by Violet Grace
Surprisingly, there weren’t that many eyewitnesses to the attack on the V&A. Or perhaps it’s not surprising. Those who said they saw mythical beasts descending from the heavens and roaming the halls were described as suffering a mass delusion brought on by the trauma of the day. The people who insisted on what they saw on social media and their own YouTube channels have been portrayed as conspiracy cranks good at making fake news videos – the kind of people who think the world is run by reptile overlords.
As for the Luck of Edenhall, the Agency has already manufactured a replica cup to fool the tourists.
Agent Eight suffered a concussion from the falling plaster, but she’s now fully recovered. I’m not totally heartless, though. I did go to the trouble of sending her a Get Well Soon card with a simple message: ‘I know. And one day I’ll tell.’ No doubt this makes her hate me even more. But the way I figure it, Agent Eight and I were never going to be close.
The doors of the Temple creak open to reveal a full house. Rows of pews line both sides of the ornate chamber, a ruby red carpet running up the middle. Fae sit shoulder to shoulder on every pew, sparkling with jewels and shimmering fabrics.
They stand and turn to me as I begin my approach towards the crown sitting atop the altar. The Chancellor and the Supreme Executor stand either side of the altar, their faces solemn. Halfway down the aisle I come to an abrupt halt. Standing there is Santa, the painter with the van and the book of poetry.
‘I knew you could do it, luv,’ he says quietly.
I reach up on tippy toes and kiss Santa’s cheek for nudging me forward when all I thought I was capable of was retreat. His eyes brim with a kind of paternal pride that tugs at my heart. I wish my father was here tonight. It’s weird to miss something that you barely remember having.
When I reach the front of the Temple I turn around and scan the crowd. I’m searching for one face only, one pair of ice blue eyes.
And there he is. The one who has made me whole and broken me to pieces all at once.
Sitting in the back corner, a mix of leather, denim, kindness and strength, he is perfection. It’s the closest I’ve been to Tom since we returned to Iridesca. I wish that I’d held him just a little bit longer and a little bit tighter at the V&A before we said goodbye. That I’d taken more time to store away that feeling of completeness, so that I could draw upon it later. Maybe then I wouldn’t ache with such emptiness from his absence. Perhaps then I would be able to focus on anything other than his lips, his hands, his words, his everything.
He stares back with an intensity that robs me of my breath. My whole body yearns to close the distance.
But we can’t.
Do not let anyone distract you from your true purpose. Or you will ruin everything we hold dear. They were the last words Gladys ever said. They haunt me. I hear those words and see that warning look she gave Tom every time I close my eyes. Gladys died so that I could live to do my duty. I owe it to her legacy, to my mother and to my people to heed her warning. Which means I must find the strength to endure each day without Tom.
Or work out some way that I can obey Gladys’s prophecy and still be with him.
But until I figure that out, I cannot risk it.
I realise that I’m staring at Tom when the entire audience turns around to follow my gaze. Soft murmurs and whispers swirl through the room. Tom and I have got to be the worst-kept secret in the three realms.
The Chancellor clears his throat and I turn back to the altar, my cheeks growing red. He welcomes the audience to this ‘auspicious occasion’. He was born for this moment.
‘Princess Francesca, daughter of Cordelia of House Raven,’ he says in his resonant voice. ‘If anyone deems Her Highness unfit or unworthy to assume the throne of Albion, speak now or forever hold your peace.’
I look out at my people. There’s reverence in some faces, hope in others. I don’t miss the occasional look of ambivalence; they’re giving me the benefit of the doubt.
For now. I’m going to be watched closely.
After an awkward silence that seems to go on forever, the Chancellor instructs me to kneel before the congregation.
The Supreme Executor drapes the Cloak of Virtue over my shoulders, a thick red velvet with a tartan trim. Next she presents me with the golden Sword of Valour. The Chancellor places the ruby and diamond crown on my head. I register the weight of it, on my head and on my heart.
I foresee a bumpy road ahead, especially when the Order learn that I will not be the puppet they want me to be. I will not shut up, smile and do as I’m told. Far from being a weakness, my morality is the very fuel that ignites my power. I will not smother it.
Rising to my feet, I recite the words I’ve been rehearsing for the past three days.
‘I, Francesca of House Raven, willingly accept the Fae Throne of Albion to rule and serve.’
And then, despite the hours of rehearsal and the Chancellor’s firm instructions not to break from the script, I can’t help myself. I take a step towards the crowd.
‘I will serve as your Queen, but this is not my time. This throne rightfully belongs to my mother, Queen Cordelia. I will be the caretaker until she is able to resume her role. And she will,’ I add with absolute certainty. ‘I will not rest until I find my mother’s consciousness and revive her body.’
My gaze travels to the ice blue eyes at the back of the room, and they lock with mine.
‘I will fight every day so that what has been set apart shall be joined together.’
acknowledgements