But Rhea had been part of Agnes’ court; she deserved to know.
“It was Myra,” I said, talking about Agnes’ former heir, who had been a little too impatient to inherit. “She poked a pinhole in one of the amulets—”
“She did what?”
I suddenly wished I’d kept my big mouth shut. Because Rhea had just turned white as a sheet. But it was too late now.
“It, uh, it enabled the poison to leak out a little at a time, whenever it was used,” I told her. “Agnes, well, she did the rest herself, every time she had a drink.”
“Why . . . why weren’t we told this?”
“I thought you had been.”
“No. No.” She looked stricken.
Way to put your foot in it, Cassie, I thought darkly.
“Did the Lord Protector know?” Rhea asked, using Jonas’ official title. And then didn’t give me time to answer. “Of course he did. Of course he did!”
“Well, yes,” I said, because clearly.
“Why would he do that?” she demanded, her expression caught between tears and rage. “Why would he deprive her of her right?”
“What right?” Fred asked. “She’s dead.”
I shot him a look.
“The right to avenge herself on her attacker!”
“But . . . she’s dead,” Fred reiterated, as if maybe Rhea had missed that part.
“But her soul is not!” she snapped.
“Yes, well, I’m sure it’s, uh, in a better place,” Fred said awkwardly.
Rhea shook her head. “You don’t understand. A Pythia devotes her life to her purpose, and is rewarded by being allowed to merge with another at death.”
“Merge?”
“Her soul migrates to another body, a host body.”
“Just . . . anybody’s?” Fred asked, suddenly looking alarmed. And glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.
“Anyone willing,” I clarified.
“Oh, good. Because I’m not. Willing. In case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Good ’cause . . . I’m really, really not.”
“Okay.”
“I mean, not even a little—”
“Fred!”
“We have to find her,” Rhea broke in. “We have to give her that chance!”