was about my age—twenty-seven or so—and quite lovely, with blue eyes, rosy skin, and dark, honey-blond hair that was pulled back into a pretty fishtail braid that trailed over her shoulder. She had a thick, strong body, but her fingers were long and lean and freckled with small, white scars from all the pins and needles that had accidentally poked into her skin over the years.
Lady Calandre had been Queen Cordelia’s personal thread master for the last few months of the queen’s life. And now, she was mine. As were her two teenage sisters, Camille and Cerana, who were hovering behind her.
“Are you pleased with your appearance, my queen?” Calandre asked.
I studied my blue tunic in the mirror. A crown of shards was stitched in silver thread over my heart, while still more silver thread scrolled across my neckline and flowed down my sleeves, as though I had wrapped myself in thorns. Standard black leggings and boots completed my outfit.
“Of course. Your work is exquisite, as always.”
Calandre nodded, and pride gleamed in her eyes at the compliment. She adjusted the long bell sleeves of her blue gown, even though they were already perfectly draped in place. They too were trimmed with silver thread, in keeping with the colors of the Winter line of the Blair royal family.
My colors now.
“I still wish that you had let me make you something grander,” Calandre murmured. “I could have easily done it with my magic.”
She was a master, which meant that her magic let her work with a specific object or element to create amazing things. In Calandre’s case, she had complete control over thread, fabric, and the like. My nose twitched. I could smell her power on my tunic, a faint, vinegary odor that was the same as the dyes that she used to give her garments their glorious colors.
Calandre had tried to get me to don a ball gown for today’s formal court session, since all the attending nobles would be decked out in their own finery, but I’d refused. I wasn’t the queen everyone had expected, and I certainly wasn’t the one they wanted, so draping myself in layers of silk and cascades of jewels seemed silly and pointless. Besides, you couldn’t fight very well in a ball gown. Although in that regard, it didn’t really matter what I wore, since every day at Seven Spire was a battle.
“Forget the clothes,” another voice chimed in. “I still can’t believe that people sent you all this stuff.”
I looked over at a tall woman with braided blond hair and beautiful bronze skin who was lounging on a blue velvet settee. She was wearing a forest-green tunic that brought out her golden amber eyes, along with the usual black leggings and boots. A large silver mace was lying next to her on the settee, with the spikes slowly stabbing the plump cushions to death.
Paloma waved her hand at the low table in front of her. “C’mon. How much stuff does one queen need?”
Every inch of the table was covered with baskets, bowls, and platters brimming with everything from fresh produce to smelly cheeses to bottles of champagne. Other tables throughout the room boasted similar items, as did the writing desk, the nightstand beside the four-poster bed, and the top of the armoire. Not to mention the cloaks, gloves, and other garments piled up in the corners or the paintings, statues, and other knickknacks propped up against the walls. I’d gotten so many welcome gifts that I’d resorted to perching them on the windowsills, just so I would be able to walk through my chambers.
Paloma grabbed a white card out of a basket on the table. “Who is Lady Diante, and why did she send you a basket of pears?”
“Diante is an extremely wealthy noble who owns fruit orchards in one of the southern districts,” I said. “And it’s a Bellonan tradition to send the new queen a gift wishing her a long and prosperous reign.”
Paloma snorted. “Funny tradition, sending a gift to someone you’re plotting against.”
Calandre’s lips puckered, and her two sisters gasped. Calandre was a Bellonan courtier who was traditional and polite to a fault. She didn’t much care for Paloma’s bluntness, but she didn’t say anything. She might be a master, but Paloma was a much stronger morph.
Calandre stared at the morph mark on Paloma’s neck. All morphs had some sort of tattoo-like mark on their bodies that indicated what creature they could shift into. Paloma’s mark was a fearsome ogre face