A Wicked Thing

by Rhiannon Thomas

  “Princess?” It was the guard. “I must return you to your room. Their Majesties will not like it if we linger.”

  “You should go,” Rodric said. “But—I was glad to see you.”

  “Yes,” she said softly. “You too.” She got slowly, achingly to her feet, and then sank into a curtsy, her skirts sweeping behind her. It seemed natural, somehow, in this moment when no words would do. Rodric stood up as well, and gave her a jerking little bow. Then he reached out and took her hand. He squeezed it, once.

  “Do what you think is right, Aurora,” he said. His voice broke. “I’ll do the same.”

  She nodded. His hand fell from hers, and she walked slowly out of the room.

  Another guard waited by Aurora’s door when they returned. He bowed as they approached.

  “I took the princess to see Prince Rodric,” the first guard said, as though daring the newcomer to criticize him. “She wished to stretch her legs.”

  “Of course.” He held out a roll of paper. “I only wished to give this to the princess. A letter of condolence.”

  She reached out and took it automatically. The paper felt rough under her fingertips—certainly not the high-quality stock used in the castle. Her throat tightened. “Thank you,” she said. “I trust you are busy with your duties.”

  Her dismissal was clear. He bowed again, and she watched him until he had walked completely out of sight.

  When she was back in her room and the lock had clicked behind her, she opened the note. It was written in the rough, unsteady hand of someone unaccustomed to writing.

  I heard what happened. The king is keeping it quiet, but I heard. And I know how it looks, but I had to tell you, it wasn’t me. It had nothing to do with any of us.

  You are not safe in the castle. Come to the inn tonight.

  Trust me. —T

  She read the note over again, then again.

  She wanted to believe him. He had been her friend, the fire when everything else felt cold and dead. But he had warned her that he could not protect her. He had broken into the castle and then fled when danger approached. He might have cared for her, but he cared for his cause more. If he had to sacrifice her in order to take down the king . . . he might be willing to do it.

  And Tristan did not know everything about those around him. He might believe that they were innocent, but that did not make it true.

  It did not change the fact that Isabelle was dead because of people like him.

  She tossed the note into the fire and watched as it burned.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  AURORA MUST HAVE SLEPT THAT NIGHT, ALTHOUGH she did not recall closing her eyes. She awoke to the sound of fists hammering against the door. The sun had not yet fully risen, casting a chilly red glow over her room.

  “Who’s there?” she said. The door shook under the force of the knocks. “I am not yet dressed.”

  “The king has summoned you, Princess,” a voice said. “Please prepare yourself. We must return to the throne room with you at once.”

  “The king?” Why would the king wish to speak to her, so early in the morning? She felt a stab of dread.

  “Yes, Princess,” the voice said. “Come along, or we shall have to enter your room, permission or not. He was very insistent.”

  “My maid is not here,” she said. “I will have to wait for her.”

  “Not this morning, Princess. It has to be now.”

  “All right,” she said, and she was proud that her voice remained steady. “I will only be a moment.” She quickly changed into a simple dress, yanking her fingers through her collapsed curls to release some of the knots.

  A crowd of guards waited outside her door. They pressed around her as she stepped into the corridor, until she was surrounded by their glittering mail.

  “King’s orders,” said the guard who had spoken before when he noticed her looking around at them. “For your protection.”

  “Of course,” she said. She doubted that was true.

  The king and queen waited in the throne room. Rodric stood to the side, a few feet from their thrones. His face was still pale, and his hair stuck up at the back at an angle that would have been funny if he did not look so tragic. The queen, too, looked pale and drawn, but the mask of regality was back, her emotions hidden behind powder and pins. The king’s face was red and stern.

  “Ah, Aurora,” he said. “Thank you for joining us.” He glanced at the guards who had accompanied her. “Sir Stefan, please watch the door from the outside. The rest of you may leave.”

  The guards bowed and walked out of the room, leaving only the king’s personal escort, lined up behind the throne, to witness what might happen next.

  “Aurora,” the king said, and his voice was almost cheerful. “Come closer so I can see you.”

  He was not smiling. His voice boomed out like the jolly figure presiding over the feast, but his eyes were hard and cold, like two wet stones glinting in the moonlight. As though pulled by the words, Aurora began her slow walk across the room. Only the echoes of her footsteps broke the silence. She stopped a few paces from him, her hands loose at her sides, trying to keep her chin high, her face confident.

  “I assume you know why you’re here.”

  “No, Your Majesty,” she said. She refused to curtsy to him, not until she understood what this charade was about. “The guards did not explain.”

  “I did not think you would need an explanation,” he said. “I am sure you recall the unfortunate incident at your banquet. I am sure you recall the suspicious circumstances of my daughter’s death.”

  “Yes,” she said. Her voice cracked on the word. “Of course I remember.”

  “Not the best omen for your wedding, I am sure you’ll agree. I would say we should carry on regardless, but—well, with circumstances being as they are, I cannot leave things uninvestigated.”

  “Are you saying you want to postpone the wedding?”

  “I am saying, Aurora, that I want an explanation for that night. You must see how it looks. Your being out of the room, talking to a singer who just happened to be called in at the last minute, when dessert is brought in. My daughter eating poison off your own fork.”

  “You think that—” She broke off, swallowed, fighting to steady herself. “I wouldn’t hurt her,” she said. “I would never—”

  “You fed her the poison yourself,” he said. “You can hardly claim that you were uninvolved.”

  “If I’d known it was poisoned, I would never have let her near it.” Panic filled her voice, but the king seemed unmoved. “Why would I hurt her? Why, when she was so good to me?”

  “I do not know,” he said. “I wonder about many things you do. And it is quite a surprising coincidence.”

  “Somebody tried to kill me,” she said. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Come now,” the king said. “Who would want a lovely thing like you dead?”

  The question was so filled with venom, so false, that Aurora started. He might, she realized. He was the one who would benefit most from her death. It would hardly bring the rebellion popular support. But if she died, and the rebellion was blamed . . . the king would get rid of two problems in one move. Any potential sympathy for the opposition would vanish in a moment, and he would lose a burden that he might be unable to control in the bargain.

  But surely he would not do something so risky. Surely, if he had been responsible for the poison, he would be more distraught over his daughter’s death.

  “Her involvement seems unlikely, dear,” the queen said. “The princess does not strike me as vicious, whatever her flaws.”

  “If I wanted your opinion, Iris, I would have asked for it.” The queen blinked, her expression unchanging. “As it is, you have had far too much contact with the girl. It is time I was in charge of her.”

  “I was not involved, Your Majesty,” Aurora said. Her voice shook. “You must see that.”

  “I am the king, Aurora. There is nothing I must do. Meanwhile, you m
ust see how suspicious this all looks. You have never seemed fully grateful for all my family has done for you. You have never seemed quite like the girl who was promised to us. And if your involvement were to be proved, you would not only be a murderer but also a traitor. Do you know what we do to traitors, Aurora? We burn them.”

  She bit the inside of her cheek, so hard that she could taste blood.

  Rodric was staring at his father, his face pale, mouth open, but he did not move to defend her. For all his nobility and sweetness, she was entirely on her own.

  “I am not a traitor,” she said.

  “Ah,” he said. “But how do I know that?”

  She pressed her hands against her sides, fighting the urge to bunch them into fists, trying to hide the way they shook. “I have never lied to you,” she said steadily. “I have always been what I claim.”

  “That may be true,” the king said. “And I am inclined to believe your pleas. It would be a shame to delay the wedding on such charges. But I must take precautions, you understand. To be sure that you are not an imposter, not a traitor, plotting to use your marriage against us all. You will have to be watched closely, kept under even tighter guard. If you are who you claim, we will see that in you, in your behavior, and we will know we can trust you. Until then, you must be under my supervision.”

  So it came back to this. Whether or not the king was responsible for Isabelle’s death, he was certainly willing to use it to his advantage. A few well-placed words, a smile of a threat, and Aurora would be his puppet for as long as he needed. “How long?” Aurora asked softly. “How long will I be watched?”

  “As long as it takes to be certain of you,” he said. “And certain of others. If you are innocent, surely you could not object. If someone did try to poison you, you will also benefit from the extra protection. I hope you realize the severity of this,” he added. “If I hear so much as a word of protest, it will be proof of your lack of loyalty. Do not think that your fame will protect you. If you are found responsible, you will burn for what you did to my daughter.”

  She had been so naïve to believe that she could make a difference here. That it would end with anything other than this. At best, the king intended to cow her into obedience, to make sure every second of her future was his. And at worst . . . he could kill her and use her death to his advantage.

  She looked at the queen. Uncertainty passed across Iris’s face, something that might have been sympathy, but she did not speak again.

  Rodric had not moved at all.

  There was nothing more Aurora could say in her own defense. She had left it all too late. “Yes, Your Majesty,” she said. “I understand.”

  “Good,” he said. “Good. I am glad we see eye to eye. I will not detain you longer—you will want to rest before your wedding tomorrow, I have no doubt. Sir Lanford, Sir Richard.” Two of his personal guard stepped forward. “Escort the princess back to her tower. It seems like the safest place. And lock the door to her room. We cannot risk trouble finding her again.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  THE ROOM WAS NOT AS AURORA REMEMBERED. EVEN in the short month that she had been away, details had blurred. The room was smaller than she recalled, and the windows and fireplace jutted out in an odd way that invited drafts into the room.

  She paced back and forth across the carpet, looking at the remnants of her life before. She would spend her whole life trapped in these walls, staring out of the window, waiting for her escape. Or waiting for the king to kill her, as he may have killed Isabelle, as he had killed so many people.

  An empty water pitcher stood on the table beside her bed. She snatched it up and threw it. It landed with a satisfying thud. Then she threw a book, that precious story of Alysse, all its traitorous promises crumpling as it smacked into the wall. She followed it with a plate, then the remains of a candle. Her hands shook, and she turned, looking around her room, searching for more things to destroy.

  Her eyes fell on the fireplace. It was a tall, wide thing, large enough for a girl to walk through with ease. The old ashes clung to the stone. She paused, breathing hard. She remembered the music, the flickering of light . . . with a jolt in her stomach, Aurora hurried over, kneeling down in the ash and pushing at the wall beyond. Please, she thought, over and over as she pressed her fingers against the solid stone. Take me back.

  Her hair tumbled down over her eyes, and she clenched her teeth, desperation crashing within her. I don’t want this, she thought. I don’t want any of this. Please. Let me back.

  The stone burned, sharp like red-hot iron. She snatched back her hands.

  The wall was gone. Behind the ancient ash, impossible stairs reached out of sight.

  Aurora stretched out her hand. It slipped through the air where the wall had been, and she pressed her stinging fingertips into the wood of the first step. It was rough, solid, almost prickly. Familiar. Definitely real.

  Knees aching, shoulders shaking, Aurora stood up and began to climb.

  The stairs were steep, and they curved around, hugging the wall of Aurora’s room like vines. The darkness swallowed her, until she was nothing more than the thud of her heart, the brush of stone against her sleeve, the creak of wood beneath her feet.

  Above her, light glowed.

  The stairs ended in a round attic room. Narrow beams of light peeked through the rafters. Rain pattered on the roof. And in the center, a spinning wheel sat, rocking in a ghostly breeze. The spindle gleamed.

  Aurora stepped forward, arm outstretched. The floor whined in protest, as though it were about to collapse, but she pressed her foot into the wood, daring it to hurt her. The wheel was smooth in her hand. She spun it, her fingers flicking over the spokes.

  Such a simple, harmless thing.

  She sank onto the three-legged stool and closed her eyes. Was she imagining that spark of memory, the tingling across her skin that said yes, she had been here before, and yes, she must be here again?

  So much power in one little finger prick.

  The spindle did not even look sharp.

  She ran her index finger down the length of it, avoiding the tip. The metal was cold. What would happen if she pricked her finger again? Would she blink and wake up in the past, her family around her? Would she sleep for another century, or two, or four, until Alyssinia was smoke and ash, and nobody remembered she had ever existed? Would she die?

  She ran her finger down the length again. The wheel spun, as though pushed by a phantom hand, filling the attic with a gentle click, click, click.

  What would it feel like?

  At least it would be a choice.

  Slowly, deliberately, she pricked her finger on the tip of the spindle.

  The wheel continued to click. Rain tapped on the roof. Her fingertip burned cold where the metal broke her skin.

  Nothing.

  She pulled her finger back. The spindle tugged as it slipped out of her flesh. Red blood bubbled in its wake.

  She pricked her finger again, digging harder against the spindle, fighting the urge to flinch.

  Still nothing.

  She could not even do this.

  The staircase creaked. She stood up, turning to look. No one was there. But a message was burned into the wall above, black charred letters that flowed and looped, so precise and so deep that they could only be magic.

  She is mine.

  As she watched, fresh letters scorched the stone, written by an invisible, curling hand: You cannot stop it now.

  Celestine.

  Prickles ran up and down her skin. She spun on her feet, but the attic was empty. The rain pounded.

  “I’m not yours!” she shouted. “I don’t belong to anyone!”

  Another lie.

  “You can’t control me!”

  It was as if the stones were pressing tighter and tighter around her, into her skin, into her ribs, squeezing her lungs until she could barely catch her breath. Shocks ran down her spine, her legs, into her feet, which were running, pounding down the st
airs.

  She crashed into her bedroom and ran to the window, pressing her palms flat against the sill, staring out at the city as she had done on that first day, when it had seemed possible that this was all a mistake.

  She had been wrong, she realized, as she took a steadying breath, watching the bustle of the day. She was not back where she’d begun. So much had changed. She might not be able to reverse time with a prick of her finger, but she was no longer willing to smile and sit pretty and let the world move her where it desired. If she married Rodric, nothing would change. She did not want to hurt him, or see him blamed for a failure he could not control, but she could not stay and let things continue to unravel around her. People did not deserve to have their hopes dashed and their lives torn apart.

  She could not sit here any longer, waiting for things to happen. Hoping that the future would be better than all sense suggested. She had to go. Away from the castle, away from this place. She needed to learn more about the strange powers that burst out of her and led her up those stairs to that cursed place, back to the first choice she had made, all those years ago.

  She thought again of the king, of Celestine, of Tristan, all manipulating her, all assuming that she would go along with their plans, that she would bow to whatever they told her to do, and punishing her, hating her, when she dared to have a thought of her own. Defiance filled her. She would not vanish quietly now. She would not slip away into the shadows, and let them believe what they would. She would not let the king twist it all against her, against everything she believed.

  She would give the king his wedding. She would walk to that altar, smiling and beautiful, and then she would show them all just how traitorous she could be.

  TWENTY-SIX

  DEAR FINNEGAN, SHE WROTE. THANK YOU FOR ALL YOUR kind words to me. I would be delighted if you would visit me sometime before my wedding tomorrow, to solidify the good relations between us. . . .