The Girl Who Chose

by Violet Grace

  ‘Your uncle wants a word with you,’ Wynstar calls down to me.

  ‘A little busy at the moment,’ I wince.

  Wynstar points to my pocket. ‘Get it,’ he orders the griffins.

  The griffin pacing about my head sniffs at the side of my gown where the pocket is. Opening its enormous jaws, it tears the whole section of fabric away, exposing the skin of my thigh beneath. It flies up to Wynstar and Loxley and spits a mouthful of fabric and parchment onto the window ledge, before thudding back to the ground.

  As Wynstar opens the parchment I notice dust from the courtyard flick up into the air from a gust of wind. A storm is on its way.

  Wynstar holds the Veritas page up. ‘What do we have here?’

  There’s another gust of wind, sending dust eddying around the courtyard.

  ‘Your dishonourable discharge from the Protectorate,’ I say through gritted teeth, my chest heaving as I try to control the agony streaking through my hands and arms.

  ‘You’ve got a smart mouth for someone who’s about to die.’ Wynstar slips the page from the Veritas inside his jacket.

  The wind grows in force, rattling the windows of the surrounding buildings. The dark rainclouds bruise the sky, forming a green-black hue right above us. The sun is reduced to a white smudge. It’s like a highly localised cyclone. Beyond the courtyard, the sky remains as it was.

  Wynstar and Loxley look up, distracted by the change in the weather.

  The wind whips up to a gale force, uprooting a tree and throwing it through the air, leaving a gaping hole in the stone tiles. An enormous stone pot plant smashes to the ground. My hair flies around my face.

  Wynstar grips the window frame. The shutter next to him is torn from its hinges. My eyes follow its path as it’s sucked upwards into the storm. I spot movement on the rooftop of the Palazzo Contarini del Bovolo.

  A unicorn.

  For the first time since I came to Serenissima I feel fully alive, whole.

  Tall, strong and determined, the unicorn beats his wings to keep himself balanced in the wind. Tom’s snow-white body is incandescent against the blackened sky. His horn glistens with the Art as a beam of magic fires straight up into the turbulent clouds.

  Our eyes lock as the griffins continue to hold me down.

  Tom is the master of the storm.

  He rears up on his hind legs, his front hoofs boxing the air as his horn turns to fire. His voice trumpets up towards the clouds before the sky cracks with a deafening boom.

  Torrential rain pours down onto the courtyard, turning drains and guttering into rivers. Wynstar and Loxley scan the courtyard desperately, searching for the source of the storm. The hole in the courtyard from the uprooted tree opens up, quickly becoming a crater. Surrounding tiles and soil slip into the hole, until half the courtyard has been reclaimed by lagoon water flooding what seconds ago was dry land.

  The griffins yelp and howl as the rain buckets down, as if each drop of rain is a lick of flame. Their sand-coloured bodies turn black. They writhe in pain, allowing me to pull my broken hands out from under them.

  This is no ordinary storm and no ordinary rain. It’s acid rain. And acid eats limestone. Each drop pelts the griffins, singeing the stone. Small depressions appear in their bodies, which deepen into cracks. Their wings and tails crumble off their bodies, the sharp peaks of their manes become rounded before chipping and disappearing entirely. Moments later, all that remains of the griffins is tarnished sandy rubble.

  The chains around Loxley’s hand flicker as he extends it towards me. I realise he’s planning to finish what the griffins started.

  I try to roll away to someplace safe, but I’ve got nowhere to go. There’s the edge of the courtyard on one side of me and the enormous watery hole on the other. Now would be a really good time to get my Art back. The pain in my hands is excruciating but I try with everything I have to muster my power.

  Nothing.

  I manage to sit up and slump against the courtyard wall. I call out to Tom to help but he’s a step ahead of me, redirecting his power towards Loxley. The storm dissipates as they trade scorching blasts. Wynstar leaps from the window down to the courtyard, his face menacing and triumphant. He steps around the griffin rubble.

  ‘The great Queen Francesca with her mighty power,’ he scoffs. ‘You turned out to be a disappointment, didn’t you? For everyone.’ He tilts his head. ‘I could take you back to Damius. Or I could just finish you here and now.’

  ‘I think Damius would like to know what I know,’ I croak, trying to buy time.

  ‘Perhaps, but why should he have all the fun?’ Wynstar says.

  He rolls up his sleeves carefully, like a surgeon preparing for an operation. The chains around his wrists are already sparking with expectant Art. The air is still now, the calm of the day returning as the storm clouds Tom conjured recede further.

  I look up to see Tom, just one last time before I die. Still battling with Loxley, he flies down from the roof. He’s trying to reach me but I know he’ll be too late. Time stills as I wait for Wynstar’s killing blow. And then something the colour of sunset bursts from the watery hole in the ground. Wynstar turns, thrusting his arms up defensively as Rena’s mouth opens wide and her sharp canines clamp around his jugular. Blood sprays from his neck, covering his face and splattering on the ground around him. His eyes are wide with shock and horror as Rena dangles from his throat, her tail snaking around his legs in a deadly embrace. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she flips them both backwards into the hole and disappears beneath the water. I watch in sickened fascination as the water turns to blood-red wash, mermaid tails occasionally breaking the surface.

  Eventually the water stills, calm and red, and a single severed finger bobs to the surface.

  Tom reaches me, the returning sunlight illuminating his feathered wings. I don’t know what’s happened to Loxley, but he seems to have gone – for now. Tom sniffs the air, searching the courtyard for danger.

  He rushes back to me and transes. He’s in doctor mode as he scoops me up off the ground.

  ‘Where can we go?’ He holds me tight against his chest. ‘Somewhere safe.’

  I look towards the Palazzo Contarini del Bovolo. ‘Top floor.’

  Tom cradles me in his arms as he sprints up the external staircase. My arms and hands burst with excruciating pain from the jolt of every step. Closing my eyes, I rest my cheek against Tom’s body, feeling his heart racing. His familiar scent of salt and musk takes the edge off my pain.

  ‘In there,’ I say as we approach the dress studio.

  He kicks the door open with one leg. I catch him raising his eyebrows slightly as he spies the wedding dress. He gently places me down on the ground, my back cushioned by rolls of velvet and silk. He kneels over me, examining my limp, smashed hands.

  ‘Hold still,’ he says and closes his eyes.

  The agony is so intense I can no longer speak. It’s all I can do to stay conscious.

  His beautiful face strains as his watchband glistens and a ball of warm, healing light expands into his large palms. It bathes the room with a golden hue. He wraps the light around my hands.

  I gasp as the pain instantly reduces to a dull throb. I nearly cry with relief.

  The warmth flickers and then dies. Tom swears under his breath and then, with a grunt of exertion, the healing Art begins again. But it’s weaker now, cooler. Then it dies out entirely.

  Tom is breathing heavily, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple.

  ‘I’m sorry, Chess, my reserve is too low after the storm and the fighting. We have to wait until my Art replenishes before I can reset your hands.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘A few hours. Maybe more.’ He turns his attention to healing the claw gashes on my cheek. ‘Flesh wounds are less intensive than hands.’

  I peer up into his eyes, ice blue and full of concentration.

  ‘You came,’ I whisper.

  ‘Chess.’ His fingers linger on my cheek.
‘I will always come.’ He tucks my hair behind my ear. ‘I heard your call for help. And to be honest, I was looking for any excuse.’

  There’s that dimple, and yep, it still does to me what it always has.

  ‘Where were you?’ I ask.

  ‘Apothecaries Hall,’ he says. ‘In London.’

  ‘Volgaris? Why there?’

  ‘That’s where my mum is. I went to visit her.’

  His lips move as he mutters his healing spell. My skin tingles as it heals.

  He finishes healing my surface wounds and then sits next to me, resting his head against the rolls of fabric. He’s still breathing heavily from exhaustion as his body brushes up against mine. I lean into his warmth and I’m still and quiet, just feeling his presence, his energy. So strong, certain and safe.

  He’s still and quiet too and I’m wondering if he’s absorbing me the way I am him, connecting on a level beyond words.

  ‘So,’ he says with a wry smile. ‘What have you been up to lately?’

  I tell him everything. From my conversation with the mermaids to meeting my father to how I have hurt Jules and pissed off Abby. And then I get to Victor, every awful detail. I leave nothing out.

  Tom swears, furious, when I get to the bit about Victor abandoning me to the griffins.

  ‘What Victor accused me of… he wasn’t wrong,’ I say carefully. ‘I am not completely innocent. I never promised him anything but I suppose, in a way, I did use him to find information about the scroll. I technically did steal from him too.’

  ‘Chess,’ Tom says, ‘the way Victor treated you, it’s indefensible. No one deserves that, no matter what they’ve done.’

  ‘You were right,’ I say. ‘You knew it was a set-up.’

  ‘Yes.’ There is no joy in his voice, no hint of triumph at being right.

  ‘Why didn’t you spell it out for me?’

  ‘I didn’t want to be the jealous boyfriend. Besides, it was a hunch – I didn’t have any proof. And it was your decision to make, not mine.’

  The implications of all I have done begin to register, one by one.

  ‘I’ve defied the Order by refusing to marry Victor,’ I say. ‘I’ve cut the Chancellor’s strings to my puppet reign. It’s now only a matter of time before the Chancellor makes good on his threat to remove me from the throne.’

  Tom’s eyes darken as my meaning sinks in.

  ‘They’re going to try to kill me, Tom.’

  ‘But they need you alive, on the throne to keep Damius off it.’

  I shake my head. ‘You were right about that too. The old guard of the Order have never forgiven me for the Luck of Edenhall. The Chancellor says that some of them want to oust me in support of Damius.’

  ‘They don’t have the muscle,’ Tom says definitively. ‘The Protectorate is loyal to you. The old guard is fading into irrelevance. The rebels wouldn’t stand a chance against your people.’

  ‘Maybe so, but I’m also worried about my mother’s body. If I don’t go through with the wedding the Chancellor or the Order could kill her as payback. And I’m running out of time and options to protect her.’

  I stare down at my limp hands. ‘I’ve messed it all up and I don’t have any faith that I can fix this before it’s too late.’

  Tom threads his arm between my back and the fabric rolls, his hand curling around at my waist. ‘Then have some of mine. I have enough faith in you for both of us.’

  With his other hand he runs his thumb over my forehead, smoothing my furrowed brow.

  ‘There’s one more thing you need to know,’ I say, feeling ill.

  He listens patiently as I tell him about my lost Art. About how I don’t even know the cause of it.

  ‘I felt something wrong when I touched your hands. But I assumed it was just because they were crushed. I never imagined…’

  ‘… that it could be something this bad,’ I finish for him.

  ‘We’ll fix this, Chess,’ he says. ‘Together we will do whatever needs to be done. And then whatever comes after that.’

  Tom offers up a smile and it feels like the temperature in the room jumps a couple of degrees. He leans back against the fabric rolls, stretching his long legs out across the floor.

  ‘You were pretty amazing back there with the acid rain,’ I say.

  ‘The perfect interaction between Art and science. I was worried those creatures would multiply if I fought them directly. Far safer to manipulate the pH level in the storm clouds so the rain would dissolve limestone.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Time ticks by. The sky outside turns to pink, a gentle breeze wafts through the open window. I wince as the pain in my arms and hands intensifies, now bordering on excruciating.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Tom says. ‘There’s nothing else I can do for the pain until I’ve built up enough reserve to heal them.’

  ‘How long?’ I grit my teeth.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He kisses my forehead.

  I yawn and, despite the pain, my eyelids feel heavy. I wonder if Tom has conjured a slumber spell. Or maybe my body has just reached its limits.

  ‘Rest, Chess,’ Tom says.

  I close my eyes and give in to sleep.

  I wake to the hooting of an owl. A rare feeling of warmth and safety envelops me. Before I even open my eyes I know whose chest I’m snuggled against, whose arm is wrapped around me. I keep my eyes closed a moment longer, savouring, wishing, pretending.

  ‘Welcome back,’ Tom says.

  ‘My hands,’ I say, flexing my fingers open and closed, expecting pain but not feeling any. Full movement has returned.

  ‘I fixed them while you were sleeping.’

  I take an extra moment to soak in the tantalising warmth of Tom’s body against mine, noticing every place our bodies touch, the way we fit so perfectly together.

  I look up at him, tumbling into his eyes. The lure of those pools of blue, glistening in the candlelight he must have conjured, entices me to stay in my fantasy world of ‘what ifs’ just a moment longer.

  Everything falls away. Everything except us. I indulge in his faith and optimism and allow myself to block out all my doubts and fears. I focus on his intoxicating scent and the power pumping through his body. It feels so good to pretend, if only for a moment, that here and now and us are the only things that exist.

  I feel myself being tugged past my own defences. I could have died today and I would have never had the chance to turn Tom and me into an us. To feel the connection I’m feeling now.

  He draws slow little circles on my arm. My whole body aches for him, and my head empties. I will resist. I will. Just one moment more of deluded happiness, where I can feel instead of think, where I can live instead of exist.

  My gaze falls from his eyes to his lips, open, beckoning. He traces his finger down the side of my face and cups my chin. I can feel his breath on my cheek, the strength and warmth of his body against mine.

  My lips part in response, welcoming, pleading. And then …

  Do not let anyone distract you from your true purpose. Or ruin everything we hold dear.

  I sit up abruptly, pulling out of his arms and turning away. I gasp as shame and fear snake down my throat, squeezing my heart.

  ‘You deserve to be happy, Chess,’ Tom says. ‘And I know I make you happy.’

  I shake my head, choking on the emotion. ‘Happiness is the last thing I deserve.’

  ‘Why?’ He leans closer to me.

  Hot tears sting my eyes. ‘Because it should have been me.’

  I curl forward and sob onto my healed but otherwise useless hands as Gladys flashes before my eyes. The woman who fed me when I was starving. The closest thing to a mother I’ve ever known. She taught me the Art and helped me find my power. But that’s not why I loved her. I loved her because she believed in me. I was never just a key to her. Or a mistake, or an embarrassment or a last resort. She saw good in me when I didn’t think there was any to be found.<
br />
  And then I see her lifeless body lying in the butterfly house, trampled under Loxley’s hooves.

  ‘You told me how the cataclysmic spell worked,’ I choke through my tears. ‘The warning was clear: stay away from you. But I didn’t listen. I stupidly, arrogantly, selfishly picked a fight with the laws of nature that I could never win. And Gladys paid the price. Gladys paid my price with her life. So no, I do not deserve to be happy. I don’t even deserve to be alive.’

  ‘That was Gladys’s choice, not yours.’ Tom curls his legs up and swivels around to face me. ‘You are powerful, Chess, but you are not powerful enough to force the Luminaress to do anything she didn’t wish to do.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say. You don’t know what it’s like to live with guilt.’

  ‘This is not a question of guilt, it’s about apportioning blame in the right place. Look at me, Chess.’

  I slowly lift my gaze to his serious face.

  ‘There were dozens of decisions made over many years that led to that moment in the butterfly house. Many of them were bad ones. And most of them were not made by you.’ He leans closer to me. ‘I see what you’re doing. You’re pushing me away as penance. But punishing yourself is misguided, and it’s also pointless. Your suffering won’t bring Gladys back.’

  I close my eyes for a minute, trying to reconcile his words with the shame and anguish inside. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me into an embrace. As if my body has a will of its own, I collapse into his broad, firm torso. He pulls me in tighter.

  I feel his lips brush against my eyelids, warm, tantalising. My cheeks burn, my blood pumps a little faster. Safely in his arms, my mind wanders, thinking about my true purpose.

  And then it comes to me.

  It’s still dark when Tom transfers us to the Villa Ducale in Volgaris. I gulp down a mouthful of air, tasting nothing but trepidation. I recall the pain of the radio wave gun in the cell. I’m not sure I would even survive it a second time.

  Walking headlong into Agency headquarters without the Art to protect me – or Jules or any of the Protectorate – is stupid and reckless and incredibly dangerous. But I don’t have the luxury of caution. Tom and I went over a quick contingency plan before we transferred. The plan goes something like this: if things go pear-shaped, fly like hell and he’ll transfer us back to Iridesca.