by Claire Luana
A knock on Wren’s door pulled her from her reverie and demanded that she actually greet the day. “Just a minute,” she called, throwing on a colorful floral robe over her ivory nightgown. She briefly grappled with her thick, auburn curls, doing her best to corral them into a clip.
She opened the door to find Lucas Imbris standing there. Alesian prince, lieutenant inspector, and swoon-worthy boyfriend. “Hello, you,” she said, her stomach performing an inconvenient series of backflips.
“Hello, yourself,” he said with a roguish grin, brushing an auburn curl back from her neck before cupping her face to kiss her. Heat seared through her as their lips met, and she pulled him through the doorway and flush against her, closing the door with a bit more force than was necessary.
The best part of the last month, hands down, had been Lucas. He pulled away from her lips and rained warm kisses across her cheeks and nose and eyelids. “You’re so cute when you’re sleepy,” he murmured, his breath hot on her skin.
“Lucas!” Her heart trilled, but she swatted at him until he relented, playing her role in this familiar game. She studied him as she often found herself doing, mentally pinching herself to see if, indeed, this man was real. Lucas was tall and lean, broad-shouldered with a trim waist. His hair was coarse and dark, but with flecks of gray that made him look older than his years, if you didn’t study his face. But Wren studied his face. Fierce gray eyes with crinkles about them when he smiled, a stern nose a touch too large, a wide, broad smile. He was handsome, but not devastatingly so, like Hale. His beauty was not obvious to the casual passerby. But to the Lucas connoisseur, like herself, there was no finer vintage.
“What’re you looking at?” he asked, still wearing that smile. It seemed they spent an inordinate amount of time grinning at each other. And kissing. She could pass a whole day with Lucas just grinning and kissing and be perfectly content.
“You,” she admitted, taking his calloused hand in her own.
“Well, I’m relieved to find you in one piece. Lieutenant Bryson told me that a pretty young confectioner was attacked last night. Was it you? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Wren said, extricating herself from his arms. Wren quickly explained what had happened, leaving out, with a pang of guilt, that they had been stalking a Gifted confectioner. Lucas didn’t know about the Gifting, and thanks to the cursed binding wine that magically prevented her from spilling the secret, she could never tell him. It made things inconvenient, to say the least.
Lucas pulled her into a hug, enveloping her in his scent of lavender and fresh soap. “I know you wanted to help, but you shouldn’t have rushed in like that. You could have been hurt. Or worse.”
“I know.” Wren leaned into him. Lucas managed to be the right amount of protective. His concern wrapped around her like a comforting blanket. Warm, but not stifling. She felt safe when she was with him. So long as she didn’t think about who his father was.
“Does Bryson have any leads?” she asked, pulling back and leading him to the little table by the window to sit down.
“Not yet. It shouldn’t be too hard to find a green-eyed man without a middle finger. I offered to help. We’ll find him.”
“Thank you,” Wren said. Lucas was good, but perhaps the Guild should do its own digging. If Thom’s Gift was the true motivation behind the attack, that knowledge might lead them down trails the inspector’s office wouldn’t think of. She’d have to talk to Sable.
“You’re in uniform today,” Wren said to change the subject, glancing up and down the rest of him. The Inspector’s office was a unit of the Cedar Guard, and he’d been wearing his brown uniform more as of late. More than she wished.
“I’m drilling with the guard today,” Lucas admitted, straightening a silver button with a twist of distaste. “Father’s stepped up all patrols and enlisted a thousand more men. The inspector’s unit has been called in to act as commanders until the recruits are trained up enough to start assuming some of their own command.”
“A thousand more men,” Wren asked. “So many?” Aprica, their neighbor two countries to the north, had invaded and occupied Tamros months ago. Rumors had been swirling for weeks that the Aprican King Evander’s forces had crossed the border from Tamros into Alesia.
“I keep praying he’s just paranoid, over-obsessed with security. But the reports…they aren’t good. I think we may need them.”
“You think there will be war?” she asked.
Lucas nodded. “And soon.”
“And you would be…leading these men? In defending the city?” An icy lance of fear streaked through her mind. She hadn’t realized Lucas could be called into actual combat. “Surely, your father wouldn’t put you in danger.” As soon as she said it, she realized it was the wrong thing to say.
Lucas’s expression darkened. “I won’t ask for special treatment because my father is king. How could I ask other Maradians to defend our city if I hide behind my father’s crown?”
“Of course,” she said softly. The mention of King Imbris was enough to make her blood boil, too. The man had tried to have her framed for murder. And she wouldn’t soon forget it.
“I’m sorry.” He heaved a sigh. “You’d think after all these years someone could mention my father without me biting their head off. Now, we’re getting side-tracked. I came because I wanted to give you something.”
“Like a present?” Wren’s curiosity overcame her.
“Exactly like a present,” he said. Lucas walked to the door and retrieved a package from the hallway floor outside. It was a large white box the size of a small suitcase. “Also, kind of like a bribe.” His expression was playful but wary.
“A bribe?” she said, setting the box on her lap and pulling the thick creme ribbon to untie the bow. “What do you want from me, Inspector?” Wren waded through layers of tissue paper until the true prize was revealed. A dress. But what a dress.
She lifted it from the box reverentially. It was heavy, the luxurious black satin blazing with a constellation of tiny sparkling beads. The bodice dipped low in front and lower in back, baring a daring amount of skin. “It’s breathtaking,” she said, unable to tear her eyes from the garment. It was perhaps the most beautiful dress she had ever seen. “Did you pick this out?” She looked at him suspiciously.
Lucas held up his hands in surrender. “I may have had help of the Olivia persuasion. Wren, I know you’re hesitant to come to my brother’s wedding, and I know you think it’s a—”
“Recipe for disaster,” she finished, stroking the beading of the dress reverently.
“Yes, recipe for disaster. But I want you there by my side. I don’t care what my family thinks or says. I want the most beautiful woman in Maradis there with me. And I want to see you in this dress.” Lucas’s tone grew husky, sending tendrils of excitement curling up her spine.
Wren sighed, feeling her resolve crumbling. This argument was territory she and Lucas had tread many times over the last few weeks. Zane, the crown prince of Alesia, and Lucas’s older brother, was to be wed tomorrow night. The celebration was to be attended by everyone who was anyone in Maradis, including the three men who had conspired to kill her. The king, his steward, and his chief inquisitor. She wasn’t eager to see the latter two men ever again, and the king…well, she had never met him. And she didn’t want to face the man who had been willing to sacrifice her and his own son for the sake of political expediency. She wasn’t sure what she’d do. Quake in her heels like a coward, or throw a drink in his face? That would probably get her executed for certain this time. Though it’d almost be worth it, to stand up to him. To show him she wasn’t afraid. She bit her lip, taking in the hopeful expression on Lucas’s face. If she and Lucas kept dating, she would have to face the king someday. And it clearly meant much to him, for Lucas to make such a gesture.
“Fine,” she said. “You win. I’ll go.”
Lucas whooped with joy and pulled her in his arms, spinning her around and around.
She laughed, sharing in his delight, hoping she had not just made a very bad mistake.
Chapter 3
The horse’s hooves thudded like a heartbeat against the cobbles of the road.
“You’ll worry that thing down to nothing if you keep caressing it,” Sable said from across the carriage, her dark hair cascading over her shoulder in an ebony wave.
A half-smile flickered across Wren’s face, disappearing just as quickly. “Guilty as charged,” she said. She had been running her fingers along the deckled edge of the thick vellum, turning the piece of paper over and over. The message hadn’t changed.
Typical curt Callidus.
“He was at the Accord negotiations all day, right?” Wren asked. “Did they make any progress today?”
“I would be shocked,” Sable said. “They seem deadlocked. It’s already been a week. It should have taken an hour. ‘Same deal as last time?’” Sable pantomimed, turning to play the other part. “‘Right-o. Sign here.’”
“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”
Sable leveled her imperious gaze at Wren for a moment, her dark eyes shining. Sable was a vision across the carriage, a heart-shaped face of smooth olive skin, arching dark brows, and a sweeping cerulean chiffon gown—an intricately beaded necklace in a rainbow of hues the only nod to her Magnish heritage. Wren’s hand twitched as if to attempt to smooth her own riot of auburn curls but stilled it. No amount of frizz taming would ever liken her to Sable.
“Yes,” Sable finally said, as if she had made a decision. “Something’s wrong. What, I’m not sure. Getting information out of Callidus is like stirring week-old caramel. In the snow.”
“Is it about Aprica?” Wren thought about Lucas’s comment that morning. War was coming.
Sable fiddled with a lock of ebony hair. “I think so. King Evander has set his sights on Alesia, and our dear King Imbris thinks we’re his secret weapon. He doesn’t want any Gifted Guild members out of his sight.”
“We’re people. He can’t just keep us locked up in a cabinet until it’s time to use us,” Wren protested. Could he? She seethed at the thought. It would be just like King Imbris to think he could treat Gifted Guild members as his own property.
“And therein lies the negotiation,” Sable said.
Wren shivered. She appreciated that Sable didn’t shelter her from the truth, but lately reality weighed heavier than Wren would like.
The carriage rolled to a stop and the driver rapped the roof with his fist. “We’re here, ladies,” he said, his voice muffled by the canvas roof.
Wren took a deep breath and gathered her skirt to leave.
“Wait.” Sable put an arm out to block her. “He’ll be here,” she said. “I know you said you were ready for him to return…but are you sure? I’ll send him away. Don’t worry about hurting his feelings.”
There was no need to vocalize the identity of the “he” Sable referred to. They both knew. Hale. Wren’s stomach flipped nervously.
“I’m not sure I’ll ever be truly ready. But…I’m ready to try. Ready enough. I want things to go back to normal. The Beekeeper help me, I miss the bastard,” Wren admitted.
“He does manage to be obnoxiously endearing, despite…” Sable trailed off, her gaze flitting to the curtain, as if Hale’s tall form called like a beacon.
“His personality?” Wren offered.
“Precisely.” A smirk twisted on Sable’s face. “If you’re sure. I told you I wouldn’t rush you and I mean it.”
“I want to see him,” Wren said, surprised to realize it was the truth. She had let herself heal and grieve and mourn in the weeks since she had almost died. Heal from her injuries both visible and invisible. Grieve that she lived in a city where the crown thought to use her and discard her like a pawn on a fox and geese board. That she had to be on her guard always. And mourn for the loss of her trust in Hale, for a friendship poisoned by rage and doubt. But it was time to put her sorrow and fear behind her. She couldn’t live in them forever. She didn’t want to. She had glimpsed a rich life in her time at the Guild, before it had all gone wrong, and she wanted it back.
“Then we go,” Sable said as she opened the carriage door, disappearing through it in a wave of blue and black.
Wren took a deep breath and stepped out of the carriage into the balmy night air. Septembers in Maradis were unseasonably warm, as summer reached long and far. The facade of the restaurant sprawled before her, an expanse of sleek glass and crisscrossing iron beams bathed in the warm light of rows of flickering candles set on a honeycomb of shelves behind the glass.
But those candles dimmed compared to the glow of Hale, who was currently twirling Sable around in a bearhug. “All right, artisan, that’s enough,” Sable said with a laugh, beating her fist against Hale’s broad back. He set her down gently. “Artisan?” he said with a devilish smile. “So formal?”
And then he straightened and turned and Wren met his eyes—those two aquamarine pools as bright as a glacier lake. “Wren,” he breathed, growing still as stone.
“I’ll leave you two to talk,” Sable said. With a pat on Hale’s shoulder, she walked into the restaurant.
“Wren,” Hale said again, his face twisted.
“Hello, Hale.” Wren squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. Suddenly she was glad she had worn this dress, panels of leafy lace over olive green, glad that Olivia had offered to paint on rouge and kohl and plum stain on her lips and draped a golden necklace of leaves across her neck. Wren wore it all like armor now, playing the part of a fine lady meeting a handsome gentleman, rather than Wren the confectioner, confronting Hale, her teacher and friend who had betrayed her.
“Can we sit?” Hale motioned to a stone bench a few paces down the street.
Wren nodded stiffly and followed. She found herself face to face, knee to knee with him. He looked the same, tan face chiseled like stone, golden-blond hair gathered into a bun on the back of his head, impeccably tailored suit of charcoal gray unbuttoned to show a waistcoat of checked blue. As much as Hale seemed unchanged, there was also something different. A sadness in the set of his shoulders, bags under his eyes. A twist of contrition about his mouth that Wren had never seen before.
“I’d like to apologize,” Hale said, “but I understand if you have something you would like to say first. I’m happy to hear it.”
Wren shrugged, examining her cuticles. “What is there to say that you don’t already know?” The words came out softer than she intended, almost a whisper. “I’m not good at….letting people in. But somehow, you became like a brother to me…and then…you didn’t believe me. You hurt me… and…” A knot grew in Wren’s throat as she tried to hold back the tears. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
“And it was like losing a second brother,” Hale finished.
Wren nodded, unable to meet his gaze. The tears were falling now, wetting the lace on her lap. She couldn’t raise her face, didn’t want to look at him.
“You let me in and I rewarded that by accusing you. By almost killing you. Wren,” he said, getting down on his knees before her, taking her hand gently. He reached to tilt her chin up but hesitated, drawing his hand back before he touched her.
She looked up, meeting his gaze. “What are you doing?” she said, embarrassed as passersby gawked at the scene.
“I don’t care about them,” Hale said. “What I did to you is the greatest regret of my life. And I have many,” he amended. “What I did was unforgivable. And you never have to forgive me. You would be well within your rights not to. But I hope you do. I will spend the rest of my days making this up to you, I swear. I will never betray you or hurt you again.”
Wren traced the outline of a leaf on the lace of her dress, avoiding Hale’s turquoise gaze. “You say that now, but you’re you. You’re…in your right mind. The man who did that to me…he was like a stranger.” She had seen it before with her father, when he drank too much and his mask came off. Or went on. It had been impossible to know which was the t
rue man in the end. But with Hale, it had just been anger. Rage. There wasn’t even a substance to blame.
“That’s fair,” he said. “I was beside myself with grief, and I don’t know what came over me.” His mouth pursed into a thin line. “That’s not true. It’s happened before. When I was young. I would get so mad. My mother would put her hands on my cheeks”—he squished his chiseled cheeks between two large hands to illustrate—“and say, ‘Hale Bartholomew Firena, put that fire out this instant.’”
“Your middle name is Bartholomew?” She wrinkled her nose. It didn’t fit.
“No, it’s Ian,” Hale said with a laugh. “She said it when I was little once, to try to make me laugh so I wouldn’t be mad anymore. It worked. She just kept saying it. It became a family joke. But…it worked. It snapped me out of it. And now, I entrust it to you.”
Wren smiled despite herself. “I don’t want to be mad at you. And I don’t want to be afraid.” She took in a shuddering breath. “Very well, Bart. You are forgiven.”
“Woah, woah, woah.” Hale stood, his knees cracking. “Don’t abuse your new power, chickadee. What I told you must be treated with great weight and dignity.”
“It will,” Wren said, offering him a smile. Gods, she had missed this incorrigible man.
“Thank you, Wren,” Hale said softly. “For giving me a second chance. To be your friend.”
“Everyone deserves a second chance,” she said, clearing her throat and wiping her eyes. Dark streaks of kohl came off on her fingers. “Ugh.”
“You look perfect,” he said tenderly.
She let out a little laugh. “Back to your flattery so soon?”