Chapter Six

A Toast

Ayla

It’s hidden behind the loose stone in the third panel along the east wall, about two handspans off the ground. I discovered the hollow when I was thirteen, and I haven’t spoken of it to a single living person, not even Selene. Certainly not Selene.

I get to it by walking down the back corridor instead of into the main hall. The party’s still going on. I can still hear the murmur of drums and the crowds beyond the building, someone laughing too loudly at something, and it makes things easier. No one is paying attention to the hallways. No one is paying attention to me.

The stone comes free with a slight struggle. It always does, of course; the mortar at the top edge catches. I prise it loose with both hands, rest it against my knee, and reach in.

The potion rests in a bottle smaller than my thumb, sealed with black wax I pressed myself three weeks ago. The glass is plain, deliberately so, unnoticeable if someone should happen to find it. The liquid within is almost clear, less viscous than water. I raise it to the weak, flickering candle I set on the floor and turn it once.

The preparation took longer than anything I have ever attempted: seven unique components. Wolfsbane in a dose too small to cause harm but enough to dull predatory instincts. Three others I had to procure surreptitiously, through two separate visits to the town just beyond the border, each time with a different excuse. I ground the final component alone, twice over, because the first grind was too coarse and I couldn’t trust it.

I squeeze the bottle and wrap my hand around it. The wax seal is still intact. Wax is good.

I am prepared.

When I get back to the corridor, I stop and listen. The drums again, someone shouting. Lugh’s Beta, no doubt, calling for another toast. I think of Lugh sitting at that table with Selene’s hand near his.

Soon.

Selene’s room is just two doors down from mine. I knock twice—our knock, the one we’ve had since we were children. Two knocks, then a pause. Never three. I hear her walking toward the door.

She looks glad to open it when she does. In her ceremony dress, with one braid half-undone and the loose end caught on the strap, she looks at me the way she’s been looking at me all night and opens the door wider.

“Ayla,” she says. “Are you— come in.”

She steps back. The room looks as it always does: Grandmother’s old trunk at the end of the bed; dried herbs hanging in bunches by the window; her uneven stacks of healer’s books on the table, the ones she reads three at a time and never finishes.

I sit at the edge of the bed and settle my face into the expression I practiced in the lobby. Soft. Slightly raw. Credible.

“I just wanted to see you,” I say. “Is that weird?”

“Of course it’s not odd.” She shifts the loose braid over her shoulder and begins untangling it delicately with her fingers. “I was going to come to you. I wanted to. I just didn’t know what to say.”

“Nothing has to be said.”

“Ayla.” She lets the braid fall and looks at me properly. “What he did tonight was—”

“It’s okay, Selene.” I pause. My heart is pounding. “It hurts. But it’s okay. You didn’t choose this.”

“I don’t want this,” she murmurs. “Not like this.”

“That’s how he chose,” I say softly. “That’s real. That’s what he wanted.”

Then, more gently: “I wanted to ask you to have a drink with me. For us. Before everything gets strange.”

She hesitates. I give her hand a squeeze, then let go.

I retrieve the two small cups I took from the kitchen shelf on my way in and place them on the table beside the books. I uncork the bottle I brought. The wax seal comes away cleanly, not crumbling into pieces, and relief flickers through me as I pour.

The liquid looks identical in both cups. The same amount in each. I want her to see that.

I slide one toward her.

“One drink,” I say. “For whatever happens now.”

Selene looks at the cup. Then at me.

“You’re being very calm.”

Someone has to be.

I reach for my own cup and lift it slightly toward her. “Selene. Please let me be happy for you.”

She raises her glass and touches it gently against mine.

“To you,” she says quietly. “You deserved much more than tonight.”

My throat tightens in a way I don’t expect. I have to fight to keep my expression steady as she lifts the cup to her mouth.

I watch her swallow.

Then I set my own cup back on the table.