Thread of Darkness

Ch. 3: nobody's thinking about murder

There was something wrong with Ryne, Camille thought.

She glanced sideways. Ryne was sitting very stiffly in his throne, half-obscured by a tower of jam tarts. This wasn't unusual for Ryne — he was always sitting stiffly — but it was the way he was sitting. As if he was forcing himself to be still. His green eyes were bright, the colour of fresh mint. She watched, brow furrowed, as he plucked a jam tart off the tower.

Camille leaned over. "Ryne?"

"Hmm?"

She kept her eyes on the crowd in front of them. The courtiers dripping in jewels. The harried servants. The sharp-eyed guards. "Are you alright?"

"Wonderful," Ryne murmured.

He flexed his fingers out one-by-one, as if he was playing a tune on an invisible piano. He was humming softly, his eyes fixed on the double doors ahead of them. The doors, Camille knew, that Eris and his entourage would soon come through.

She bit her lip. "Have you spoken with John?"

Ryne tilted his head. "John?"

"Your advisor," Camille said slowly. "He mentioned that we ought to move Eris's rooms. Having him sleep so close to Anna—"

"Did you know," Ryne said, "that jam tarts were once used to cure venereal diseases?" He waved it around for her inspection. "It's true. You can ask any healer."

Camille blinked. "Is this relevant?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Ryne said cheerfully. "Jam tarts are always relevant."

He stuffed the jam tart into his mouth, chewing with great enthusiasm. Crumbs speckled his cheek. A flush was creeping up his neck, and Camille thought of the raspberry runners in the garden, choking the smaller plants in the summer heat. She raised a hand to Ryne's cheek; the skin was warm and taught, like a rock left out in a sun-drenched garden.

"Are you sure you're not feeling sick?" she asked.

Ryne shook her off. "I feel fantastic."

A sense of unease curled in her stomach. "Ryne..."

"Do you know," Ryne mused, "you have the most extraordinary nose. Like a button. So small." He poked it. "Boop."

Camille stared. Ryne was grinning, his eyes unfocused. Good gods. Was he drunk? Or maybe he'd been poisoned, she thought hopefully; she could name at least two people in the castle right now that wanted Ryne dead, and poison was easier to cure than a bottle of whisky.

Damn.

She bit her lip, scanning the room. Grayson was leaning over to Penny, offering her a glass of lemonade.Brigid was milling at the side of the throne room, pretending to sip a plum-coloured wine as she spoke to a courtier. John was speaking to a guard in a low voice, waving a hand at the double doors. The man nodded. Disappeared.

Camille looked away.

A lump rose in her throat. Logically, she knew that it wasn't Isaac; the man's build was all wrong, tall and lanky, but she couldn't help but hope that...

Well, she couldn't help but hope.

That was the problem.

She touched the folded paper in her pocket. Felt the worn corners through the fabric, softened with months of use. She'd memorized Isaac's words, and now they lived there, imprinted on her heart.

"Oh, good," a voice said. "There are jam tarts."

Camille didn't turn. "Tristan."

She knew it was him. He had a way of speaking, long and slow, like warm taffy stretched between two hands. She'd heard a lot of words said in that voice. Ash Princess. Lady of Soot. And worse; far, far worse.