’t be dead. The thought is unfathomable. They came into the world together: Bea­triz, Daphne, then Sophronia. Surely none of them could leave it alone.

No matter how many times Bea­triz tells herself that, though, she never fully believes it. She felt it, after all, like a heart clawed out of her chest. Like something vital lost.

The sound of the lock scraping open echoes in Bea­triz’s cell and she turns toward the door, expecting one of the Sisters to bring her next meal, but the woman who enters is empty-­handed.

“Mother Ellaria,” Bea­triz says, her voice rough after so little use these past days.

Mother Ellaria is the Sister who greeted Bea­triz upon her arrival, leading her to her cell and giving her a change of clothes that look identical to what the older woman wears herself. Of those clothes, Bea­triz has only put on the gray wool dress. The headdress still sits at the foot of her bed.

In Bessemia, it was a great honor for Sisters to don their headdresses. There were ceremonies for them—­Bea­triz herself had attended several. It was a celebration to honor a woman’s choice to devote herself to the stars above all else.

But Bea­triz has chosen nothing, so the headdress remains off.

Mother Ellaria notes this, her eyes moving from Bea­triz’s messily braided red hair to the headdress sitting on the bed. She frowns before looking at Bea­triz once more.

“You have a visitor,” she says, disapproval filling every syllable.

“Who?” Bea­triz asks, but Mother Ellaria doesn’t answer, instead turning and walking out of the room, leaving Bea­triz no choice but to follow her down the dark hallway, her imagination running wild.

For an instant, Bea­triz imagines it is Sophronia—­that her sister has traveled from Temarin to assure her that she’s alive and well. But it’s far more likely to be her onetime friend Gisella, come to gloat again, or Gisella’s twin brother, Nico, here to see if a few days in the Sororia have changed her mind about his proposal.

If that’s the case, he’ll leave disappointed. Much as she hates it here, she prefers it to returning to the Cellarian palace while Pasquale lives out the rest of his life in the Fraternia on the other side of the Azina River.

Her chest tightens at the thought of Pasquale—­disinherited and imprisoned because she convinced him to trust the wrong people.

They haven’t seen the last of us, Pasquale said after their sentence for treason had been handed down. And soon enough, they’ll wish they’d killed us when they had a chance.

She lets the words echo in her mind as she follows Mother Ellaria down the dimly lit hallway, running through a mental list of all the ways she could overtake the frail older woman and escape . . . but escape where? The Alder Mountains are treacherous terrain even for those who are prepared to scale them. If Bea­triz were to escape, alone, with nothing more than a dress and cotton slippers, she wouldn’t stand a chance of living through the night.

Her mother always cautioned patience, and while it has never been Bea­triz’s strength, she knows it’s necessary now. So she keeps her hands at her sides and trails after Mother Ellaria as she rounds a corner, then another before stopping at a tall wooden door and fixing Bea­triz with a withering look, like she’s caught the scent of something rotten. Though Bea­triz knows the woman dislikes her, she doesn’t think she’s responsible for that particular look.

“Due to the . . . status of your guest, I’ve allowed the use of my own office for your meeting, but I will return in ten minutes, not a second more.”

Bea­triz nods, even more certain that it will be Gisella or Nicolo awaiting her—­Nicolo, after all, is King of Cellaria now, and as his sister, Gisella’s status has been elevated as well, though Mother Ellaria might disapprove of them every bit as much as she disapproves of Bea­triz.

Ignoring those thoughts, Bea­triz steels herself and pushes the door open, stepping inside. She immediately stops short, blinking as if the figure before her might disappear.

But no matter how many times she blinks, Nigellus remains. Her mother’s empyrea has made himself at home in Mother Ellaria’s chair and watches her over steepled fingers as she enters. Her cell has no windows, and Bea­triz lost track of the time of day soon after she arrived, but now she can see that it’s nighttime, the full moon shining through the window behind Nigellus, the stars brighter and bolder than usual.

It is the first time she has seen them in five days, the first time she has felt their light dance upon her skin. She feels dizzy with it, gripping her hands into fists at her sides. Magic, she thinks, though she still can’t quite believe it, even though she’s used her power twice now, accidentally, to call on the stars.

Nigellus notices the white-­knuckled flex of her hands, but he doesn’t say anything. The door closes behind Bea­triz, leaving them alone, but for a moment they only look at each other, silence stretching between them.

“Sophronia’s dead, isn’t she?” Bea­triz asks, breaking the silence first.

Nigellus doesn’t answer right away, but after what feels like an eternity, he nods.

“Queen Sophronia was executed five days ago,” he says, his voice level and without any kind of inflection. “Along with most of the Temarinian nobility. Your mother had armies waiting at the border and amid the chaos, they seized the capital. With no ruler to surrender, she’s simply claimed it as her own.”

Bea­triz sinks into the chair opposite the desk, all of the life leaving her in that moment. Sophronia is dead. She should have been prepared, should have expected that. Didn’t their mother always tell them never to ask a question they didn’t know the answer to? But hearing her biggest fear confirmed saps everything from her. Bea­triz feels like a husk of a person.

“Sophie’s dead,” she says again, not caring about the rest of it. Not caring about her mother or her armies or the new crown she’s added to her collection.

“It is by pure luck that you and Daphne are not,” Nigellus says, drawing her out of her thoughts.

She looks up at him, wondering what he would do if she were to launch herself across the desk and pummel him. Before she can, though, he continues.

“It isn’t a coincidence, Bea­triz,” he says. “The rebellions, the plots, the dead kings. The chaos.”

“Of course not,” Bea­triz says, lifting her chin. “Mother raised us to create chaos, to plot, to stoke fires of rebellion.”

“She raised you to die,” Nigellus corrects.

The breath leaves Bea­triz’s lungs, but after a moment, she nods. “Yes, I suppose she did,” she says, because it makes sense. “She must be terribly disappointed to have only gotten one out of three.”

“Your mother is playing a long game,” Nigellus says, shaking his head. “She’s waited seventeen years. She can wait a little longer.”

Bea­triz swallows. “Why are you telling me this? To taunt me? I’m locked away in this miserable place. Isn’t that enough?”

Nigellus considers his next words carefully. “Do you know how I’ve lived this long, Bea­triz?” he asks. He doesn’t give her a chance to answer. “By not underestimating anyone. I’m not about to start with you.”

Bea­triz laughs. “I might not be dead, but I can assure you, my mother’s beaten me quite soundly.”

Even as she says the words, Bea­triz doesn’t believe them. She promised Pasquale they would find a way out of this, and she knows that is the truth. But it is far better that Nigellus—­and by extension the empress—­believe her to be hopelessly broken.

Nigellus surprises her by shaking his head, a wry smile curling his lips. “You aren’t beaten, Bea­triz. I think we both know that. You’re waiting to strike out, picking your moment.” Bea­triz purses her lips but doesn’t deny it. He continues. “I’d like to help you.”

Bea­triz considers him for a moment. She does not trust him, has never liked him, and there is a part of her that still feels like a child in his presence, small and afraid. But she is trapped in a deep hole and he is offering her a rope. There is nothing to lose by taking hold of it.

“Why?” she asks him.

Nigellus leans across the desk, resting on his elbows. “We have the same eyes, you know,” he says. “I’m sure you heard the rumors in Bessemia, that you and your sisters were fathered by me.”

If that was a rumor, it had never made it to Bea­triz’s ears. But he’s right—­his eyes are like hers, like Daphne’s are, like Sophronia’s were: a pure, distilled silver. Star-­touched, the eyes of children whose parents wished for them using stardust or, in much rarer cases, when an empyrea wished on a star, causing it to fall from the sky. When Bea­triz was sent to Cellaria, her mother gave her eye drops to hide the hue of her eyes, a hue that would mark her as a heretic in a country that viewed star magic as sacrilegious. When she was sent to the Sororia, she wasn’t allowed to bring any possessions with her, including the eye drops, so her eyes have returned to their natural silver, but she supposes that after using a wish to break a man out of prison, star-­touched eyes are the least of her problems.

As if reading her mind, Nigellus nods. “We have been touched by stars, you and I. Made, in part, by the stars. Your mother wished for you and your sisters, and I pulled down stars to make her wish come true. I assume my own mother used stardust to wish for me, though she died before I could ask her.”

Your mother wished for you. It was a rumor Bea­triz had heard, of course, but while wishing with stardust was relatively common, the wishes empyreas made on stars, bringing them down from the sky in the process, created strong enough magic to make miracles happen. Miracles like her mother becoming pregnant with triplets when her father had notoriously never before fathered a child, legitimate or not even with the assistance of copious amounts of stardust, in his eighty years. But even though an empyrea wishing on stars is rare, because stars themselves are a finite resource, Bea­triz isn’t surprised her mother crossed that line. If anything, it is one of the smallest trespasses she’s made.

“And,” Nigellus continues, watching her closely, “being star-­touched sometimes comes with its own gift from the stars.”

Bea­triz forces her face to remain impassive, her thoughts sealed away. Twice now she has wished upon the stars and twice those wishes have come true, leaving stardust in their wake. One in ten thousand people can bring down the stars with magic—­Bea­triz never thought she’d be one of them, yet now she is sure of it. But they are in Cellaria, where sorcery is a crime punishable by execution, and Nigellus has already admitted that her mother wants her dead. She isn’t about to hand him a dagger to turn on her.

“If every silver-­eyed child were an empyrea, the world would be a mad place,” she says after a moment.

“Not every silver-­eyed child,” he says, shaking his head. “Not every star-­touched child—­in most the talent lies dormant, like in your sisters, never woken. But it isn’t dormant in you.”

When Bea­triz’s expression doesn’t change, his eyebrows lift. “You know,” he says, leaning back in his chair and looking at her with appraising eyes. “How many times have you done it?”

“Twice,” she admits. “Both times accidentally.”

“That’s how it is at first,” he says. “The magic comes in fits, often brought on by extreme bouts of emotion.”

Bea­triz thinks of the first time she called on the stars, when she was so overcome with homesickness she thought it might break her. And the second time, when she wanted nothing more in the world than for Nicolo to kiss her. Painful as it is to admit now, in light of his betrayal, she knows she was quite overcome with emotion then, too. She was such a fool.

“It doesn’t matter what talents I may or may not have,” she says, pushing to her feet. “They suspect what I can do and so I’m kept in a windowless room all night. Unless you have a way of getting me out of this place—­”

“I do,” he interrupts, inclining his head toward her. “If you agree to my offer, you and I will walk out of here tomorrow night. You could be back in Bessemia in just a few days.”

Bea­triz tilts her head, eyeing him thoughtfully for a moment as she weighs his offer. It isn’t that it is a bad one, but she suspects she can push him further. “No.”

Nigellus snorts. “You don’t even know what I want,” he says.

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t want you and me to walk out of here. If you’re getting me out, you need to get Pasquale out as well.”

Bea­triz doesn’t know if she’s ever seen Nigellus surprised, but he’s surprised now. “The Cellarian prince?” he asks, frowning.

“My husband,” she says, because while the marriage has never been consummated—­never will be consummated—­they made vows to each other, both during and after their wedding. And they are vows Bea­triz intends to keep. “He’s being held by the Fraternia on the other side of the Azina River, just as I am here, on trumped-­up charges of treason.”

Nigellus gives her a knowing look. “From what I’ve heard, the charges had merit.”

Bea­triz clenches her jaw but doesn’t deny it. They had plotted to overthrow Pasquale’s mad father, that was true. Treason might even be considered a modest description—­they’d also taken part in a jailbreak of another traitor, and Bea­triz was guilty of violating Cellaria’s religious laws by using magic. “All the same. If you can get both of us out, then maybe we can talk about your terms.”

Nigellus pauses for a moment before nodding. “Very well. I will get you and your prince to safety, out of Cellaria.”

She looks at Nigellus, trying to size him up, but it is impossible. There is no understanding Nigellus, and she would be a fool if she didn’t expect that he is two steps ahead of her, playing a game she doesn’t know the rules of. They are not on the same side in this, they do not have the same goals.

She should not trust him. But she doesn’t have a choice.

“We have a deal.”

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#Review - Castles in Their Bones by Laura Sebastian #YA #Fantasy

Series: Castles in their Bones # 1
Format: Hardcover, 528 pages
Release Date: February 1, 2022
Publisher: Delacorte Press
Source: Publisher
Genre: Young Adult / Fantasy / Epic

A spellbinding story of three princesses and the destiny they were born for: seduction, conquest, and the crown. Immerse yourself in the first book in a new fantasy trilogy from the author of the New York Times bestselling Ash Princess series.

Empress Margaraux has had plans for her daughters since the day they were born. Princesses Sophronia, Daphne, and Beatriz will be queens. And now, age sixteen, they each must leave their homeland and marry their princes.
 
Beautiful, smart, and demure, the triplets appear to be the perfect brides—because Margaraux knows there is one common truth: everyone underestimates a girl. Which is a grave mistake. Sophronia, Daphne, and Beatriz are no innocents. They have been trained since birth in the arts of deception, seduction, and violence with a singular goal—to bring down monarchies— and their marriages are merely the first stage of their mother’s grand vision: to one day reign over the entire continent of Vesteria.
 
The princesses have spent their lives preparing, and now they are ready, each with her own secret skill, and each with a single wish, pulled from the stars. Only, the stars have their own plans—and their mother hasn’t told them all of hers.
 
Life abroad is a test. Will their loyalties stay true? Or will they learn that they can’t trust anyone—not even each other?
  

Laura Sebastian's Castles in Their Bones is the first installment in a new series by the same name. The story takes place in fictional lands of Bessemia, Teramin, Friv, and Caialona. The story revolves around three triplet sisters: Sophronia, Daphne, and Beatriz. They have been trained since birth in the arts of deception, seduction, and violence with a singular goal—to bring down monarchies— and their marriages are merely the first stage of their mother’s grand vision: to one day reign over the entire continent of Vesteria.

Princesses Sophronia, Daphne, and Beatriz were raised by their mother, Empress Margaraux, to one day be queens and now the time has come for them to begin to implement their mother’s plan. Now that the girls are sixteen they must each go to the lands chosen for them and wed the princes of those lands and hopefully reunite within a year when they turn seventeen. Beatriz ends up in Bessemia engaged to Prince Pasquale, Sophronia to Teramin where she's to marry King Leopold, and Daphne to Friv where she's supposed to marry Prince Cillian but there's a shock awaiting.

Sophronia enjoys economics and code-breaking, Beatriz is best with flirtation, and Daphne works with poisons and archery. Each country has its own politics depending on the rule of the monarchies. In Teramin, executions happen on a regular occurrence. In Friv, it is bitter cold and dark. Daphne finds herself engaged to the bastard son of the King after Prince Cillian dies before she arrives. Sophronia’s the most romantic of the three sisters. She actually finds Leopold to be her equal in every way, but at every turn, they are blocked from doing what needs to be done by Dowager Queen Eugenia’s hand in the game.

The princesses have spent their lives preparing, and now they are ready, each with her own secret skill, and each with a single wish, pulled from the stars. Only, the stars have their own plans—and their mother hasn’t told them all of hers. Their tasks are to initiate their mother’s plan to drive the kingdoms to war with each other so that she can sweep in and take over. However, nothing goes according to plan, and as the princesses become more ingratiated in their new worlds, political intrigue, lies, betrayal, conflicting feelings, and harsh leaders and societies prove problematic. 

It was a very unique world, and it flowed with the plot well. There was a background magic system orientated towards the stars, the ability to draw dust from the stars and it's uses. It wasn't overtly prominent but it was a convenient plot device. This book does on a brutal cliffhanger, but thankfully, readers only have to wait until later on this year to see what happens in the next installment. 

 

Sitting on the rug before the mantel, Daphne can’t help but glance at the constellations as she adjusts the skirt of her green organza dress around her like flower petals.
Babies born beneath the Thorned Rose are known to be beautiful.
Those born beneath the Hungry Hawk are ambitious.
Lonely Heart children are known to sacrifice more than others.
The Crown of Flames offers its offspring power.
And the Sisters Three bestow balance and harmony.
There are exceptions, of course—Daphne knows of plenty of people born beneath the Thorned Rose who did not grow up beautiful and many born beneath the Crown of Flames who became chimney sweeps and cabbage farmers. But still, more people believe in the omens of the stars than don’t—even Daphne, logical as she is about most things, takes the daily horoscopes laid out with her breakfast to heart.
Her eyes keep drifting to the mantel as she struggles to open the stolen bottle of champagne with her glass nail file. After some digging, the stopper comes loose with a loud pop that makes her shriek in surprise, the cork careening into the air and hitting the chandelier above, making the crystals chime together. The champagne bubbles over onto her dress and the rug, cold and wet.
“Careful!” Sophronia cries out, hurrying to the adjoining powder room for towels.
Beatriz snorts, holding three delicate crystal glasses to the mouth of the bottle, letting Daphne fill them up almost to the brim. “Or what?” she calls after Sophronia. “It isn’t as if we’re going to be here long enough to get in trouble for ruining a rug.”
Sophronia returns, towel in hand, and begins mopping up the spilled champagne anyway, her brow furrowed.
Seeing her expression, Beatriz softens. “Sorry, Sophie,” she says before taking a sip from one of the glasses and pass­ing the others to her sisters. “I didn’t mean…” She trails off, unsure of what, exactly, she did mean.
Sophronia doesn’t seem to know either, but she drops the sopping towel on the floor and sinks down on the sofa beside Beatriz, who drapes an arm over her shoulders, rus­tling the taffeta of her rose-pink off-the-shoulder gown in the process.
Daphne looks at them over the rim of her champagne glass, downing half of it in a single gulp before her eyes fall to the wet towel.
By the time that’s dry, she thinks, we’ll have left this place. We won’t see one another for a year.
The first part is tolerable enough—Bessemia is home, but they have always known they would leave when they came of age. Beatriz south to Cellaria, Sophronia west to Temarin, and Daphne north to Friv. They have been prepar­ing for their duties for as long as Daphne can remember, to marry the princes they’ve been betrothed to and drive their countries to war against one another, allowing their mother to sweep in and pick up the shattered pieces and add them to her domain like new jewels for her crown.
But that’s all for the future. Daphne pushes her mother’s plots aside and focuses on her sisters. The sisters she won’t see again for a year, if everything goes to plan. They haven’t spent more than a few hours apart in their entire lives. How will they manage an entire year?
Beatriz must see Daphne’s smile wobble, because she gives a dramatic roll of her eyes—her own tell for when she’s trying not to show her emotions.
“Come on,” Beatriz says, her voice cracking slightly as she pats the sofa on her other side.
Daphne stands up from the rug for an instant before fall­ing onto the sofa beside Beatriz gracelessly, letting her head drop onto Beatriz’s bare shoulder. Beatriz’s strapless sky-blue gown looks terribly uncomfortable, its corseted bod­ice digging into her skin and leaving behind red indents that peek over the top, but Beatriz doesn’t appear to feel it.
Daphne wonders if hiding her feelings is a trick Triz picked up during her training with the palace courtesans—a necessity, their mother said, to fulfill her own objective in Cellaria—or if that is simply how her sister is: only two min­utes older but always managing to seem like a woman, when Daphne still feels like a child.
“Are you worried?” Sophronia asks, taking the daintiest of sips from her glass.
Despite the fact that they are triplets, Sophronia has a lower tolerance for alcohol than her sisters. Half a glass of champagne for her is the equivalent of two full glasses for Daphne and Beatriz. Hopefully one of her attendants in Temarin knows that, Daphne thinks. Hopefully someone will keep an eye on her there, when Daphne and Beatriz can’t.
Beatriz snorts. “What on earth would I be nervous about? At this point, I feel as if I could seduce Lord Savelle in my sleep.”
Lord Savelle is the first part of the empress’s grand plan—the Temarinian ambassador in Cellaria, he has been responsible for keeping the peace between the countries for the last two decades, the longest they have gone without war in centuries. In compromising him, Beatriz will reignite that conflict and add a few extra logs to the fire.
“Cellaria alone would make me nervous,” Sophronia ad­mits, shuddering. “No empyreas, no stardust, no magic at all. I heard King Cesare had a man burned alive because he thought him responsible for a drought.”
Beatriz only shrugs. “Yes, well, I’ve been preparing for it, haven’t I?” she says. “And the king’s increasing paranoia should make it even easier to incite war. I might beat both of you back here.”
“Sophie would be my bet,” Daphne muses, sipping her champagne. “She’s the only one of us marrying a king in­stead of a mere prince, and I’m sure Leopold would declare war on Cellaria if she simply fluttered her eyelashes and asked it of him.”
Though she means the words as a joke, they’re followed by an uncomfortable silence. Sophronia looks away, her cheeks turning bright red, and Beatriz shoots Daphne a dirty look. Daphne feels as if she’s missed something, though it isn’t the first time. The three of them are close, but Beatriz and Sophronia have always been just a bit closer. Which is fine by Daphne—after all, she has always been the closest with their mother.
“Beatriz is the prettiest of you—she will have no trou­ble swinging the hearts of the Cellarians. Sophronia is the sweetest and she will win over the Temarinians with ease,” the empress said to Daphne just the day before, her voice like that of a general dispatching troops. The words deflated Daphne, until her mother leaned toward her, pressing her cool palm to Daphne’s cheek and blessing her with a rare full smile. “But you, my darling, are my sharpest weapon, so I need you in Friv. Bessemia needs you in Friv. If you’re going to take my place one day, you must prove you can fill it.”
Shame and pride go to war inside Daphne and she takes another sip of her champagne, hoping her sisters don’t no­tice. She supposes she can’t fault them for keeping things from her—she has her own share of secrets.
Logically, she knows her mother was right to ask her to keep that from them—she has never mentioned making one of them her heir, and knowing it will be Daphne will only stoke jealousies. Daphne doesn’t want that. Not tonight, es­pecially.
She lets out a sigh, slumping farther into the sofa’s cush­ioned back. “At least your princes are handsome and healthy. One of the Frivian spies says Prince Cillian has been leeched so many times, his skin is covered in scabs. Another said he’s unlikely to live another month.”
“A month is plenty of time to marry him,” Beatriz points out. “If anything, it should make your job much easier. I can’t imagine he’ll get in your way, and Friv is such a young country as it is, it will be easy to take advantage of the chaos surrounding the death of the only heir to the throne. Maybe you’ll be the first one of us home.”
“Hopefully,” Daphne says. “But I can’t believe I’m going to be stuck in cold, miserable Friv while you’re off relaxing on sunny Cellarian beaches and Sophie gets to attend those legendary Temarinian parties.”
“It’s not like we’re going to relax on beaches or enjoy parties, is it?” Sophronia reminds her, but Daphne waves the words away.
“Well, it will make for a better backdrop than snow, gray skies, and more snow,” she grumbles.
“No need for dramatics,” Beatriz says, rolling her eyes. “Besides, you have the easiest assignment of all of us. What do you have to do? Steal the king’s seal? Forge a few docu­ments? Admit it, Daph.”
Daphne shakes her head. “You know Mama—I’m sure there will be more to it than that.”
“Stop,” Sophronia interrupts, her voice cracking. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. It’s our birthday. Shouldn’t we at least make it about us and not her?”
Daphne and Beatriz exchange a loaded look, but Beatriz is the first to speak.
“Of course, Sophie,” she says. “Shall we toast?”
Sophronia considers it for a moment before raising her glass. “To seventeen,” she says. Daphne laughs. “Oh, Soph, are you sloshed already? We’re sixteen.”
Sophronia shrugs. “I know that,” she says. “But sixteen is when we have to say goodbye. By seventeen, we’ll be back here again. Together.”
“To seventeen, then,” Beatriz echoes, raising her own glass.
“To seventeen,” Daphne adds, clinking her glass with theirs before the three of them gulp down the last of their champagne.
Sophronia leans back against the sofa cushions and closes her eyes, apparently satisfied. Beatriz takes Sophronia’s empty glass and sets it with hers on the floor, out of the way, before leaning back beside her, staring at the vaulted ceiling, where whirling arrangements of stars have been painted in glitter­ing gold against a deep blue background.
“Like Mama always says,” Beatriz murmurs. “We’re three stars of the same constellation. Distance won’t change that.”
It’s a surprisingly emotional sentiment coming from Beatriz, but Daphne feels a bit sentimental herself right now, so she curls up beside her sisters, throwing her arm around both of their waists.
The tall, marble-faced clock in the room strikes mid­night with a loud chime that echoes in Daphne’s ears, and she pushes her mother’s words from her mind and holds her sisters tight.
“Happy birthday,” she says, kissing each of their cheeks in turn and leaving behind smears of pale pink lip paint.
“Happy birthday,” they each reply, their voices weighed down with exhaustion. In seconds, they’re both asleep, their quiet, even breaths filling the air, but try as she might, Daphne can’t join them. Sleep doesn’t claim her until a sliver of dawn sun is peeking through the window.

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#Review - Half Sick of Shadows by Laura Sebastian #Fantasy

Series: Standalone
Format: Hardcover, 448 pages
Release Date: July 6, 2021
Publisher: Ace
Source: Publisher
Genre: Fantasy / Arthurian

The Lady of Shalott reclaims her story in this bold feminist reimagining of the Arthurian myth from the New York Times bestselling author of Ash Princess.

Everyone knows the legend. Of Arthur, destined to be a king. Of the beautiful Guinevere, who will betray him with his most loyal knight, Lancelot. Of the bitter sorceress, Morgana, who will turn against them all. But Elaine alone carries the burden of knowing what is to come—for Elaine of Shalott is cursed to see the future.

On the mystical isle of Avalon, Elaine runs free and learns of the ancient prophecies surrounding her and her friends—countless possibilities, almost all of them tragic.

When their future comes to claim them, Elaine, Guinevere, Lancelot, and Morgana accompany Arthur to take his throne in stifling Camelot, where magic is outlawed, the rules of society chain them, and enemies are everywhere. Yet the most dangerous threats may come from within their own circle.

As visions are fulfilled and an inevitable fate closes in, Elaine must decide how far she will go to change destiny—and what she is willing to sacrifice along the way.

Story Locale: Arthurian England

The story of King Arthur is well-known throughout the world, but now a character approaches with a new point of view: the Lady of Shalott. For the record, this is a retelling of Alfred Lord Tennyson's The Lady of Shalott in the authors own way about a woman that few know about except for historical rumors that was cursed to never leave her tower or to see Camelot except thru a mirror. Elaine is an oracle who uses a loom to channel her vision. She is tasked by Nimue, aka The Lady of the Lake, to put Arthur on Camelot’s throne in the hopes it will unite the humans and fey despite those who would rather see a war.

 

After escaping from her tower where her own mother imprisoned her for her own good, and making friends with Morgana who sees the world through different eyes, she escaped and traveled to Avalon where she became friends with Arthur, Guinevere, and Lancelot. Each has their own destiny, each will end up destroying Arthur in the end which Elaine has divined from her dreams and her weaving loom. When Arthur is called back to Camelot, Elaine and the others goes with him for support. For Elaine, it’s also an attempt to subvert some of her own visions.

 

Elaine’s visions inform the reader of Lancelot, Gwen, and Morgana’s betrayals early in the narrative, and the reader is often reminded that these visions do not represent fate but possibilities. Elaine often experiences visions of her death by drowning. There are those like Morgause and Mordred who will do anything to stand in the way of Camelot being successful. The story tends to jump from the past, to the present, to the future as well follow Elaine's vision and her recollection of past events which can be confusing at times.

 

The story shines a different light around the magically powerful Morgana, the impulsive Guinevere who may be a shapeshifter, and the troubled Elaine who is in love with Lancelot, and how an unusual friendship both binds and breaks these women under pressure. As most readers know, events happen that will one day destroy Arthur's legacy and it all starts with Lancelot, Morgana, and Guinevere. I would dare you to put all preconceived notions about who King Arthur was since this book doesn't see him in the same light that Elaine and her friends do. Key parts of the Arthurian story were changed as well. Mordred is changed from Arthur’s son to his stepbrother/brother-in-law, Morgause and Morgana are twins, and Merlin was portrayed in a completely different manner than I’ve ever seen. 

 

 

1

I will die drowning; it has always been known. This was my first vision, long before I knew it for what it was, and I’ve had it so many times now that I know each instant by heart. Where most visions are ephemeral things, shifting and changing in different lights and at different angles, this one is always so solid that it leaves its bruises on my mind and soul long after it ends.

The water will be cold against my skin. It will rush around me like a storm, tearing my hair in different directions until it clouds my vision. I won’t be able to see a thing. I will want to kick up to the surface, to breathe the air I know is only a few meters away, but I will stay frozen and sink lower and lower in my whirlpool until my feet finally touch soft sand. My eyes will be closed, and everything around me will be darkness.

My lungs will burn, burn, burn until I fear they are going to burst. The surface will be so close, I could reach it if I just kick up…but I won’t. I won’t want to.

In a week or a year or a decade, I will die drowning. When I do, it will be a choice.

2

There is peace at the loom, in the steady rhythm of my fingers dancing over the silk strands like a musician with a lyre, peace in the threads weaving in and out, in the future revealing itself to me stitch by stitch, possibility by possibility. Such small movements, repeated again and again and again, each one small and meaningless on its own-but when the tapestry begins to take shape and tell its story, the infinitesimal becomes infinite.

As a child in Shalott, I learned how to change the color of the threads to render an image, frozen forever in time, but now I use only white. The magic-imbued strands glisten like opal in the afternoon sunlight that filters into my workroom through the oversized window.

Outside, the staggering cliff my cottage sits on juts out over rolling, pearl-tipped waves. They crash against Avalon’s shore, the sound loud enough to reach me even in my cottage, but I don’t mind it. The steady sound soothes my mind, turning it soft and malleable and blank, receptive to the magic that buzzes its way through me from my fingertips to my toes.

I keep my eyes on the threads, watching them weave together tight and solid, the waves pounding in my ears and chasing all thoughts away so that nothing exists at all outside of me in this moment-not Avalon or my friends, not the past or the futures fracturing before me like cracks in glass. Only me, only now.

The expanse of whiteness begins to shift, like shadows dancing across it, rippling over its shining surface. The threads vibrate softly beneath my fingers, emitting a glow all their own. I feel the change throughout my body as well, something unnamable tugging at my skin and sparking in my mind, threatening to pull me into it, into whatever the Sight wants me to see.

Though I’ve had hundreds if not thousands of visions over the last ten years, I don’t think I will ever grow used to this feeling: how for just a moment, my body and my mind cease to be my own.

A rattling knock yanks me out of it, my fingers stilling against the white silk strands. I settle into myself once more, and the world around me suddenly feels too sharp, too bright, too real.

I look up, letting my eyes focus and adjust, and find him standing on the other side of my window, his knuckles still resting against the glass and a mischievous smile playing on his full lips. In the light of the Avalon sun, he is pure gold.

“Come on, Shalott,” he says, his voice muffled through the glass. He jerks his head backward toward the beach, windblown black hair glinting in the sunlight. Behind him, I can just make out the other three, all beckoning me to join them, to spend the day on the beach, enjoying the sunshine and the sea. “It’s too nice a day to waste cooped up inside.”

Every day in Avalon is too nice to waste cooped up inside, I want to tell him, but some of us don’t have much of a choice in the matter.

“Give me an hour,” I say instead.

His bright green eyes crinkle, as if he knows it’s a lie, but he shrugs his shoulders and turns away from me, his hand going to rest casually on the pommel of the sword sheathed at his hip. When he reaches the others, the four of them wave to me and I wave back.

You mustn’t strain yourself, Nimue always says when she finds me here in the mornings, bleary-eyed and dazed. Seers go mad that way.

But sometimes it feels like I’ll go mad if I stay away from the loom too long. Sometimes it feels like scrying is the only thing keeping me sane.

I watch them walk down the beach with a pang in my chest. Arthur and Guinevere are hand in hand, and though I can’t see his face, I know he’s blushing, like he always does around Gwen. Morgana leans over to say something in her brother’s ear, and Arthur gives her shoulder a shove, making her laugh, her head thrown back, ink-black hair spilling down her back. Lancelot watches the two of them, shaking his head before glancing over his shoulder back at me, his green eyes colliding with mine again.

“One hour,” I say again, and though he can’t hear me, he must read my lips, because he nods.

Part of me wants to run after them and leave the loom behind for today, even forever, before it ruins me. But I can’t do that, so I go back to my weaving, picking up the threads once more.

This time when the vision takes hold of me, there are no interruptions and I tumble into it headfirst.

Morgana, donÕt do this, please.Ó

The voice isn’t mine, but it will be one day, panicked and desperate and frightened. The small room will be made from shadow and stone, lit only by a few scattered candles, burning down to little more than puddles of wax. In the dim light, the pupils of Morgana’s eyes will be huge, making her look manic as she flits around her room, pulling bottles down from their shelves and uncorking them to sniff or pinch or dump completely into the bubbling cauldron. Her ink-black hair will be unbound and wild, following her around like a storm cloud. Whenever a piece of it drifts into her face, she will blow it away in an annoyed huff, but that will be the only sound she makes. She won’t speak to me. She won’t even look at me.

Cold air will bite at my skin, the smell of sulfur seeping into the air from the potion brewing. Without a word, I know that whatever potion Morgana is brewing isn’t only dangerous. It’s lethal.

“Morgana,” I will try again, my voice cracking over her name. Still, she won’t acknowledge me. Not until I touch her shoulder. She will flinch away, but at least she will look at me, violet eyes hard and distant even when they meet mine.

She will not be the Morgana I know now, the Morgana who was my first friend, who has stood by my side unfalteringly since I was thirteen years old.

“This cannot stand, Elaine.” Her voice will be calm and resolved, at odds with the chaos in her body, the storm in her expression. “The things Arthur has done-”

The words conjure nothing in my mind-no memory, no image, no thought at all. I don’t know what Arthur has done to earn Morgana’s rage, but it must have been something truly terrible.

“He has done what he believes best.” It’s a line that will feel familiar on my tongue, like I have spoken it many times. I will believe the words with every part of me.

Morgana pulls away from me, making a sound that is half-laugh and half-sob.

“Then you think Arthur a fool, Elaine? You think he didn’t know exactly what he was doing? What is worse-to have a foolish king or a cruel one?”

Her eyes on mine will burn until I have to look away, unable to defend Arthur for the first time in my life.

“Which do you think it was?” she will continue, and I realize the question isn’t rhetorical. She wants an answer. “Is he stupidly noble, or is there a conniving side under all of that quiet erudition?”

“Arthur loves you,” I say, because I won’t know what other answer to give. It will be one of the only true things I will know, but that doesn’t mean it makes her beliefs untrue. I don’t know how the two things can be unassailable facts, but somehow, they are.

She will scoff and turn away from me, unstoppering a bottle and letting the shadow of a serpent slither out into the sizzling cauldron. It will die with a shriek that echoes in the silence between us.

“And you?” I will ask her when I find my voice again. “He’s your brother, and I know you love him. How can you even consider doing this to him?”

She will begin to turn away, but I will grab her hands in mine, holding tight and forcing her to look at me.

“The boy you teased mercilessly when his voice began to change? The one who still turns red in the cheeks every time Gwen smiles at him? The one who has taken your side against every courtier in this palace who wanted you banished or worse? If you do this, Morgana, there is no coming back. I have Seen this path, I have Seen this moment, and I am begging you not to do it, not to break us into pieces that we will never be able to mend.”

Her hands will go slack in mine, and she will falter. For an instant, she will look once more like the Morgana I have always known, her vulnerabilities like sunlight slatting through a boarded-up window.

She will open her mouth to speak and-

When I come out of the vision, my eyes take a moment to readjust, to take in the tapestry stretched over the loom, showing a jet-haired women bent over a cauldron, staring intently into its depths, while another woman with fair hair watches on, hands clasped in front of her.

It’s easier to see it this way than to be in the vision itself. Like this, there is some stretch of distance, some ability to pretend that they are just two strangers, not Morgana and me. It’s easy to pretend that they are brewing a love potion or a healing draught, that they are discussing the effect the recent storm will have on their crops.

The first time I had this vision was in a dream, before I mastered the art of channeling them onto the loom. It was disjointed and unfocused, difficult to remember when I woke up. Through the loom, I’m able to focus better, and when it is done, I’m left with this: an image, solid and real.

“The poison scene again,” a voice says from behind me, and I turn to see Nimue standing in the open doorframe, leaning against it. Her silver gown spills over her umber skin like water, skimming closely over her curves and leaving her shoulders bare.

I’ve been in Avalon for ten years now, and I still can’t help but think that if she were to wear something like that in Camelot, she would end up stoned to death. But we are not in Camelot, we are in Avalon, and Nimue is the Lady of the Lake. She can wear whatever she likes.

I step away from the loom to give her a better look, though she hardly needs one. She’s right-I’ve had this same vision before, too many times to rightly remember. It’s always a little different, a little broader or narrower, a little longer or shorter-a reflection in a rippling pond, Nimue told me during one of my first lessons-but the same shape, more or less.

“The potion smelled of sulfur this time,” I tell her, closing my eyes to better remember the smaller details, the ones that matter the most. “And there was something she put into it-the shadow of a serpent, it looked like.”

Nimue says nothing for a moment. In the bright room of my studio, the burnished silver circlet around her bald head glows. Her mouth turns down at the corners as she considers my words, considers the tapestry before her. She reaches out to touch it, and as she does, it begins to turn white once more, the image erasing as if it never existed at all. It is a dangerous thing, to leave such blatant evidence of visions lying about. If Morgana were to see it, she would have questions I would never be able to answer. Besides, the only people who need to know about the vision are Nimue and me, and the scene is likely burned into our memories by now.

But I told Morgana about what I’d Seen in the vision, or at least insinuated it. I always do, in every iteration.

“Davaralocke,” Nimue says finally, interrupting my thoughts. “A poison-you were right. And among the deadliest when brewed correctly.”

I shake my head. “That’s just it…the way she was brewing it…I’ve seen Morgana brew potions before. You know, you taught her-she’s meticulous to a fault. But this time, she was careless. Throwing ingredients in by the handful or jar even, not measuring, not following a recipe at all, really.”

Nimue makes a thoughtful noise in her throat before turning to look at me.

“And the end of it?” she asks me. “Did it change at all?”

I shake my head. “It ended just as it always does: It felt like maybe I got through to her, like I’d changed her mind, but it ended before I could say for sure.”

For a moment, Nimue doesn’t speak. “Do you know why you keep seeing this vision, more than any other?”

“Because it’s important,” I say automatically. It was one of the first things Nimue taught me when I came to Avalon, but now she simply shrugs her shoulders.

“Yes, but that’s not the entire truth,” she says. “It’s because everything comes down to a choice that hasn’t been made yet, a choice the future of our world hangs on. One choice, from one girl.”

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