by Ryan Graudin
“Fortunately for you I have better things to do than blowing up doors.” I look away from the politician, back to the door.
“I see you don’t appreciate my humor,” he says.
“That’s rather difficult to do when one is called a ‘monster’ and a ‘siren ginger.’” I keep my voice as chilled as the champagne in my glass. The one I’m gripping with whitening knuckles.
“Ah yes. The article.” I hear the frown in Julian’s voice, but I refuse to give him the privilege of a glance. “I was . . . upset . . . when I said that. After all, we’d just been attacked. Elaine is still having nightmares. She was even too upset to come tonight. Especially considering that the creatures’ queen is supposed to make an appearance.”
Creatures. Just the way he says it—so silky and snide—boils my insides. “As a politician I’d expect you to be a bit more careful with your words.”
“We don’t have to be enemies, you know,” Julian says. “In fact, I’d rather not. The way I see it, you and I have a common goal.”
“I highly doubt that,” I manage through gritted teeth.
“We both want King Richard to make wise choices.”
I know his words are a trap, but I hardly care. “What part of pushing Britain toward unlimited free energy doesn’t fall into that category?”
“Perhaps I should rephrase that. We both want King Richard to make safe choices.” His S uncoils long and slow, snakelike. His chin jerks up to the Faery lights. “You don’t give up power to get it. That’s not how the world works, Lady Emrys. I know what your queen is up to. Electricity is her only weakness and our only defense. It doesn’t take a genius to solve that equation. She’s using you and King Richard to strip us bare, before she moves in.”
“You’re wrong,” I say.
The rising-star politician shrugs and takes a sip of his champagne. “I’ve been told that Faery queens are the cruelest creatures alive.”
His comment is better timed than a summoning spell. The room changes as soon as Queen Titania enters. The hum of the mortals’ conversations dies and for once the hushed awe isn’t directed at me. The Faery queen doesn’t even notice the hundreds of stares as she glides—cool and calm—through the door.
It’s the Frithemaeg behind her who look shocked. Many of them are nobility—old Fae who haven’t interacted with mortals for centuries. They file behind Titania in a V formation, eyes wider than those of a child thrust into the middle of a candy shop.
The world’s most powerful men and women part for the Faery queen, keep a safe distance. I can’t tell if it’s from respect, fear, or both. Her path ends only steps away from Richard.
“Your Majesty.” Her voice holds the same cool silver as her aura, but she curtsies nonetheless. All of her attendants do the same.
Richard bows in return. “Welcome, Queen Titania. I’m honored you could make it.”
The two aren’t speaking loudly, but their every word echoes through the ballroom’s stillness. Even the music has stopped: the violinists gawk from their corner, too stunned by the Faes’ entrance to keep playing.
Lord Winfred is the first to recover. The prime minister clears his throat and holds out his hand. “Queen Titania. I’m Laurence Winfred. The Prime Minister. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you face-to-face.”
Titania stares at his hand, eyes narrowed. Handshakes are reserved only for oaths in the Fae’s world. I want to curse myself for forgetting to explain this to Britain’s prime minister.
The Faery queen’s head tilts. Slowly her hand edges out, pale fingers meeting Lord Winfred’s sturdy handshake.
As soon as they touch it’s as if a spell has been broken. The great silence of the room lifts. People fall back into their conversations. The violins return to their sweet-strung ballads. Waiters start to circulate again, offering silver platters of Anabelle’s hand-selected delicacies.
“You’ll be at the coronation, yes?” All of Lord Winfred’s attentions are wrapped up in the Faery queen. His eyes are lit the same way they were when he pointed out the Faery lights.
Titania’s hair glitters and shines as she nods. “I should be able to withstand London for a few hours. Given the proper precautions.”
“We’ve allotted a special Lights-down the night before so Queen Titania can attend the ceremony,” Richard reminds the prime minister. “And she’ll spend most of the day with Princess Anabelle. My sister’s blood magic should energize her. Help stave off the sickness.”
“Good, good,” Lord Winfred rumbles. “It’s an important moment for integration. The press will be watching; we must put our best foot forward.”
I wait until the conversation peters down to pull Titania aside. “May I speak with you in private? Outside?”
The Faery queen nods. Her gown—woven and sparkling like dewdropped cobwebs—dances across the floor, cuts a new path to the door. Out of the Reception Room, past the row of butlers and black-suited security, all the way to the grassy stretch of the Upper Ward.
“Have you found the prisoner?” I ask once we reach the center of the green.
“Is that what this is about?” Titania’s voice is as severe as her face. “I told you to forget about what you saw on the Isle of Man.”
Forget. She says it so simply. As if I could just erase the terrifying white of Guinevere’s eyes. As if what I discovered in the Labyrinth hasn’t haunted every moment of this past fortnight.
“Please, Your Majesty.”
Maybe it’s the bleariness around my eyes which no amount of Anabelle’s imposed makeup can hide. Or the stretch and fray of my voice. Whatever it is, Titania answers.
“There’s no trace. Nothing. The scouts scoured the whole west coast, but they came up empty. They even went back to the Isle of Man. There were still traces of aura in the cell, but beyond that . . . nothing. I even had some younglings consult the Tower ravens, to see if they’d had any visions. But they were silent.” The Faery queen frowns. I watch her closely, studying her profile for signs of sickness. The last time we were both here, Titania nearly died from the closeness of the city’s technology.
But Lights-down is doing its job. The air out here is mountain fresh, tinged with hints of winter and the hues of Herne the Hunter’s trees.
“Have you had any second thoughts about Alistair’s offer?” I ask.
“Involving the Ad-hene?” Titania looks at me sharply. “You think that’s a wise choice?”
“No,” I answer. “But it might be our only one. Alistair’s right. They’ve existed with the prisoners for years. Perhaps they can find trails your scouts are blind to.”
“I’d prefer not to give Alistair any more power in this situation,” Titania says, her voice clipped. “The Ad-hene can’t be trusted.”
I can’t argue this point. Not as long as the only key to the Labyrinth’s tunnels lies in their silver-etched arms. “You think they let the prisoner free?”
“I don’t know. The Ad-hene are difficult to read. Mab had a much better rein on them. . . . In any case, it’s been nearly a fortnight and there’s no disturbance we can trace back to the empty cell. I think for now we should consider the possibility that the prisoner is gone for good. Perhaps it simply wanted freedom. Or the island truly did swallow it.” There’s a rise in her voice which makes me think she actually believes what she’s saying.
The old tensions are there, restless between us. From the days when I was a youngling and Titania a duchess. When she scrutinized my each and every move.
“A spirit that powerful doesn’t just forget centuries in prison—” I begin.
She cuts me off. “Mab was the one who sent them there. And now she’s gone. I know you worry about King Richard, but those threats are over. It’s a new age. We have new things to tend to.”
If I were queen, I would take the risk. Use the Ad-hene to find the fugitive’s trail. But I’m not queen. I’m not even a Frithemaeg anymore.
“I’ll keep the Guard on high alert.” The queen’s voice is strained, like t
hat of an adult talking to a petulant child. “But for now I’ve done everything I can.”
Or everything you’re willing. “I wouldn’t consider the Guard the strongest of defenses if they cannot even keep a single Kelpie from diving into the Thames.”
“The Guard was struggling even before Lady Breena died. With both of you gone, there are only younglings left. If you were truly so concerned about King Richard’s safety, then perhaps you should not have abandoned your magic so lightly.”
Titania’s words burn. Just as she meant them to. We stand in the cinders of silence for a moment before the Faery queen turns back in the direction of the dance.
“You made your choice, Lady Emrys. Now you must live it. Go and dance. Be with your king. Let us speak no more of this. This conversation has wearied me. I think it’s best if I go inside, closer to the royals’ blood magic.”
She glides back the way she came. Silent, silvery grace.
Maybe Titania’s right. I hope she is.
But standing here on lawn of the Upper Ward, it’s not a hope I have much faith in. Inside, the dancing has started. I see it perfectly through the glow of the window—dresses and tuxedos whirling like toy tops. Princess Anabelle looks like a phoenix in her gold gown—it twists and flares under the light as she dances with Lord Winfred.
And Richard. He’s dancing too. His arms are around some woman I don’t know, guiding her across the dance floor with bold, steady motions. A touch made of fearless.
I watch them and think of the times we danced together—barefoot in his room, classic rock blaring from Richard’s turntable, swaying in the sheer togetherness of it, finding each other through vinyl notes.
Ache, ache goes my heart. Loving him through the hurt.
“It’s a good night for dancing. The full moon always is.”
I don’t have to turn to know that Herne the Hunter stands behind me. I feel his presence the same way I feel that my right hand is attached to my wrist. The night stings with his magic. Against my will I taste some of what was once mine: cloud-strung heights, fire and grace, a palm full of worlds . . .
The ache in my heart stretches.
I turn and see him there, a darker tear of darkness through the night, held together by the smolder of his eyes. His cloak sweeps like tar over the lawn. Two horns stab and twist the air like corkscrews.
It’s times like this, standing in front of the woodlord, that I understand the mortals’ fear. Why they use the word monster.
He’s not alone. Hounds gather at his feet, their fur as white and pure as first snowfall. Behind them, his horse looms.
“Herne. How do you fare?”
“As well as one can in a dying season.” He growls. Ember-bright eyes blaze over my shoulder, scavenge the silhouettes of the dancers.
“You’ve come for the ball?” I glance back at the hounds.
“The moon calls. It’s a night for the Wild Hunt.”
“The princess will be disappointed,” I tell him. “She was hoping to see you again.”
His eyes narrow. “Four walls and frippery. That is not my world. It would be foolish for me to pretend otherwise.”
We both fall quiet. I shut my eyes, try my hardest not to feel the flavors of my old powers. They pulse off the woodlord, calling to me in a way nothing else quite can.
All I’d have to do is ask Herne. Reach out for his gloved hand. One question. One motion. And all of my helplessness would disappear. I could find the prisoner’s trail, take matters into my own hands. The way I once did.
I open my eyes. Herne is beside me now, his movements made of silence. He seems even taller than before, his horns twisting all the way to the northernmost star.
“I know what you are about to ask,” he rumbles. “The queen of the Fae is right, Lady Emrys. Your choice has been made. You must live it.”
Go and dance. Be with your king.
I keep watching Richard. The way he waltzes. The smile on his face. I haven’t seen it in such a long time. Not the way it is now, dancing so carefree in a nameless woman’s arms. Wide and laughing, reaching all the way to his eyes.
I haven’t seen it since the night he pulled away.
Will he ever let me be with him?
My throat is scratchy, dry sandpaper. “What if I did ask?”
“You think you chose wrong?”
“No,” I choke out quickly. “No. I don’t think that. But if I could get my powers back—just for a time—I could fix things. Make sure Richard stays safe.”
“You doubt Queen Titania?”
I let my silence answer.
“I can give you your magic back,” he says.
My breath trembles like butterfly wings.
“But—” Herne goes on and the beautiful insect inside dies as soon as it’s born. Spins down to the pit of my stomach. “It would not come without a price. Your magic was a payment. Part of a vow. If you were to take it back, the balance of things would shift.”
“And what is your price?”
“This choice must be your final one. If you take your magic back, you must never give it up again.”
A second chance. A final choice. Richard or magic.
I look back through the window. The thought of giving Richard up, even for magic, is like a knife to my heart.
Richard. The one price I cannot pay. Herne knows this; of course he does. He wants to keep my power.
Cruel, cruel woodlord.
“You cannot live two lives,” Herne growls on.
I try to ignore the death throes in my gut, force myself to look straight into Herne’s eyes. “You were the one who told me I should never forget what I was. You left me some magic.”
“I did.” He nods.
“Why? All it does is torture me. It pulls me apart.” That’s not the whole truth. It pulls us apart. Makes me jump off boats and out of Richard’s grasp. Makes Richard end our kisses with a breath full of fear.
The woodlord’s eyes sear—orange, too hot. He does not offer any answers, only waits to take them.
“Take the rest of it.” I close my eyes, but I can still see his. Twin stars in my black vision. Relentless. “You want it to be all or nothing. Just do me a greater mercy and take it all.”
Silence.
I hear the distant strain of the string quartet. Laughter which sounds like Richard’s: deep and rich as oak.
The woodlord is gone when I open my eyes. Shadows flicker through the moon’s gaze: streaks of black over wide white. The hounds are howling. Herne’s Hunt has begun and I’m alone.
Herne the Hunter never was a creature of mercy.
I should go back inside, dance and be with my king. Instead I stand here frozen, staring through the window. Outside looking in. On mortals and Frithemaeg alike.
The night goes on, with dinner and dancing and wine from Windsor’s cellars. Even the Frithemaeg start to loosen up after a few hours, blending more freely with the stunned mortals. The crowd is no longer oil and water but an estuary. Two worlds meeting and mingling. Titania even shares a dance with Richard and it seems—to my delight—that Julian Forsythe has left the ball early.
Well past the toasts—during the final dances—Richard whisks me off the floor, whispering, “We can still play hooky,” in my ear.
It’s almost too cold to stare at the stars, but we do it anyway. Night wind cuts like ice over Windsor Castle’s rooftop, burrowing into my hair, under my skin. There’s a thick cashmere blanket draped across my shoulders, and Richard’s arms wrap tight around me.
We haven’t been this close since the night he pulled away.
I bury deeper into his embrace. My cheek slides from his shoulder down to his chest, where I hear the bass line of his heart. Growing quicker just for me.
“Remember the last time we were on a roof? Stargazing?” Richard asks.
“How could I forget?” I stretch my hand out, look at my ring. The metal on the band is so cold it burns. The night Richard gave me this ring was a rare moment: bright
and clear. When everything was perfect.
“I think about that night a lot. Whenever I’m missing you.” Richard reaches out and tucks my hand into his. “They’re even brighter this time . . . ,” he goes on, “the stars.”
I tilt my face into the air, brave the chill for a glimpse of what Richard sees. The horizon is a swell of violet, bleeding out into the deepest clearest black. And all across this: pinpricks of pure light. I’ve stared at them so many times throughout my years; I know every pattern and constellation which spins across Britain’s night. But every time I look up there’s always something new. Some shimmer of plasma and gas I never noticed before.
Everything changes. Even the night.
Richard’s right. They’re brighter tonight. There’s a crispness in the air which folds back, lets the light cut through and sing.
“They always shine stronger in winter,” I tell him.
“When the world is dark and cold,” Richard muses. “Perhaps they’re trying to cheer us up a bit?”
I’d never thought of it that way. I know it’s actually because far fewer stars crowd the sky. That there’s more darkness closing in on the ones which remain. Stars calling out for all that the summer lost.
I like Richard’s theory better.
“It does help, doesn’t it?” I rest my head back against his chest, where I hear his heart keeping time to the pulse of the stars.
“Even a little light goes a long way in the dark,” he says.
“Just wait until we get to the Highlands next week. The stars are unbelievable there,” I tell him. “I can’t wait for it. Two whole weeks of just us. No press, no Julian Forsythe, no coronation drama.”
Richard’s pulse skitters like a hunted animal. Fast, fast, fast through his uneven silence.
“You still want to go, don’t you?” I ask in a small voice.
“Of course!” he says quickly. “I’d be a lunatic to pass up a holiday with you.”
I push away from his chest, look at him. “Then what’s wrong?”
“So much is changing, Emrys. And I don’t want it to. All I want is to stay on this rooftop, to be in this moment with you. Before all of this goes away.”
He stares down at me, like I’m the only thing in the world he sees. My hand slides up his chest and draws him closer to me. His lips are cool, as if he’s given all his warmth to me.