The Mortality of Queens

1. Death of the Borderer

Arthur

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Umbra of note

Amorrie and her human ally Arthur

Brughe and his human ally Hurting

Muscari and her human ally Viscount Exeter

Charon the Borderer and his human ally the Countess of Alnwick

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'Amorrie.'

It was his fourth call since he had begun to ready himself. Damn the girl. She never came on his command. 'Amorrie, do not make me summon you to me. I warn –'

'Naked.' The word flitted into that portion of his mind she was wont to inhabit.

He did not believe her. 'I do not care if you are at your toilet. If you are not in this room upon the moment –'

Her sound came, a lost breath entering a catacomb. A wrinkle creased the candlelight. He spun away from his dressing table, for she rarely ventured close to his mirror. A misty mouth of darkness swelled upon his crowded drawing desk, a swamp of unwashed pots, pungent scents and oily cloths where wooden brushes rose up like hunting herons. The mist congealed where the shadows congregated, consuming any lingering light, and there she was, half-sitting, half-sprawled on top of his rough sketches for the portrait of Countess Harrington and Scampion.

'By all the Saints, Amo... you are naked.' He threw a crumpled paint rag at her. It landed close but she didn't move to claim it. The velvety dark earth scent of her world had entered with her.

'Cover yourself,' he averted his eyes. 'Get you dressed; in finery, mind. We are out within the hour. Have you your finery?'

'No.'

Though he had quickly turned away from her unsettling female form, the vision of her small exposed body dawdled in his mind. Shocked at what he recalled, his gaze jerked back. Crimson smudges daubed her pale features and its stain ran over her hands. Drops of the taint initialled her naked chest.

'Is that blood? What is the matter with your leg?' It was misshapen, and she nursed it with both hands. 'Gods, you have broke it.'

Not two hours since, he had clutched at his own leg after a violent spasm of pain that he had put down to cramps.

'It mends.' She nurtured it purposefully, concentrating her will and forcing energy into it. 'You will insist on calling me at the most inconvenient of times and from uncommon situations.'

'What is it you do over there to arrive in such a predicament?'

'Survive.'

A tawdry pile of clothes, rags really, have trailed her here. They are strewn about her like entrails; bedraggled, bloody and riddled with sand.

'Oh it will not do, Amorrie,' he almost sobbed. 'We have an invitation, fresh delivered, to one of the most esteemed addresses in all London and you are not even clothed fit for the parish poorhouse. I might as well have a Portsmouth Poll upon my arm. Conjure your showiest garments, here, now.'

'I have not a whit of strength left for conjuring.'

'We have a party to attend.'

'I abhor those. You know it.'

'You must accompany me, and you know it.' He adjusted a silken blue cravat in the candlelight in front of the mirror.

'Find more agreeable garments if you can and be quick about it. A carriage comes for us within the hour.' He shrugged on his new double-breasted frock-coat. 'Be sure and wash all that blood away.' He stopped, wondering whether it was wise to ask: 'If it is not yours, then who–'