✔ Mrs Mandray

24. The Queens

Parts of this are taken directly from the book

Isabella

The mortal queens were a mixture of age, colouring, height, and temperament. The eldest of them, clad in an embroidered wool dress of the deepest blue, was brown-skinned, her eyes sharp and cold, and unbent despite the heavy wrinkles carved into her face. She would be the one to watch out for, the conniving snake. Isabella had seen that cunning look before, in Mr Mandray's eyes.

The two who appeared missile-aged were polar opposites: one dark, one light; one sweet-faced, one hewn from granite; one smiling and one frowning. They even wore gowns of black and white. Twins. Isabella almost smiled at the thought, the link between the pair and the bond they no doubt shared. They were separate rulers of course, and Isabella wondered what their kingdoms were like, what relations they had if they wore matching silver rings.

It was the youngest two queens that had me pausing. They looked to be about her age and that was the scariest part. Here she was married, to a questionable man, befriending fae males and raising a half-fae son. Their black hair and black eyes, careful cunning oozing from every pore as they surveyed us.

It was how cruel they looked. How could someone her age rule kingdoms and lead armies. Perhaps that's why they look so beady eyed and dead.

The final queen, the one who spoke first, was the most conventionally beautiful - the only beautiful one of them. She didn't trust that. The others were weather worn, carved and built by life's lessons. This woman used her beauty first, there was a different kind tactic used there.

Because those other women, despite their finery, did not care if they were young or old, fat or thin, short or tall. Those things were secondary; those things were a slight of hand.

But this one, this beautiful vain monstrosity that was no older than thirty ....

Oh she was fierce. She wore her beauty like amour, flaunted it and abused it. Her riotously curly hair was as golden as Morrigan's, her eyes of purest amber. Even her brown, freckled skin seemed dusted with gold. For a moment Isabella was reminded of her own son. Of the tan bronze skin that enchanted ring helped glamour. Her body was supple where she'd probably learned men found it distracting, lithe where it showed grace.

A lion in human flesh.

"Well met," Rhysand said, remaining still as their stone-faced guards scanned us, the room. As the queens took our measure. Isabella did her best to ignore the distance between Feyre and Rhys, hoping that the Queens wouldn't pick up on the distance. It would be an unlikely fact considering Rhys apparently wrote about a human friend according to Cassian.

Rhys stepped forward. The queens all sucked in a little breath and some savage part of Isabella twisted and snarled in glee as they braced themselves. Their guards casually, absolutely foolishly, rested a hand on the hilt of their blades - a broadsword she would guess from Cassian's various descriptions. As if they would stand against any of Feyre's family, against Feyre she realised with a start.

But it was Cassian and Azriel who would play the role of guards today - rugged, chiselled distractions made of pure iron will.

Isabella would be lying if she said their protective nature didn't stir old feelings. Old desires.

Rhys bowed his head slightly, the only concession he would make for the sake of respect, "We are grateful you accepted our invitation." He lifted a brow. "Where is the sixth?"

The ancient queen shuffled her gown, folding her hands over the rich blue. "She is unwell, and could not make the journey." Well that sounds like a lie but she had already turned to assess Isabella's sister. "You must be the emissary."