8

Fi

fi sipped lemon tea out of a delicate teacup painted with marigolds. She sat on the edge of a cushioned wooden chair, looking absently out of a towering window hung with rippling blue silk curtains. The seat across from her was empty.

Armand had quickly agreed to Fi’s offer for a private meeting, taking her back to the very inn she had been looking at from the street, where the Bellicias always rented out the entire top floor for the Renewal Festival.

It was at this very festival that Fi and Armand had met for the first time years ago. Fi had just turned fifteen and was itching to step out of her parents’ shadow. Armand was seventeen and handsome—and best of all, he’d had a mystery.

She’d stumbled on Armand wandering the city’s oldest district with a scrap of paper cupped in his hand. He’d been pickpocketed—probably quite easily, given his level of distraction, and though Fi hadn’t caught the thief, she had saved Armand from becoming a criminal himself by paying for his lunch. He’d returned the favor by sharing the piece of ancient map that had brought him to Illya. It turned out to be a dead end, nothing but directions to a cave of raw sapphires that had long been mined out. But Fi hadn’t been disappointed, far too enthralled by the hunt. And by Armand.

Armand had been her first treasure-hunting partner, her first love, her first heartbreak, and her first brush with hate all wrapped in one person. It was strange and disorienting to be here with him again, where it all started.

As soon as they arrived at his quarters, Armand had sent a servant scurrying for tea, lemon for Fi and jasmine for himself. Then he had disappeared to freshen up and left Fi alone in the sitting room. It was a little power play that Armand liked to use—keeping people waiting for him. Fi had watched him do it many times back when they were partners. Another time it might have annoyed her, put her on edge, but today it had given her exactly the time she needed to prepare.

Her arms felt stiff inside the tight black costume. She hadn’t had the chance to wash off her eye makeup, and her fingers trembled around the handle of the teacup. Fi set it down in the saucer with a little clink. The room’s furnishings were made of sturdy wood, highly practical and plain, but everything had been dressed up for its current guest with fancy lace doilies and silk runners. There was even a delicate-looking vase full of marigolds tucked into the corner and a bowl of expensive imported nuts on the table. Armand always did enjoy his little luxuries, Fi mused coldly.

The last time she had seen her ex, her heart hadn’t been as ready as she thought, and he’d almost beaten her. Today, she had come prepared.

As though summoned by her thoughts, Armand appeared in the doorway, leaning in to study her before sauntering into the room. He had changed into a rich red tunic with a high collar embroidered with golden lilies. Dozens of rings glittered from his fingers, and a gold pendant with the mark of Bellicia hung from his neck. He was still good-looking beneath all the arrogance, but Fi found it easy to see past that.

He wanted to impress her—he’d always wanted to impress her. But looking at him now, utterly absorbed in his own theatrics, Fi could see what a child he was, preening and bullying and sulking for attention. Compared to the Spindle Witch, to the loss of Shane and Briar, everything about Armand just seemed so small.

Armand slung himself into the seat across from her, regarding her with a smug smile. “I’m sorry; did I keep you waiting?”

Fi bit the inside of her cheek. “Your tea is getting cold,” she said flatly.

Armand seemed disappointed by her answer, lifting his teacup carelessly and taking a gulp. His lips turned down. “These little backwater towns just don’t know how to make a good cup of tea.” He shook his head dramatically. “Not like some of the places we used to go. Which reminds me, how was your little trip across the border? I don’t see your maid . . . Lost another partner already?”

Shane’s absence hit her like a gut punch. She could just imagine what her partner would have to say if she could see Fi sitting here having tea with that arrogant little slug-weasel, as Shane had so colorfully named him. But she hadn’t forgotten her promise never to agree to one of Armand’s little arrangements again. Even without Shane here shouting it in her ear, she had no intention of breaking that promise.

“Save your snide comments. I’m here to talk about something important,” Fi said. “Something that affects Bellicia and all of Darfell.”

Armand frowned at her serious expression, finally deigning to lower his cup. “Fine. I’m listening.”

“The Spindle Witch is moving again. I can’t explain everything, but she’s about to get her hands on a vast power—something that will make her completely unstoppable,” Fi told him.

Armand didn’t seem impressed. In fact, he was chuckling. “You sound like a doomsayer on the corner. The Spindle Witch is just an old story. That monster died a hundred years ago with the rest of the dried-up kingdom of magic.”

Fi dug her fingers into the arms of her chair. “You’re wrong, Armand,” she said coldly. “I’ve seen her, and what she’s capable of, with my own eyes. I have no reason to lie to you about this.”

That shut Armand up. He studied her for a moment, as though he were swishing the words around in his mouth, tasting them. “If that’s true, Filore—if,” he said, holding up a warning finger, “and I would need some proof—then I hope you’re not here expecting me to marshal the Border Guards. You know my father will never allow them to march into Andar.”

Fi shook her head. She was well aware that the Duke of Bellicia considered his problems to stop at his border. “I don’t need an army. I have a plan to stop her before it comes to that. I just need your help, Armand.”

He looked so pleased that Fi immediately wanted to take the words back. Nothing had ever delighted him more than when she needed him. Fi steadied herself before she did something she regretted. This was for Briar, and Shane, and everyone standing in the Spindle Witch’s path. Armand was just a tool, and this time, Fi was going to be the one doing the discarding when it was over.

Armand swigged down the last of his tea, all the way to the bitter dregs—no doubt just for the show of it. Then he leaned over the table, bracing his cheek on a careless hand. “What makes you think I’ll help you?” he asked. “You weren’t very receptive to my last favor, after all.”

Favor? She remembered when he’d tried to trick her—to tear her away from Shane and force his way back into her life. She didn’t remember receiving any favors.

“This isn’t about us, Armand,” Fi ground out. “There is no us. I’m here because you’re heir to the house of Bellicia, and as selfish and arrogant as you are, the one thing you always cared about was taking your father’s place someday as Border Master. So earn it.” Hesitantly, she reached out and laid her hand over Armand’s on the table. An olive branch. “Prove you deserve it by doing the right thing now.”

Armand turned his hand over beneath Fi’s, squeezing her fingers. His expression softened.

“I will do the right thing, Filore,” he said slowly. “But I have some conditions.”

Fi yanked her hand away from his in disgust. She didn’t even have to ask—his predatory smile said it all. She shouldn’t have expected anything else. Armand was a man who couldn’t be reasoned with, not even when the lives of his own people were at stake.

“You would risk letting the Spindle Witch destroy Darfell just to get back at me?” Fi spat.

“Of course not,” Armand said with a little wave of his hand. “But I don’t see why I shouldn’t take advantage of the situation to get everything I want.” He chuckled, bracing his chin on his steepled hands. “You never could tell when you were in a weak bargaining position.”

He looked expectantly at Fi, like he was waiting for her to crumble—to end up on her knees in front of him, as she had before.

Fi took a deep breath. “Actually, you taught me a lot about bargaining and power, and I think you’ll find I’m a very quick study. How was the tea—a little bitter? Are you sure you know what was in there?”

The victorious look on Armand’s face twisted into something dark. “What did you do?” he demanded, snatching up his teacup. He brought it up to his nose, sniffing it, and then dragged a finger through the dregs at the bottom. It came away coated with a film of white powder. “What is this, Filore?”

Fi pushed herself up from the table to look down on Armand for a change. “It’s poison, Armand—a brew I picked up from an ancient Witch’s spell book.” She enjoyed the look of shock that marred his handsome features. “Slow acting, of course, since I still need your help.” She had bought the ingredients from the apothecary and spice shops at the festival and mixed it in this very room with all the time Armand had given her.

Armand’s chair clattered to the floor as he surged to his feet, his surprise melting into rage. He seized Fi by the collar and dragged her forward. Her knees banged into the table, overturning both cups. “How dare you,” he hissed.

Fi reached up and pried his fingers away. “I don’t think I’ll be taking any more threats from you,” she warned coolly. “Because no matter what you try, I’m not going to tell you what I gave you, and I don’t have the antidote on me. So now it’s your turn to listen.”

Armand’s face was still curdled with rage, his eyes flashing. But she could see a little fear there, too. Fi wondered if this was a first for him—feeling so powerless in front of someone.

Armand had taught her exactly how it felt to have your own power ripped away. But he’d taught her other things, too. With his cruelty, his selfishness, he’d made her determined never to be like him, never to revel in the power she held over someone else. Not even this boy, who had taken so much from her.

Armand backed away, slumping into his chair. “I guess your position wasn’t so weak after all,” he murmured.

Fi breathed out and felt something deep inside of her uncurling. She had finally left the girl he cursed behind. Like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis, Fi was something new, utterly beyond his reach.

She turned to the window, the sheer blue curtains whipping around her. “Since we’ve established that I can’t trust you, here’s what’s going to happen. I’ll be waiting with the antidote where I need you to meet me in five days—which will give you just enough time to get there and save yourself before it’s too late. But only if you do exactly as I say.”

Armand nodded grudgingly. “What do you want me to do?”

“Do you still have the letter opener with the Curse of the Wandering Butterfly?” Fi asked, holding her breath. “Did you keep it after you used it on me that day?”

Armand gave her a strange look. “Yes,” he admitted.

“Good,” Fi said, flexing her palm over the swallowtail mark. The movement made the black wings seem to shiver. “I’ll need it.”