Of Cages and Crowns (previously The Culled Crown, Book 1)

TWO

Benson Homestead

Three days before Sacrit

We were halfway through with the dishes by the time Mama finally arrived home. Ambrose and I stood at the kitchen sink, me washing, him drying. He'd been quiet through most of the evening's chores and all of dinner.

I nudged his hip with mine. "How was Ellora today?"

The corners of his lips quirked up at the mention of his fiancé. Ambrose sighed and placed a dried plate onto the stack next to him. "I was with her when I heard about the war. She . . . She didn't take the news well. I didn't expect her to, and I hate that I can't fix it. I wouldn't leave her if I didn't have to."

"I know that. I'm sure she does too."

"Her father says—"

"Twins!" Mama announced as she came through the door. Ambrose crossed the room and took her midwifery bag from her. She smiled across the room at me. "Both girls, both healthy, and both blessedly unmarked."

I was elbow-deep in dishwater, the black mark on my palm hidden beneath layers of soap, and I still felt the need to ball up my fist. The fire beneath my skin pushed insistently, reaching invisible hands toward the embers in the stove and the rising fire in the hearth.

There was no need to say that. With the prince's eighteenth birthday looming, it was assumed that all of the marked girls were already born. Already into their teens. And besides that, there was only ever one marked girl per county, and I was here in Varos—though it wasn't the county of my birth. So, it could also be assumed that there wouldn't be another goddess-touched girl born here.

But my mother hadn't said it because she'd expected any baby she delivered to be born marked, she'd said it because despite the reality of the situation, my mother relived the trauma of my birth—of my being born marked—with every child she ushered into the world. She saw me in them. Saw my mark on their skin, even when she knew that there wasn't truly one there.

The words were a reminder. And I hated that I was the root of her fear. I hated that my existence was tainted by my looming fate and her efforts to outrun it.

Ambrose caught my eye as he turned back toward the kitchen table and set Mama's bag on one of the empty chairs. "Thank the goddess for that," he said pointedly. Don't start anything, Monroe, he seemed to say to me.

"Yes." I sighed. "Thank the goddess."

Mama's honeysuckle-and-mint smell enveloped me as she moved past Ambrose to stand at the washbasin with me. "And thank the goddess for all of you. Seems all the chores are done. Dinner smells wonderful." She tugged at the rolled sleeve of my dress. "You know, I'd like to see you in something other than my old clothes. Maybe come spring, I'll get fabric and we can make you something new."

She must not know about the draft then.

I nodded despite myself.

Mama shrugged out of her sweater and untied her apron, each motion practiced and achingly familiar. The vision of her unlacing her shoes, washing her hands and face, tying back her graying hair, and pulling out her midwifery tools to be sanitized—all of those actions were as familiar to me as my own face.

This was my normal, my sense of peace—and watching her go through the processes of coming home to us made me realize what I was going to miss now that things might never truly be normal again.

Kace opened his mouth like he might tell her about the arrival of our draft letters, but Ambrose stopped him with a well-aimed jab to the ribs.

"There's stew left for you," I said. "And I made bread earlier."