Thread of Darkness

Ch. 40: this may hurt a little

Camille smoothed her skirts.

The blonde woman in the mirror did the same. She was wearing a golden gown; lace twined down her arms like creeping vines, and the back of the dress plunged to reveal pale skin. Her hair was swept back into a chignon with delicate pearl clips. She looked beautiful, Camille thought, but cold. Regal.

She could see nothing of herself in it.

She turned. The powder room was a riot of floral wallpaper and plush pink settees, miniature fairy cakes and champagne. A clawfoot bathtub sat in the corner of the room, her old bathwater growing cold. The room had been bustling for most of the afternoon, although most of her ladies' maids had disappeared now to polish her shoes or sprinkle lilac on pillows or whatever other tasks Brigid had set them.

"Oh, my dove," Brigid said. "You look marvellous."

She was perched on the edge of a wingback chair, a stack of papers on her lap. Seating charts or the dinner menu or a catalogue of every flower arrangement, Camille guessed; she'd lost track of all the different lists.

She crossed to the sideboard. "Have the guests arrived?"

Brigid nodded, holding up a piece of parchment. "They're all waiting in the citadel."

"Penny?" Camille asked. "Grayson?"

Brigid frowned at the paper. "I suspect they'll arrive this evening."

"Anyone else?" Camille asked.

She poured a glass of champagne, trying to keep her voice neutral. There was a rustle; Brigid must have lowered the papers. When Camille turned, Brigid was looking at her intently, her hands folded in her lap.

"I'm sorry, my dove," Brigid said, "but Isaac Webb hasn't returned from Highcliff. He sent Ryne his regrets this morning." The dowager queen rose, patting her arm. "You must try to give him up, Camille. Look to your future. My son can be... difficult, at times, but he's loyal to those he loves. He'll be a good husband to you."

Camille swirled her champagne. "Is that all there is to love? Loyalty?"

Silence fell.

Brigid's eyes were the colour of starless skies. She steered Camille toward the mirror, plucking something from the depths of a purse.

"Here," Brigid said.

She set a crown on top of Camille's head. It was a delicate crown, with silver flower metalwork and little golden bells that tinkled when she moved. It was also, Camille realized with a dawning sense of dread, a very familiar one.

"I wore that on my coronation," Brigid said. "Arthur told me that it was forged from sunlight itself. But you know what Artie was like." Her smile in the mirror was fond. "Such a flair for the dramatic."

Slowly, Camille removed the crown. A lump rose in her throat as she traced the silver grooves, her thumb whispering over the cold metal. "My father made this."

Brigid stilled. "Pardon?"

Camille held it out. "Do you see this little bee in the corner?" She ran a thumb over the idented image. "It was my father's trademark; he put it on every weapon or pot or piece of jewellery that he created. He used to call my mother his honeybee, you see. He liked to say that there was a bit of her in everything that he did."

"I remember Adele." Brigid's face was unreadable. "She wasn't kind to you."

Camille lowered the crown. "No."

"You were so scared of spindles," Brigid said. "I had to remove every spindle from the castle, just so that you'd come out of your room." She took a step closer. "Come here. I have something else for you."