Celia squinted in the rising sunlight. Estelle was taking her time, making them all wait. She enjoyed the control. Jealousy wound through Celia. Granted, Estelle’s domain was a rocky wasteland populated by feral wolf people, but it was her wasteland.
Celia seethed. I should be Queen in my own land. Instead, here she was, waiting on this wolf girl until she deigned to speak again.
She rubbed her hands over her chilled arms, looking around her. Even if Dogtown had nothing on the majesty of Maremount, it was compelling in its own way. The common’s grass was lush and full, and a salty breeze rushed through dirt alleys and past ancient, gnarled-wood houses. A stone temple towered over the southern edge of the green. Something about Dogtown’s jagged imperfection was almost... beautiful.
Estelle pulled a pipe out from the folds of her dress, lighting it with a plastic orange lighter.
Celia frowned. Clearly, Dogtown isn’t as isolated from the modern world as Maremount.
Smoke curled from Estelle’s pipe, and her dark gaze fell on her guests again. “The sick girl will stay at Foxglove Manor, where she will receive the healing she needs.”
A middle-aged woman stepped forward, her dark hair teased into a towering beehive. A cigarette dangled from her mouth, and she waved a hand. “Hiya. I’m the healer.”
Estelle pointed at Thomas. “And you who carry her—” Another puff on the pipe. “—you will help look after her in the same house.” She sniffed the air, and her gaze turned to Alan. “A wolverine. You shall stay in Briar House.”
A willowy girl stepped forward, her brown hair cascading nearly to her waist.
Estelle extended a graceful finger toward Tobias. “The fire demon stays with me in Oread Mansion. I could use his strength, should our seafaring visitors become unruly.”
She puffed and blew another circle of smoke into the air, now staring at Celia. She had one of those long, steady gazes that made Celia want to confess every bad thing she’d ever done before Estelle read it in her soul.
“We’re running out of beds.” A note of irritation tinged the Queen’s voice, and she waved a hand toward Oswald. “The two blond-haired ones may stay in Hemlock House, and the bloodsucker will stay in the dog kennel. Borgerith has told to me she belongs with the animals.”
Well, that was rude.
“The dog kennel?” Fiona snapped.
For the first time, Estelle rose from her throne, and the low growl in her voice silenced them all. “If you don’t like what I’ve chosen for you, you’re free to leave. You will not question me.”
Looking on as Fiona struggled for mastery of her emotions, Celia choked down her own impulse to argue. They had nowhere else to go. They were being hunted by deadly forces—the Purgators, and probably her father’s army from Maremount.
And as much as Celia hated to admit it, she had to admire Estelle’s decisiveness. The moment she allowed anyone to question her, it would open the door to her own downfall.
Celia tried to catch Fiona’s eye, but her friend was staring down Estelle. Gods, she hoped Fiona would be rational right now. A kennel was better than death. Even sharing a house with Oswald was better than death.
Fiona forced a smile onto her face. “It’s fine. I’d take a Dogtown kennel over a Purgator mansion any day.”
Estelle smiled. “It’s settled, then. You may stay for the summer. Your sanctuary will include food. And if you can pay for it, someone will sell you new clothes. You’re all tired and should rest for the day. We will meet again for dinner.”
She dismissed them with a flick of her hand.
Oswald turned to Celia, glacial gray eyes boring into her. With his blond curls and pretty features, he should’ve looked like an angel. But the blood, scars, and mangled collarbone kind of ruined the image. And then there was his deeply unsettling silence. He’d hardly said a word—not since he’d learned that Tobias was demon marked. It clearly pissed him off, though he hadn’t got around to explaining why. And Tobias didn’t seem eager to talk about it.
But mostly, Oswald hated having to spend time with Celia. That much was pretty clear. He blamed her for being a Throcknell—the architects of his misery. He hated her for his torture, his sister’s death, all the inequality in the world.
In fact, all were things she really had no control over. She crossed her arms, glaring back at him.
Footsteps cut their standoff short, and a man stepped between them, his hair a shocking white against his dark skin. “I’m Cornelius. I live in Hemlock House. I’ll show you the way.”
“Celia,” she offered, thrusting out a hand. It was all he needed to know. Her royal title probably wouldn’t go over well here. “The creepy guy in the bathrobe is Oswald.”