Page 16 of The Court of Venus

He mounted his horse and nudged his flanks, leading him into the forest. I thought to him, I want Roland to remember our bargain. This was something I’d learned to do as a girl; the more specific I was with my desires, the more easily Roland could sense them, if they were true. Once, I spent an hour thinking on a loop I want Roland to admit he’s afraid of pigs until he turned red. “They bathe in their own filth!” he’d finally shouted in the middle of our lesson, startling Prospero.

I grappled with my horse, guiding her by the reins and following Roland by foot into the tree line. He clasped Wyatt Francis’s shoulder. “There’s only one magician who hasn’t arrived yet for the tourney. True, Wyatt?”

Wyatt nodded, removing his cap as he ducked beneath a branch. “Your opponent, Mistress Mortlake, is most mysterious. She’ll even miss my masque tonight.”

She. I had never met another female magician. When we were born, our families often kept us quiet. We were unmarriageable. And there was a hint of discomfort, too, at a woman wielding any sort of power.

“Which planet rules her?” Roland asked casually, tossing a glance at me over his shoulder.

“No one will tell me,” Wyatt complained. “The king insists she’s to be a surprise.”

There was a strange disquiet within Tom.

I muttered to Roland, “You knew this when you made the bargain with me, didn’t you?”

He merely shrugged and said it was a pity, then recounted for Tom and Wyatt how the deer had slipped away from us. I could only hope the beast kept running, the woods closing behind it.

For a moment, I let myself linger. I stood at the edge of the meadow and closed my eyes. The past shook within me. I could hear the echo of our laughter—mine, Roland’s, Hal’s.

The only way out of the past, I realized now, was through it.

Five

Most magicians can kill with a single strike. Saturnborn dissolve the boundary between the living and the dead. Mercuryborn craft blood ciphers. Jupiterborn can enlarge any organ until it bursts. A Venusborn makes their victim yearn for death. A Marsborn decapitates faster than the swing of an axe. Only those blessed by the Sun and the Moon, the two luminaries, do not have a straightforward method at their fingertips.

—PROSPERO THE ALL-KNOWING, THE CELESTIAL BODIES

Like most magicians, I was born in the gutter, only rising out of the dirt and stink through a lucky birthright. The planets aligned perfectly the moment I began to wail: the crab constellation shining overhead, the Moon’s influence so powerful it transferred its magic to me. A baby with ghost-white hair and milky eyes; the midwife immediately knew what I was. As soon as she lifted me from between my mother’s legs, she shuddered and said, “Demon.”

For hours, I practiced dances I plucked from my memories at court, spinning and leaping across the floor until I was panting, cursing Roland each time I tripped. Was it so difficult to send a note, to say: Disguise yourself as Joan when the bells ring at seven, it will be safe then, and here are the dances she would surely know, and here are some other helpful insights I’ve gathered? But no further instruction arrived. When Bess appeared to tie me into an ivory gown and a crescent hood trimmed with pearls, I knew I’d have to improvise.

“Oh, Bess. I feel ill.” I rested my hand on my forehead. “I may stay behind and rest.”

She barely tried to tuck away her glee. “Do you need anything tonight? A warm head cloth? A bath?”

“No, no.” I waved her away. “You go on.”

She didn’t hesitate to skip out the door with only a slight bow of her head.

When she was gone, I picked up my mirror, took a deep breath, and began. A cup of moonlight poured over the grounds, so my magic flowed easily. The white waves cascading down my back were tugged back into my scalp. I shrank my breasts. Lengthened my nose. Scattered freckles across my cheeks, flushing red like Joan did, performing her hopeful, eager expression in the mirror again and again until it was believable. I fixed my hood back over my now straw-colored hair, turned my head from side to side, adjusting her features until I was satisfied.

Shadows gathered across the palace. The drums were beating. A long table overflowed with lit candelabras and fruit and cheeses and silver pitchers of wine. While his court ate and drank, Roland sat in the king’s throne again, his coat and doublet both a deep oxblood. A single garnet swung from one of his earlobes, the same color as the mask covering his cheekbones and nose.

Tonight was a disguising—one of King Richard’s favorite entertainments, though he wasn’t here to enjoy it. Veiled courtiers kissed each other’s necks in the open, as if the entire world was a dark corner. At the far end of the hall was a stage: a castle with three turrets and a moat boasting real swans. Back and forth they swam, and every so often Wyatt Francis tossed them chunks of bread and giggled, a strange sound to hear from so large a man.

As soon as she noticed me, Queen Cecily touched my arm and pulled me into her circle.

I lowered my head. “Your Majesty.”

She scoffed at the formality and touched my lips. “There. Now you will be kissed tonight. Yesterday, Bess was kissed and touched my lips to pass it along. Today, I was kissed. Now, you shall be. Who would you like to ravish you?” The ladies all surveyed the mass of courtiers.

Her gaze settled on Tom, sulking in a corner. “My brother?” I revealed nothing, and so her eyes traveled again. “Hmm. How about Roland?”

A flush crept up my neck.

Cecily crooked a finger at Wyatt Francis. He skipped over from the moat, bowing when he reached us. “Yes, sweet?”

The queen jerked her chin. “Tell Joan what you just told me.”