by Ryan Graudin
“There.” He smiles down at his spotless dress shirt. “Completely blood free.”
I try to mirror his smile, but the thought of what almost happened, what would’ve happened if Richard hadn’t pulled away corrodes my thoughts. I wouldn’t have stopped. I couldn’t do what Richard did.
“Right. Well, here goes.” He squeezes my hand again and pulls us toward the door.
The pressroom we enter is brimming with journalists and machines. Digital cameras, bright, novalike flashes, the large bulging lenses of video cameras. There are too many of them. Nausea flares the lining of my gut with near-crippling pain. I suck in a sharp staccato of breath and follow Richard up to the podium.
The prince wears his charming, for-press smile, the one no onlooker (particularly female) is able to resist. He waves to the room of scrutinizing cameras and jotting pens as he settles at the podium. I stand to the side, invisible.
“There’s a well-known saying: better late than never. I believe it serves me well in this scenario.”
A faint echo of laughter rounds the room. The shoulders of the reporters in the front row begin to relax. Mine are the opposite, tense and bursting as I look at Richard. What he’s saying wasn’t on the paper. It’s not some contrived speech written by people on the opposite side of London. These words are his own.
“Most, if not all, of you know of my rather infamous no-show on our last scheduled meeting. I’m here today to officially apologize for my infraction. The truth is, if I must be blunt, I wasn’t ready. To be in the public eye—to have your every move watched and judged—is trying even in the best of times. But in the midst of grief and loss it’s unbearable. What happened in Hyde Park is an example of that. I ran because I wasn’t ready to face the world. I wasn’t ready to talk about my father’s death, but the cameras found me anyway.”
A few of the photographers shift their weight. I wonder if they’d been present for Richard’s escape to Hyde Park.
“All I needed was time and support. I needed to find who I was in the face of all this.”
Cameras flash, blindly sickening as they spot my vision. I look at Richard instead. He stares straight into the bursts of light without flinching.
“I’m ready now.”
Eighteen
Midsummer brings a small celebration for the royal family. Anabelle’s birthday. Her party is a modest affair for family and friends, held under tents in the palace gardens. It’s the first time since the funeral that the entire monarchy, along with their Frithemaeg, have all gathered together. This fact makes the Guard more than nervous. I stay unusually close to Richard’s side, making it hard for him to feign ignorance.
“You’ve got to stop looking at me,” I hiss as Richard’s uncle, the prince regent, walks away. “People are starting to notice.”
“Well, it’s a bit hard when you’re right here and looking so blooming perfect,” he mumbles between clenched teeth.
I look down at the dress I concocted for the occasion. A mint-green, lace-trimmed piece of silk vanity. Perhaps a little overboard, considering only Richard and the other Fae can see it.
Richard’s eyes snag a gleaming silver tray of champagne flutes as its waiter glides by, but he turns to the hors d’oeuvres instead. He’s in the middle of picking prosciutto off an asparagus spear when a voice calls his name.
“Richard!”
We turn in unison to find Anabelle standing, one hand propped on her slim hip and the other clutching a tiny plate of finger foods. The morsels seem untouched, toted simply for show.
Breena seems relieved at the sight of me. She edges away from the princess’s side and leans close. “How was your meeting with Mab? Is everything all right?”
I tighten my lips, hesitant to speak too loudly for fear it will distract Richard’s conversation. My words are careful, selective. Even though I trust Breena, Mab would have my head if I shared what she considered confidential. “She just wanted to hear my report in person. How are things on your end?”
Richard grows rigid in my peripheral vision. He’s having a difficult time ignoring me, but Breena doesn’t seem to notice.
“This one’s kept me busy.” She nods at Anabelle. “She just keeps going and going. I haven’t been able to take the days off yet. I’m afraid the younger ones won’t be able to keep up with her. At least she doesn’t drink, thank the Greater Spirit.”
I nod, wanting to defend Richard, but afraid of distracting him even more. I wish I’d thought to modify the veiling spell before the party. If I try it now, Breena or one of the other Fae will certainly notice.
“How’s he doing?” Breena scans Richard as she speaks. “How are you doing? Been able to sort through all of your emotions yet?”
“I’m working on them.” I stay vague, feel like I’m tiptoeing over eggshells. “But yes, Richard’s doing well.”
“Really? Anabelle’s still worried. I mean, she’s always worried, but apparently he’s spending an inordinate amount of time alone—” Breena chokes to a stop; her cheeks wash white. She isn’t looking at me.
I turn my head, searching for the sight that stole the blood from her face. My body turns to bundled nerves when I find Richard’s hazel eyes bearing into mine. He couldn’t resist the temptation. He had to look when I said his name.
All three of us stand paralyzed for a second.
“Richard, what are you staring at?” Anabelle shakes her brother’s arm. The action breaks our stare.
I look back to Breena. The rest of her has bleached pale; she looks like some tragic heroine floating dead in a lake.
“He—he can see you?” Her voice collapses into a whisper before the question is through.
“Yes.” There’s no point in fighting or breaking out into hysterics. Breena knows now and that’s that. I can’t stop what’s coming. “He sees me.”
My last sentence causes Richard to flinch, but he stays concentrated on his sister’s conversation.
“Oh, Emrys.” My friend’s sob is dry and bony. “I didn’t think you would be foolish enough to reveal yourself.”
Foolish? I find myself bristling, even though I know the word makes perfect sense.
“Who else knows?” Breena asks.
“Just you and him.” The coolness in my veins reaches my voice, reflecting the freeze in Breena’s blue eyes.
“Then there’s still time to fix it before word gets back to Mab. You can wipe his memories and carry on without her noticing. How long has he been able to see you?”
Wipe his memory. This phrase puts me instantly on the defensive. Of all the ways I thought I’d lose Richard, I’d never seriously considered this. “I’m not erasing his memory, Bree. I—I can’t.”
“What do you mean, you can’t?” She looks at me, her expression tart.
I stare back, not knowing what to say. My friend, so perfectly pieced and whole, so unlost, could never understand.
“I thought you knew better. If I’d known you would let things go this far . . .” Breena stops short as the Duke and Duchess of Wellington saunter by, exchanging their greetings with Richard and Anabelle and clinking their champagne glasses together before wandering off again. Their Fae trail them, showing little interest in our conversation.
“Don’t you remember the reason we began hiding in the first place?” Breena hisses in a low tone once the other Fae are far enough away. “Remember what happened to Guinevere? Do you remember the fall of Camelot and the death of Pendragon? Remember Mab’s shame? We can’t make that mistake again.”
“I’m not Guinevere,” I tell her. “I don’t make my choices lightly.”
“So what is your choice? Are you going to leave us?” Hurt colors Breena’s words.
My choice. The thing that’s stayed locked away, banished from all active thought. As if not mulling it over and exhausting it will make it go away. But it won’t. Sooner or later, the truth will find its way back to Queen Mab and my choice will become absolute: leave Richard or be banished from the courts of t
he Fae forever.
“Maybe Mab was wrong to go into hiding,” I think aloud. “Before Guinevere, there were intermarriages all the time. It would be so much easier to protect the crown if they knew what was going on. Now that Richard knows he can keep his family from leaving London, they can stay safe.”
“Nothing good can come of this,” Breena says. “The choice to go into hiding was necessary. Our races would’ve destroyed each other. . . . They would have sought after us for magic and immortality and we would have used them dry. Mab’s always acted in our best interest. You know that.”
But this time she might be wrong. I long to say these words, but I know they’ll only incite Breena into further arguments.
“I ought to report this. I should demote you,” Breena goes on.
But she can’t. We both know this. It’s not because of our friendship or her loyalty to me. It’s not because she wants to spare me Queen Mab’s wrath. It’s because I’m Richard’s best chance at survival. I could be the difference between his life and death.
We stand still for a minute, watching the royal siblings converse.
“You know . . .” Anabelle chews her lip; her mocha eyes drift toward the satay chicken skewers and cucumber sandwiches on her plate. “I think it would be good for us to have a family getaway. Get some fresh air. We could go to Windsor for a holiday. What do you think?”
I don’t get to hear what Richard thinks because Breena speaks again. “I’ll keep your secret, Emrys. Just please, be careful. And when you do make the choice—” She pauses to push past the slight choke in her throat. “If you choose him, please tell me so that I can say good-bye.”
A lump grows hard in my own throat, a mere hint of the pain it would cost to give up this life. I close my eyes and wait for the emotion to pass.
When I open my eyes she’s gone, following Anabelle off to another cluster of guests. I stand alone, fighting off a sudden chill and skin that turns to goose flesh under caressing silk. It’s as if Breena knows which way I’ll choose.
Perhaps she sees something I don’t.
“What happened?” Richard asks as soon as his bedroom door clicks shut. It’s the only place we’re certain to be alone. I can tell he’s been dying to ask the question all evening, fighting every temptation to speak with me.
I collapse onto the bed. “You looked! I told you not to look!”
“You said my name!” he protests. “I can’t help my reflexes! It’s like telling me not to swear when I stub my toe!”
The mattress gives a large squeal as Richard flops beside me. His added weight dips the bed, slides me closer to him.
“Well, now Breena knows.”
“Breena?”
“Right.” I forget how little he knows, how much I have to tell him. “She watches your sister. We’ve been friends for a long time. . . . She’s the oldest of the Guard—the oldest who can handle the sickness without unraveling or going mad.
“She’s my best friend. The closest thing I have to a sister,” I add, thinking of everything Breena and I have been through. “She knows me well.”
“What did she think?” Richard props his head up onto his elbow and stares down at me. From this angle, I can see some imperfections—the little things that make him clearly and wonderfully human. One of his nostrils rounds larger than the other. There’s a thin patch in his left eyebrow, making it look the slightest bit crooked.
“She doesn’t approve. Not that I expected her to. But I think she’ll keep the secret. She won’t tell Queen Mab.”
He reaches out and picks at a lock of my hair, curling it absently around his forefinger. “What would the queen do?”
“She’d send me away, most likely. I’d go back and do scouting patrols in the Highlands.” Or she’d strip me of my magic. My teeth grind together at the very thought.
“And you’d have to go?”
“Her word is law. I can’t fight it.” Unless I gave up my magic altogether. Willingly. But this is something I don’t want to bring up.
“Then I’m glad Breena won’t tell her. I want you to stay.”
I close my eyes and feel the cool evening breeze wash through the open window. It’s this weather, this lazy, chilled twilight that I’ve loved since my younger years. Something about the wind soothes my nerves, makes it easier to breathe.
Richard lets the rest of my hair unravel from his finger before his hand moves even closer to my face. The very edge of his fingertip brushes my cheek. His barely-there touch shudders through me.
Being so close, yet so far from him, is agony. I feel danger lurking just beneath the surface of me, like a Kelpie under black waters, waiting for just the right moment to strike. I have to pull away, keep him safe. But Richard draws closer, enveloping me in the heated scent of his cologne.
Just one kiss. It’s what we both want. I let his lips find mine. I savor the taste of him, rest in its warmth.
But this time Richard doesn’t stop. He pulls me closer—our bodies fit together with skin-tingling perfection. Our kisses grow bolder, deeper. Forging new ground. Everything—the Old One, Breena’s discovery, the choice—fades out of my mind. I lose myself in his kiss. In its perfect glowing feeling.
Unbidden spells rise, creeping up my veins with the same golden glare as my passion. They gather speed and strength. Pull me under with cutting Kelpie’s teeth.
Richard’s cry is awful, like something wounded. It snaps my senses back into place. I roll away, heartbeat scattered and sharp, like a broken mirror. The thin line of sheets between us is charred gray and brown. Smoke rises, creating an acrid screen between Richard and me.
Through the haze, I see that the prince is still, eyes closed. There’s something wrong in the way he doesn’t move.
“Richard!” I call to him, my voice hoarse, a shriek. I don’t dare touch him. Not even to shake him to life again.
Eyelids flutter open and his lips mold a slow groan. He glances down at the smoking sheets, dazed, and pulls himself up in one sluggish movement.
“Holy hell, you pack a punch.” His laugh quickly becomes a wince.
I want to get closer, to investigate any wounds, but I’m afraid the spells will leap out again. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll live.” Richard wheezes and lifts up his shirt to show clean, unmarked skin. “Feels like I just got struck by lightning.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” It’s all I can say as I edge away from Richard and the ruined sheets. I never should have let it go this far. I knew I would harm him and still I kept going.
“Don’t.” He reaches out and grabs my wrist. I flinch under his touch, afraid that even the simplest stroke of skin will unleash me. “It was my fault too, Embers. I knew better.”
I hold my breath and look at his hand on my wrist. Nothing happens. No sparks or white flash of magic. But this doesn’t stop the terrible knowledge from settling over me. I hurt Richard. This . . . whatever we have . . . can’t keep going.
Not as I am now.
“Your friend—Breena. You told her you couldn’t erase my memory. Why?” He lets go of my wrist. It falls, limp against the rippling green of my dress.
“Because I’m selfish.” I almost yell this at myself. “Because I want things to be different from what they are.”
“Maybe—maybe it would be better if you just got it over with. If there’s no chance of anything . . . of us . . . then there’s no point in pretending like there is.” He swallows, trying his hardest to make his face look unbreakable. It doesn’t work. I know the sadness in him too well. “Erase my memory and get out before it hurts too bad.”
I try to imagine what it would be like: leaving, but not really being gone. I could ask Breena to take over Richard’s duties, but I would still see him. And I know, every time, I would wonder what it was I missed. “Is that what you want? To pretend this never happened? Go back to the way you were?”
“I might not remember if you wiped my memory, but I know I’d still feel you.” His wo
rds are sulfurous, flaring like a comet’s tail. “You’ve changed me too much.”
I pull my knees up to my chest. Crème-de-menthe fabric falls luscious over my legs, pools into the whiteness of the bedspread. “I’m not wiping your memory, Richard.”
His mouth is still as he looks at me, but his eyes say all.
So there’s still a chance.
Still a chance.
A chance.
I bury my face in the bare cradle of my arms. As if I can hide from it.
Richard suddenly slides off the bed.
“Do you know what I haven’t done in a long time?” he asks as he excavates a particularly large pile of laundry and books.
“What’s that?” I lift my head and peer through the thin netting of auburn tangles.
“Danced!” He grunts, triumphant as he pulls an old record casing out of the pile. “Listened to much classic rock before?”
I shake my head and the hair spills away, back behind my shoulders.
“You’ll like this, I think.” Richard places the bumpy, black plastic circle on top of the turntable and eases the needle into its grooves.
“I thought no one used records anymore.”
“True.” Richard smiles as the opening guitar riffs flood the room. Though the vinyl and its player are old, the speakers are not. The room brims full with the rich, textured sound of chords. “But I think the music sounds more real on vinyl, and this baby’s a classic.” He gives the turntable a loving stroke. “Vintage 1948. I found it in a loft at one of the estates a few years back.”
The catchy tattoo of drums joins the wailing melody, rattling the window frames. Richard skips into the middle of the room, his feet kicking through piles of debris like a kid destroying a sand castle.
“Come on!” He waves for me to join.
I push myself off the bed, watching the prince move this way and that. His dancing now is so different from the dancing at the clubs. He enjoys this music. It moves him.