“It’s my job to protect this kingdom,” Percival went on. “And I’ll do so, old friend—without hesitation.” Once again, he kicked his horse and galloped forward, leaving Phillip to follow. Behind him, Phillip sighed, some of his earlier happiness fading. He and Aurora were sure of their love for each other. They had spent hours daydreaming about uniting their kingdoms and showing both faerie and human that they could coexist. But the road to that unity was going to be bumpy. Phillip knew Percival wasn’t the only one who wouldn’t be happy about his engagement.
Clucking at his horse, Phillip trotted toward the castle and his parents with butterflies in his stomach. They, too, were sure to have strong reactions to his news.
King John longed to stretch. He had been sitting for hours on his throne under the weight of his ornate coat and heavy crown. At his wife’s request, a fur blanket—with the animal’s head still attached—was draped over him. And he held a long scepter. The throne, uncomfortable on a good day, felt like it was stabbing into his backside after hours and hours of posing for his royal portrait.
But he would do what he must to make his wife happy.
Noticing movement from the corner of his eye, King John smiled—but only slightly. He had already been reprimanded enough by the artist. “Ingrith,” he said in greeting. “You’re the only one I can trust. Be honest—how do I look?”
The queen stepped farther into the dark room. Even without light to illuminate her skin, it glowed the same color as the moon. Her dress clung to her body, accentuating her thin frame, and her blond hair, nearly white, was pulled back tight to her scalp. Her eyes, as she scanned the canvas, were cold. It was she, not the king, who looked like a piece of art. A cold stone statue.
“Like the greatest king in the history of Ulstead,” she finally said, her tone flat.
The king either didn’t notice the tone or chose to ignore it. “And see your place of honor,” he went on, apparently pleased with his wife’s response. “Right beside me.”
Unable to move his head, he couldn’t see the grimace that contorted the queen’s objectively beautiful face. Nor did he notice as her hands clenched at her sides and she took a sharp breath. When she spoke, however, her voice was even and calm. “And that’s where I’ll always be.”
Ingrith despised that as queen, she was always seen as second to her weak and ineffectual husband. Just the sight of the man made her feel ill. When he spoke, his words full of flowery nonsense and foolish romantic notions, she wanted to put her hands over her ears and scream. Theirs was not a love match. It had been a match of convenience. The chances Ingrith would adore him had been slim and the silly stuff of John’s favorite fairy tales. But at least she could have married someone she admired. Or even liked. Instead, she had married a man whose constant declarations of love and adoration made her skin crawl.
But the kingdom—and her husband—expected her to be the doting wife. So she was. She smiled for portraits. She forged alliances, instigated wars, and expanded their rule while John talked endlessly about impossible peace and waxed poetic with his son about the power of love.
She did it for one reason, and one reason alone: she needed John and the power his title and her marriage had brought. So let others believe he was the leader. Let the kingdom believe that she had no agenda, that John was the reason they lived under such prosperity. They would soon discover how wrong they were.
Hearing the doors open once again, Queen Ingrith turned, happy for an excuse to stop looking at her husband. Gerda, the royal engineer, walked in briskly, carrying a large crate. She was one of the few members of the royal court who was not intimidated by Queen Ingrith. Gerda had been part of the court for years and provided the king with wisdom, advice, and, when asked, weaponry. But she was, at heart, loyal to the queen.
Stopping in front of the royal pair, Gerda nodded. Leaning down, she placed the crate on the ground in front of them. It was filled to the brim, the wooden sides strained by its contents. “Your Majesty,” Gerda said, addressing the king, “spoils from the annexation of the Midlands have arrived.” She pointed to the top of the pile. “Weapons.”
King John shook his head, earning himself a sharp glare from the portrait artist. “We have no need for arms,” he said. “Our days of war are over.”
The queen bit the inside of her cheek. Her husband was a fool. There would always be war. It was part of running a kingdom. If there wasn’t war outside, there was war inside. If there were not enemies far away, there were enemies at the gate. Or in their case, across the river. But John had always seen the world through the eyes of a child, naive and hopeful. He believed war should be a last resort. Ingrith thought otherwise.
She reached into the pile and pulled out a crossbow. While the weapons Gerda had acquired were antique, they still worked. Lifting it, she cocked the bow, holding the weapon with practiced ease. “One can never be too careful,” she said, turning so that the bow was aimed right at the king.
Gerda watched the queen, her expression blank but her eyes curious. “Your Majesty, it’s cocked,” she warned.
There was a tense moment as Gerda looked at the queen, and the queen looked at the king. “Is it, now?” Ingrith asked, feigning ignorance. She tossed the bow to Gerda, who caught it. When she did, the weapon fired. The arrow flew wildly through the air and slammed into a statue next to the doorway.
“You need to be more careful,” Ingrith said, eyeing the quivering arrow.
Gerda nodded, taking the blame as expected. As she went to retrieve the arrow, Ingrith moved farther into the room. Bright beams of sunlight poured through the windows at the back, illuminating the gray tiled floor and making it shine. Ingrith sidestepped the light, avoiding it as if it were a puddle of mud.
The doors to the throne room opened again. Her expression turned happy—or rather, less cold—when she saw her son. Phillip’s handsome face was full of joy as he strode toward his parents.
“Father, Mother…” he began.
“Well?” King John said, standing up. He didn’t even care that the moment he stood, the artist began to mutter under his breath. “What did she say?” the king pressed him.
Phillip’s smile broadened. “She said yes!”
“That’s marvelous news!” King John said, throwing his arms around his son. “Two kingdoms will finally be one!”
Ingrith looked at the two men as they embraced—one old and foolish, the other young and reckless. She should have known Phillip would go to his father for advice about his relationship with Aurora. The boy had never sought her out for heart-to-heart conversations. Lessons on strategy and war were more her cup of tea. But she couldn’t blame him. After all, she had never hidden her feelings about Aurora. She just wished her oaf of a husband had warned her that a betrothal was imminent.
Pulling free from his father’s hug, Phillip turned to Ingrith. “Mother,” Phillip began, doubt creeping into his voice, “I know this goes against your wishes. But if you’ll spend some time with Aurora…”
Mother and son shared a look and an awkward silence.
If I had had a heads-up, I could have planned this better, Ingrith thought, wishing, yet again, that her husband wasn’t completely incompetent. But she knew she needed to say something to her son. Finally, she nodded. “Yes,” she said, trying to keep her tone soft. “Perhaps I’ve been selfish, looking at this the wrong way. I owe you and Aurora an apology.”
“Mother?” Phillip said, not hiding his surprise at her response.
“You’ve made your choice,” she went on, surprising him still further, “so now is a time to celebrate.” She walked to him, and she, too, hugged him. The gesture felt foreign to her. She couldn’t remember the last time she had embraced her son. But the moment seemed to call for it.
In her arms, Phillip stood awkwardly. “I’m glad you finally approve,” he said.
“Much more than that,” Ingrith said, pulling back. Her mind had begun to race. A delightfully wicked idea had just come to her.
She had been seeing this all wrong. The union wasn’t a problem. It was a solution. She could use it to further a plan she had hatched years earlier. Because of circumstance and position, she had been unable to do more than plot. That had changed. Phillip’s engagement had handed her an opportunity on a silver platter. She couldn’t, however, let Phillip have any inkling that she had anything but the best of intentions. She needed him to believe that she was behind his marriage—disgusting as she found it. If he remained in the dark, she would be able to right the wrongs from the past and bring her life’s goal to fruition—an end to the faerie folk once and for all. Pulling her lips back in a smile, she went on. “I’m ready to welcome your fiancée with open arms. Why don’t we have her over for dinner?”
Phillip looked shocked. But he smiled. “That would be incredible,” he said.
“But under one condition,” Ingrith added, causing Phillip’s smile to momentarily falter. “She will bring her godmother.”
The room became silent. Ingrith had known her statement would bring such a reaction. She had never—not once in the five years Aurora had been in her son’s life—set foot in the Moors. Nor had she opened her doors to the girl or Maleficent. She had also never made her feelings toward the faeries secret. All who knew her knew of her disdain. And now she was inviting the queen of the Moors and the girl’s Dark Fey godmother to dinner?
“We will meet the one who raised her,” she went on. “Right here in this castle.”
Unaware of what his wife was really plotting, King John clapped his hands together happily. “The queen is right,” he said.
“I’m not sure her godmother will—” Phillip started.
But Ingrith stopped him. Lifting a pale thin hand in the air, she shook her head. “But I insist,” she said. “After all, we will soon be family. There is no other way.”
“The queen is right,” King John repeated. “Let it be known throughout the kingdom: My son is going to marry Aurora. And Maleficent is coming to Ulstead.”
As the king returned to his portrait, Ingrith kept a smile plastered on her face. It was just like John to take her decree and make it his own. She let him…for the moment. Soon enough he wouldn’t be her problem.
But first she had a dinner to plan. A few ideas had already come to mind. First course: polite conversation. Dessert: a hearty helping of Maleficent humble pie. And then, finally, destruction of the Moors—and every last faerie who called that disgusting forest home.
UNTIL THAT MOMENT, AURORA HAD NEVER REALIZED SHE COULD FEEL SIMULTANEOUSLY WONDERFUL AND TERRIBLE. SHE WAS DREADING THE CONVERSATION SHE KNEW SHE WAS ABOUT TO HAVE WITH MALEFICENT. It made her stomach ache.
But back outside Aurora’s castle, the weather was oblivious to her inner turmoil. The sun was shining; the brilliant blue sky was unmarred by a single cloud. And for the first time in days, there were no faeries waiting on her to solve a dispute or bring light to an issue that had no solution. The only sounds were the soft breeze that sang through the trees and the voices of Knotgrass, Flittle, and Thistlewit. The three pixies were, as usual, bickering among themselves. Aurora slowed her pacing and a smile tugged at her lips. Their voices brought back many good memories—as well as a few she would rather leave behind. The pixies had been her only role models for the long years she had lived hidden in the cottage in the forest. Their voices were as familiar to her as her own, and as familiar as Maleficent’s. They had scolded her and praised her. They had raised her and guided her, just as Maleficent had.
Thinking of the Dark Fey, Aurora took a breath and resumed pacing. She fiddled with the ring that now adorned her left hand. The sight of it filled her with a happiness she could not describe. But when she raised her gaze to the sky, waiting for her godmother, that feeling faded and was replaced by trepidation.
She loved Maleficent. She loved her biting comments that were harsh because she cared. She loved the fey’s hard scowls that hid her soft heart. She loved Maleficent for all the reasons some feared her. But she also loved her because she was her mother. Maybe not biologically, but that had never mattered. Still, despite the strength of their relationship, Aurora found herself jittery as she waited for Maleficent to arrive. She had seen Diaval flying away from the willow tree after the proposal. It was only a matter of time.
As if on cue, the sky darkened as Maleficent swooped in front of the sun’s rays. Behind her was Diaval, struggling to keep up with the fey’s anger-fueled speed. A great gust of wind kicked up as the Dark Fey descended to the ground, her wide wings thrumming in the air. Knotgrass and the other pixies grabbed for a tree, trying to stay upright.
Landing in front of Aurora, Maleficent drew her wings to her back. Diaval flew to a nearby branch and settled on it nervously. The air around Aurora seemed to thicken as dark clouds rolled across the Moors. Maleficent’s emotions had always been tied to the Moors’ landscape. It was easy to see she was not pleased.
“Hello, Aurora,” Maleficent said, stepping closer. Her thick red lips glistened and her green eyes narrowed as she looked down at Aurora. Behind the fey, a small pond began to boil. “Anything…new?” The words oozed from her mouth.
Aurora took a deep breath. There had been times before when she and her godmother had not seen eye to eye. And they had made their way back together. They would do so again—she hoped. “Godmother,” she said, “Phillip asked me to marry him.”
“Poor thing,” Maleficent said, the tone of her voice implying she cared very little for him despite the words. “How’d he take it?”
“My answer is yes,” Aurora said, the words coming out in a rush.
“And mine is…no,” Maleficent countered.
Aurora lifted her head. Even though she had grown taller and stronger—and had become queen—she still felt small beside her godmother. Nevertheless, this was important—as important as the safety of the moors she ruled over. And if her godmother had taught her one thing, it was to stand behind her convictions. Putting on a brave face, she pulled her shoulders back. Then she spoke her mind. “I wasn’t really asking.”
“Nor was I,” Maleficent said, unbothered by her goddaughter’s bravado.
Aurora held back a groan. She had known Maleficent was going to be difficult, but this was ridiculous. She was acting like Knotgrass when Flittle turned everything in the cottage blue one summer—including Knotgrass’s favorite dress. “What’s next?” Aurora said, her voice sounding precariously close to a whine. “You’ll turn him into a goat? Disembowel him?”
Maleficent shrugged. “It’s a start.”
This time, Aurora held in a scream. Phillip had never done anything to Maleficent! He had, in fact, bent over backward to prove himself to the faerie time and time again. Aurora would have thought that if nothing else, his attempt to save her life years ago would have meant something to Maleficent. But despite all Phillip had done, Maleficent remained wary of him and his intentions.
As if reading her mind, Maleficent paced slowly around the young queen. Her long fingers curled over the top of her wooden staff, and her dark eyebrows rose on her pale face. “Are you aware there are faeries missing in the Moors?” she asked accusingly.
“Of course,” Aurora said, annoyed that on top of everything, her godmother would assume she was unaware of what was happening in her kingdom. She had heard the rumors. She had reassured the families of the missing faeries. She would get to the bottom of it. It was just taking time. But Aurora was most upset that Maleficent would bring that up in a conversation about Phillip. “What does this have to do with him?” she asked.
Maleficent nodded, the implication clear. She believed humans to be the cause of the disappearances. “Last I checked,” Maleficent went on, “he was human, a repellent, loathsome—”
“I’m a human,” Aurora said, cutting her off.
“And I’ve never held that against you.”
Aurora shook her head and cast her eyes downward. “Until I fell in love,” she said. Sadness filled Aurora’s face. Her godmother was
wrong. Maleficent had held Aurora’s humanness against her before. Aurora couldn’t help remembering another time, long, long before, when Maleficent had cursed her—simply for being the daughter of the human who had broken the Dark Fey’s heart. Did Maleficent not see that she was punishing Aurora once again, for doing exactly what Maleficent herself had done? How was Aurora any different than Maleficent had been as a girl? True, Maleficent’s love story had ended in heartbreak. But ultimately, the story had brought Aurora and Maleficent together. True love had saved them both.
Around them, the woods grew quiet. Aurora and Maleficent looked at each other, a million words unspoken between them. Aurora saw a flash of pain on her godmother’s face and felt a flicker of uncertainty. Was the pain for Aurora or for herself? The silence stretched on as the Dark Fey seemed to lose herself in a memory. Aurora didn’t need to ask what Maleficent was thinking about. She knew. It was the same thing she had just been thinking about. Maleficent was remembering Aurora’s father, King Stefan, and his betrayal.
“True love doesn’t always end well, beastie,” Maleficent said, the pet name making Aurora smile despite the tears that suddenly welled up in her eyes.
“I’m asking you to trust me,” Aurora said. “Let Phillip and me prove you wrong.” She moved closer to Maleficent, forcing the faerie to stop pacing. “The king and queen are celebrating tonight. They’ve invited us both to the castle.”
Maleficent’s eyes widened. “You want me…to meet…his parents?” Nothing could have shocked her more.
Up on his branch, Diaval cawed in disbelief.
“It’s just dinner,” Aurora said, though she knew it was much more than that.
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