“No,” she said tightly. “I can manage.”
“Come along, then.” The queen clasped Aurora’s chin and tilted it upward. “Give me your best smile.”
Aurora attempted a sickly whisper of a smile. The muscles in her face shook. Her eyes stung.
“It will do.” The queen released her chin and stood up. “I must go and speak to Rodric, set the preparations underway. But this was a good talk, Aurora. It is important that we see eye to eye on these matters.”
Aurora nodded. She stood up, mirroring the queen’s movements automatically.
“And do me a favor?” The queen took Aurora’s hand in her own. Rings pressed cold against her bare skin. “Do not leave this room until you are sent for. As much as it pains me to say it, things are not completely safe for you. We only want to protect you until the marriage is secure.”
“I understand,” Aurora said.
“I will have some books sent,” the queen added. “Things you might find of interest. Some stories, some bits of history. I understand that you used to like reading.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” She forced herself to raise her chin, her hair falling back so she could look the queen in the eye again. For the first time, her smile was almost natural. “Yes, I did.” Perhaps the answers would come, as they always did, from the pages of a book.
“Excellent. Then I hope you enjoy yourself. It was lovely talking to you, my dear.”
“Yes,” Aurora said. She slipped into a curtsy. Her hands were numb. “You too, Your Majesty.”
“Please,” the queen said. “Call me Iris.”
As promised, the queen sent Aurora a large chest of books. They were stylish volumes, wrapped in leather, with neat, uncreased spines. Aurora lined them up on the bookshelf, studying each cover as it came to the top of the pile, letting her thoughts fade away into the steady rhythm of bend, stretch, and place. Once all of the books were unpacked, she organized them by title, and then again by genre, constantly moving, constantly shuffling, unable to let herself sit still. When she could think of no other way to arrange them, she sat back on her heels and ran her hand along the spines.
She only recognized one of the books: a history about the first days of Alyssinia, so long ago that it felt more fantasy than truth. When she was younger, she had thumbed through her own copy so many times that the pages had fallen out, and she had scribbled her thoughts in the margins like a diary of her growing up. It must still be on the table beside her bed, up at the top of her tower, like the rest of her life from before. Almost untouched by a hundred years. For a moment, she considered going back, collecting it and her other books. But the thought made her stomach twist. She could not return to that place. Could not see the way the dust had gathered on the stairs, proof of the decades that had crept past while she slept. She could not move her things out of there and into here, like this bare room was her home now. Like she was accepting this.
She pulled the new copy off the shelf. Aurora had begged her parents, her nurses, everyone, to tell this story, the story of Alysse, over and over, in a million different ways, filling in every known detail of her life. Alysse, the namesake of Alyssinia. The beautiful princess who saved everyone, despite her youth. The girl whose kindness and empathy allowed her to understand their new land when they first fled from the magicless kingdom across the sea. Alysse the Good, who ruled after her father, wondrous fair and beloved by everyone who knew her. After every telling of the story, from when she was five until she was seventeen, Aurora had run to the window of her tower and peered out, desperate desire bubbling inside her. One day, she would be like Alysse. Wonderful, beautiful, and loved.
Now Aurora sat on the bare floor, the new volume heavy in her hands. According to the stories, Alysse had vanished into the forest a few years after being crowned queen, and so Aurora had pictured her as eternally young, as beautiful and delicate as a cobweb after a rainstorm. It seemed nonsense now. Alysse must have grown old, and Alysse must have died, just as Aurora’s parents had grown old and died, and the faces she saw every day, and even the kingdom that had surrounded her as she grew up. Aurora was the only one stuck in a kind of forever.
She tossed the book to the ground, a bitter taste in the back of her mouth.
When the queen returned a few hours later, she strode into the room without knocking. “They’re awaiting you in the throne room,” she said. “Come along, quickly. It sets a poor example to be late.”
“The throne room?” Aurora said. She stepped backward. “You said we weren’t to be married for three weeks.”
“Why would we marry you in the throne room?” she said. “My husband is holding court this afternoon. He requested that you attend.”
“The king is holding court?” Aurora asked. “What does that mean?”
The queen shook her head almost imperceptibly. “He is hearing grievances, rewarding the worthy, punishing the guilty. You will not be expected to participate. Remember what we discussed.”
Smile. Curtsy. Be silent and beautiful. Her presence would add wordless legitimacy to everything that the king said, but her input itself was unwanted.
Two guards stood on either side of huge brass doors. They bowed as Aurora and the queen approached. Through the doors was a large chamber, bursting with people. Nobles stood in rows and groups. The threads of their clothes echoed the finery fastened to the walls: golden swords and shields, standards and spears. A row of guards in red cloaks lined the wall behind the crowd, and between them, a set of oak doors stood open, reaching from floor to ceiling. When the queen crossed the threshold, the courtiers moved as one, bowing and curtsying her into the room.
Two thrones had been placed between the crowd and the brass doors. The king sat in the larger one, and the queen floated toward the smaller one, her head held high. She waved Aurora to the side with a flick of her wrist, to a spot where Rodric stood.
“Now that the princess and my dear wife have joined us at last,” the king said, “we can finally begin. Bring the first petitioner in.”
The guards led a tiny woman with stringy blonde hair into the room. When she knelt before the throne, her shoulder bones jutted out, visible through her dress. Her husband had died, she told the court, her wide eyes fixed on the ground, and she had been unable to find work or food since.
“He were a good man, Your Majesty,” she said. “Worked too many hours and didn’t eat near enough. A story you’ve heard many a time, I know. But it’s been a long winter, Your Majesty, and any help, any at all . . .”
“We may have a position in the kitchen,” the queen said, “if you are willing to work. And swear your loyalty.”
“Of course, Your Majesty. I swear. That is very gracious of you, very kind.”
“I will have you sent down to my head cook, Marie. She will see what can be done with you.”
“Oh thank you, Your Majesty. Thank you so much.”
The woman curtsied at least five more times as the guards led her out the door.
The next petitioner was clearly a noble. His clothes were tidy and neatly made, and his boots gleamed like new. Some of the courtiers murmured behind their hands as he entered, and no one greeted him with a smile. An infrequent visitor to court, perhaps, or else an unpopular one.
“Sir Gregory,” the king said. “What an unexpected sight. I haven’t seen you since I last visited Barton. How long has it been—two years? Three?”
“I believe nearly three now, Your Majesty.”
“And you’ve joined us to celebrate our princess’s return? It is a long journey.”
“I wish it were for such good reasons,” Sir Gregory said, “although I am delighted to see the princess, of course.” He bowed in her direction. “But I am afraid I must report a revolt. Last week, a group of peasants gathered outside the gates of my home, demanding food. I have none to give them, of course, none beyond what I need to feed my own family. But they would not listen. In the end, they knocked down the gate, killed one of my guards, and stole
more than half the grain in my stores. My own men and the local soldiers have attempted to hunt down the culprits, but without harsh punishment, I am afraid that they will strike again.”
The king nodded. “I understand completely,” he said. “We cannot have this sort of thing going unpunished. I will send a cohort of soldiers back to Barton with you. They will find the culprits, and protect you and your family. In recompense for this crime, all men and women farming on your lands must give you half of the food they gather in the next harvest, to compensate you for your loss. Anyone who protests will be executed.”
Aurora wanted to argue, to point out that that didn’t make sense, that taking their food would make the problem worse. Her lips moved in the beginnings of a protest, but her voice did not cooperate. Not with so many people around, so many eyes watching.
“I will ensure the soldiers are ready to leave by nightfall,” the king said. Aurora bit her lip, her opportunity gone. “I wish I could invite you to remain and celebrate with us, Gregory, but I know you will be eager to return and protect your family.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said. “Thank you, Your Majesty.” With a deep bow to the king, he backed out of the room.
The third petitioner was an elderly woman with a mass of curly gray hair. She walked with her back bent double.
“Please, Your Majesty,” she said. “I have traveled all the way from Wutherton to speak to you.”
When Aurora had fallen asleep, Wutherton had been a tiny town, approximately a week’s journey from the castle.
“I no longer feel safe in my home, Your Majesty. People in the town have been accusing me of witchcraft, blaming me for things I could have nothing to do with. The sickness has been with us this winter, and many children have died. I would never harm ’em, Your Majesty, never, but some people—they’ve convinced others. . . .”
The king leaned back, resting his elbows on the arms of the throne. “And why do you think they’ve accused you?”
“I don’t rightly know, Your Majesty,” she said. “I think maybe—I run an apothecary, gathering herbs for minor ailments, infection, and breathing difficulties and the like. I don’t pretend to be a doctor or a healer, never have, just use the knowledge my mother gave me to help people and earn a living as I can. But some of the people in the town . . . they were angry I could not provide a cure. Why help nettle stings and soothe us to sleep, they said, when I cannot save their children? I wish I could help, I do, but I don’t have the knowledge, and now—”
The king raised a hand to silence her. “You gather herbs? You do not look in the shape for it.”
“I did, Your Majesty, when I was young. Nowadays I have to hire apprentices to help me. The young things have good eyes, although they do sometimes dally about some. One of them succumbed as well, poor darling.”
The king nodded. “And you come here—why, exactly?”
“I—I was hoping you could offer your protection, Your Majesty. You know all about the evil people who hoard magic and threaten us all. If you said I was innocent, that it was just a sickness . . . maybe I could go home.”
“If I said? And why would I say that? You have nigh admitted your involvement.”
The woman stood completely still. “Your Majesty?”
“You gather herbs and mix potions—what is that but some subtle form of magic?”
“The plants have the magic, Your Majesty. I only mix them like my mother taught me.”
“And the apprentice who gathered the herbs for you fell sick from this curse too. Because the herbs poisoned her, perhaps? Or because she knew too much?”
The woman leaned away, shaking her head. Her eyes bulged. “No, Your Majesty! I would never do that. Never!”
The king glanced at Aurora. “Tell me, Aurora,” he said. “You are the most affected by magic out of those here. What would you see done with this woman?”
She swallowed. When she spoke, her voice was raspy, almost too soft to hear. “Nothing, Your Majesty,” she said.
“Nothing?”
“If she had magic, surely she would—she would use it to protect herself. Only an innocent person would come to plead for your help.”
“Or one who wished to appear innocent.” The king looked back at the shaking woman. “Do you hear that?” he said. “Our princess is touched by your tale. But just because you have charmed a sweet mind such as hers, does not mean you have succeeded.” He leaned forward, hands on his knees. “However, in honor of the princess’s return, I have decided to be merciful. I will protect you, as you have asked. Room will be made in the dungeon for you. We shall see if these deaths end along with your disappearance. If they do—well, I would reassess how you speak to me, old woman. We will talk again.”
The king nodded to his guards, and one of them stepped forward to drag the woman away. She clawed at his hands, still shaking her head in disbelief, and when she turned to look at Aurora, terror filled her face. The terror settled in Aurora, too, a dreadful desperation that felt far more truthful than the king’s dismissive anger. Aurora took another small step forward, watching the faces of the other onlookers. No one else seemed fazed. Some were fussing with their clothes, or fidgeting and whispering to the person next to them, as though this were a boring chore to withstand. Others were nodding in approval. The woman disappeared through the doors, and the king waved his hands to indicate that they should be closed behind her.
“I grow weary,” the king said. “And I must deal with the soldiers for Barton. Tell our other visitors that I will hear them tomorrow.” He stood up and strode out of the room. Iris beckoned for Aurora and Rodric to follow.
The antechamber felt close and too quiet after the grandeur of the throne room.
“I’m starving,” the king said as the brass doors closed. “I think lunch is in order.” He began to walk away, but Aurora found herself hurrying after him, questions bursting out of her.
“That woman,” she said. “What will happen to her?”
“If we find her guilty—and we will—then we’ll burn that magic out of her. It is the only way we can know we’ll be safe.”
Aurora’s throat was dry. “And then—then you’ll let her go?” She knew it was an inane question, but she had to ask. She had to be sure.
The king laughed. “Such a sweet one, isn’t she?” he said to the queen. “Of course we’ll let her go. What’s left of her, at least. I’ve never seen ashes walk very far, but there’s a first time for everything! Especially when witches are involved.”
And, still chuckling, he strode away.
FIVE
AURORA COULD NOT SLEEP THAT NIGHT. Exhaustion burned her eyes, but every time she closed them, panic surged through her, the sense that she was drowning, smothered by the sheets, and her eyes would snap open again. The room was too small, too cold, too bare, the air stale and heavy on her tongue.
When she finally began to doze, the floor creaked, and blue eyes pierced through the dark. She sat up with a jolt, clutching the blankets to her chest. Nothing was there.
Aurora slipped out of bed. Her feet recoiled from the cold stone floor, but she pressed them down, savoring the shudder. She pushed open the window and leaned out, letting the early spring breeze rustle through her hair. The chill pinched her cheeks.
The city seemed to glow, lights scattered across it like a reflection of the sky. Far below her, two girls ran along the street. She felt the sudden urge to run after them. To step outside, see the world she had fallen into, escape from these suffocating walls and breathe again.
Maybe if she saw it for herself, if she walked along the streets, she would start to understand what had happened to her kingdom while she slept. As she watched the lights glow across the city, she had to admit that she was hypnotized by their possibilities. Fascinated by the things she dreamed she might find.
Aurora doubted that anyone would recognize her from the brief glance of the day before, but she quickly changed into her plainest new dress, the one that seemed leas
t likely to attract attention, and pulled a woolen cloak tightly around herself. Then she crept to the bedroom door and pushed it.
It was locked.
Aurora did not remember seeing a key or hearing a click, but the lock rattled when she pushed it again, holding the door in place. Sometime after Betsy had brought her supper, Aurora had been locked in.
Aurora swallowed her panic. She had been trapped behind many locked doors before. A single lock was much simpler than the heavy metal things that had once held her tower door in place. But then, the explanation had been plain. Sensible, even. The door must be locked to keep her safe. What was the explanation now? Was the queen protecting her?
Or was she keeping a valuable asset in?
Aurora hurried to her dressing table and picked up a couple of hairpins.
Her parents had locked her in her bedroom when their paranoia got particularly excessive. When they decided that two locked doors were safer than one, and that one room was harder to break into than a whole tower. She had been locked in at night, and some parts of the days, away from the other rooms in her tower, from the library and the old playroom and her instruments and all her books.
In her boredom, in the claustrophobia that had seized her, opening the door had seemed like the perfect challenge. She had little else to do with her time. She moved books with details on locks from her library into her bedroom, but even with careful study, it had taken her the better part of a year to master the trick, so that she could perform it every try. She was not the most dexterous person. But eventually, she had learned.
By then, of course, her father had stopped locking her bedroom door. He told her, with a guilty expression on his face, that he believed her trustworthy enough to have the run of the tower. She knew better. It seemed too much like real imprisonment if she was confined to one room, and her father always had been a gentle sort of soul.
The lock clicked, and Aurora gave the door an experimental push. It slid open a few inches, and she peered out. The corridor was deserted. She hurried along it, and the next, slipping through the shadows by instinct until she reached the door to her tower. It was an imposing thing, with ornate swirls carved into the wood and several heavy locks and bars. The handle was cold in her hand, and she pulled hard, half expecting the door to resist.
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