by Stacey Jay
“With enhanced strength, among other things. It aids in healing.” I crane my neck to get a look at my wound, wrinkling my nose at the jagged black scab marking the skin on my arm. “That looks awful.”
“It should look much, much worse, my doll.” She pats my back before pulling my sleeve up and over my shoulder. “I don’t even need to re-dress it. If you keep mending so sweetly, we should get you moving tomorrow, start bringing some strength back to your muscles after the weakening effects of the poison.”
She passes the milk over, and I drink it down greedily. It’s so fresh it’s still warm. After three days with almost nothing to eat, it’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.
“Thank the gods for your blessings,” Gettel says. “When Niklaas carried you in you were curled up so tight, I wasn’t sure you’d use your hands again. The poor boy was out of his mind with worry.” She smiles fondly, and I can tell she has a soft spot for Niklaas, no matter how sternly she scolded him a few moments ago. “Wept like a man over you, he did. And stayed right by your side until the fever broke.”
I pause, letting the edge of the glass slip from my lips. “Really?”
She nods as she straightens the covers. “If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”
I finish the milk and clutch the glass to my chest. “The love of a friend.”
“No, my dear,” she says, a secret smile on her lips. “I’ve seen the way a boy looks at a sick friend. Niklaas feels the way you do. Just give him some time.”
He doesn’t have time, I think, not sure what to think, or feel, about what she’s said.
It’s probably best not to feel anything. I’m not sure she’s right about Niklaas. I can’t even say for certain that she’s right about me. I care for Niklaas and admire him and there are times—when he isn’t being impossible—that I’d like to kiss him and keep on kissing until I’ve pressed my lips to every bit of his ridiculously perfect body, but is that love? And what if it is? Even assuming Niklaas loves me and I return his love, what does it matter? We’re both cursed, and he’ll be a swan before Nonstyne becomes Harmontyne.
But he doesn’t have to be. If Gettel’s right, all it would take is a kiss …
My hand shakes as I set the glass on the bedside table. I can’t believe I let the thought enter my mind. I can’t do that to Niklaas. As frustrating as I find him sometimes, I’d never want him to agree with everything I said. I’d never want to see him empty of his own desires, a slave to my every whim. I’d never want to see him like Thyne.
“Don’t fret, sugar. These things have a way of working themselves out,” Gettel says, resting a hand on my head.
She has no idea how complicated things are between Niklaas and me, but I nod anyway.
She grins, causing a starburst of wrinkles to form around her eyes. “Now let me help you to a chair by the fire downstairs. I’ll put up your hair before dinner. I think you’re well enough to join the rest of us at the table, don’t you?”
“That sounds wonderful.” I toss off the covers and swing my legs over the side of the bed, grateful to feel the floor beneath my bare feet. I let Gettel help me into a pale blue dress and hold my arm as we walk down the stairs, though I’m feeling stronger than I thought I would. Still, a hand to hold is appreciated. I’m nervous to see Niklaas, anxious that somehow he’ll read all the conflicted thoughts racing through my mind on my face.
But I needn’t have worried. Niklaas is gone.
The only people in the kitchen are a gray-haired woman Gettel introduces as Baba, her assistant, and a little girl of six or seven with coffee-colored skin and wild brown curls asleep on a giant pillow before the fire, a snoring Hund curled by her side.
“That’s my granddaughter, Kat,” Gettel whispers as she settles me in a chair a few hands away.
“But you’re so young,” I say before I think better of it.
“I’m older than I look. Kat is my third granddaughter. The eldest is twelve.” Gettel winks before turning to fetch a brush from the mantel, where a hundred different objects, mundane and magnificent, fight for space.
There are brushes and stacks of soap and a giant bottle of honey, side by side with small animal skulls, a vase of exotic feathers, a black-haired doll with shining stone eyes, and a gray rock filled with purple crystals. The rock is the same sort witches are said to leave behind after they steal a harvest. I wonder if Gettel leads raids on the surrounding villages in Frysk, and how she happened to be living so far south of the frozen lands the other witch-born are said to call home, but I’m too shy to ask. I don’t know Gettel well and I’m too deeply in her debt to risk being nosy or rude.
“Kat is my special helper,” Gettel continues as she brushes my hair in long, soothing strokes. “Her mom is … away for a time, so Kat is staying with me. She’s thrilled to have Hund for a visit. They’ve been wearing each other out running wild, helping with the Evensew preparations.” She chuckles. “I’m not sure how much of a help they are. The others are probably glad to have the little menaces out of their hair for an hour or so.”
“Is Evensew already so close?” I ask, tension creeping into my neck.
“Tomorrow evening,” Gettel says, banishing the laziness from my bones. “I was afraid you would miss it, but now that you’re up and about, you’re welcome to join us.”
“I’d like that,” I mutter, mind racing. Gettel continues to chatter about the festival as she twists my hair into a pile of coils atop my head, but I listen with only half an ear. I must have spent more days with the mercenaries than I thought, or lost track of a day while Niklaas and I were traveling or … something. It can’t be Evensew already!
Evensew, the day when the living sew the memory of the dead back into their lives with a festival honoring the ones they’ve lost, is always on the seventh of Nonstyne. That means Niklaas’s birthday is only eight days away. He has only eight days, and Jor may not have much longer. Surely the Hawthorne tree will be changing its colors soon.
I would be tempted to tell Niklaas I’ve changed my mind about his offer if I thought he had a chance of getting both himself and Jor out alive. But if he became a guest in Ekeeta’s castle, she wouldn’t take her eyes off of him long enough for him to free Jor. He would have to have someone else with him, someone who could journey to the dungeon without arousing suspicion, another warrior posing as a servant or a—
“Prisoner,” I breathe as a plan blooms in my mind, flowering as fast as the morning lilies on the west side of the island back home.
“What’s that, sugar?” Gettel steps back to survey my hair with a critical eye.
“Nothing,” I say, though my thoughts are still racing.
Alone, Niklaas and I would both fail. But if we went together—with me posing as his prisoner, a bribe to convince Ekeeta to grant Niklaas sanctuary from his father—it might work. Niklaas could keep the queen distracted while I find a way to free Jor and myself from the dungeon. And if I can’t find a way, Niklaas could risk freeing us knowing he has my staff at his back.
Niklaas is an amazing fighter, and, thanks to my fairy blessings, I’m as good as three or four men. All we’d have to do is get out of the dungeon and down the wall walk to the old dock. We could have a boat waiting behind the rocks, ready to spirit us all away to Malai. We’d still be taking a terrible risk, but at least we’d have a chance, maybe even a good chance. And if we act at the right moment—
“There!” Gettel jabs a final pin into the pile of hair on my head. “Now you look like a princess, sweet pea.”
I smile, enjoying the fact the Gettel feels free to call me anything but “my lady.” I don’t feel worthy of being anyone’s ruler, yet, but if I can save my brother and convince Niklaas to marry me and keep the ogre prophecy from coming to pass, then …
Well, then almost anything will seem possible, including raising an army to take back my throne.
“May I go outside?” I ask, coming to my feet. “I want to find Niklaas.”
&n
bsp; “Of course you may. Tell him supper will be ready in an hour.”
I leap to my feet and hurry to the door, feeling lighter than I have in weeks—anxious and nervous and frightened, but hopeful.
The hope lasts just minutes, the time it takes to find Niklaas prowling back and forth behind Gettel’s barn, helping two other boys load casks of beer into a cart, and to convince him to walk with me to the stream where twin willows sway in the breeze.
A breeze that isn’t nearly strong enough to sweep away Niklaas’s shout when I share the bare details of my plan.
“Not in a hundred years!” Niklaas pants, still breathing heavily from his work. “Not in a thousand!”
We’re half a field from the barn, but his volume still turns heads. One of the boys loading the cart pauses to cast a look in my direction, clearly ready to intervene if I need protecting. I wave at him and take Niklaas’s arm, holding tight when he tries to pull away.
“Hold still and quit shouting,” I mutter behind my smile, “or your friend is going to rush over and defend me from your temper.”
“As if you need defending,” Niklaas mutters with a dark look toward the barn. But he stops trying to shove me off and covers my hand with his before leading me farther down the bank, away from our audience. “It’s me who needs protection,” he mutters. “From you and your mad ideas.”
“It’s not a mad idea,” I say. “It’s dangerous, yes, but—”
“It’s too dangerous. You can’t risk going to the capital,” he says, rubbing his thumb absentmindedly back and forth across the top of my hand. “If you walk into Mercar, you’re as good as dead.”
“But Ekeeta wants me brought in alive,” I say, ignoring the way my nerves prickle when he touches me, even an innocent touch like this one. “You know that.”
He grunts. “So she can kill you herself with some crooked ogre voodoo.”
“Most likely,” I agree. “But that would still give us time. She’s not going to kill me on sight. Rituals take time to organize. We would have at least a day, maybe more, before we would need to escape.”
“The answer is no.” Niklaas pulls his arm away and turns to face me, squinting into the setting sun. “I’m not going to escort you to your death, and that’s the end of it.”
“Niklaas, please, I—”
“No.” He props his hands on his hips. “I almost watched you die once. I can’t do it again. I won’t.”
I glance up, taking in his wrinkled forehead and pinched eyes, and wonder if Gettel is right. Maybe Niklaas does love me. Maybe I love him. Maybe this is what love is, being so afraid to lose someone that you’d rather face death than a world without them.
I step closer, heart beating faster as I reach out, laying my palm on his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin through his linen shirt. “How do you think I feel? Knowing that in eight days you won’t be here anymore?”
His takes a deep breath. “It’s not the same. I won’t be dead, and—”
“But—”
“And I won’t be putting the world at risk.” He covers my hand with his and pulls it gently but firmly away. “What if you can’t escape before the ritual? What if you’re the briar-born child Ekeeta needs, not your brother? If you go to Mercar, you’re gambling everything, every beautiful patch of land in the four kingdoms, every innocent child sleeping by the fire with her dog … everything.”
“So what?” I ask, though Niklaas has made sure I’m thinking of little Kat, hating myself for putting a child in even a speck of danger. “Jor is my everything. Why should he have to die if there is a chance I can save him?”
“Aurora, he could be dead already.”
“No, he isn’t! I won’t believe that!”
“Then why is Ekeeta so desperate to capture you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she wants to eliminate anyone with a claim to her throne. Maybe she wants to finish what she started and slaughter my entire family, I don’t know, but I know Jor is alive. I can feel it.” I spin, sending my skirts flying as I pace away. I cover my mouth with my hand, fighting for control before turning back to face Niklaas. “I can’t sit here and do nothing,” I say, voice trembling. “I have to save him, or die trying, and this is the only plan I can think of that might work. I’d rather have you with me, but if you won’t help, I’ll find someone who will. Or go alone. If I have to.”
Niklaas’s lip curls. “You’re really that selfish?”
“No, I’m that willing to give everything for someone I love.” I refuse to mind the guilt nudging at my heart, demanding my attention. I shouldn’t feel guilty, not so long as I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to keep the kingdoms safe should my plan fail.
“I’ll go to Jor and do my best to free him. And if I can’t, or if he’s already dead and I can’t escape, then I’ll …” I swallow, pushing away a fleeting memory of my mother’s filthy dress beneath my cheek, the warmth of her body when I put my arms around her for the last time. “Then … Jor and I have both been well trained. We’ve always known we might be forced to take our own lives before the queen could use them against our people. We know ways to manage it without a weapon. I won’t need a knife.”
Before I realize he’s moving, Niklaas has hold of my good arm with one hand and the back of my neck with the other. “Don’t you dare,” he says, anger simmering in his words as he leans his face down to mine. “Don’t throw yourself away for no reason!”
“It’s my brother’s life!” I fight the urge to break his hold. I know Niklaas won’t hurt me, no matter how dangerous his hand feels wrapped around my neck. “Unlike you, who is willing to give up his humanity to preserve his stupid pride.”
He clenches his jaw. “I won’t marry someone who pities me. I don’t want pity, especially from you.”
“Why especially me?” I stand on tiptoe, bringing my eyes nearly level with his. “What’s so terrible about me?”
“Everything,” he snaps, releasing me as he backs away. “You’re a liar. I don’t want to marry a stubborn, reckless liar. I don’t want to—”
“Well, what we want and what we get are rarely the same thing.” I will my eyes empty, refusing to show him how much his words hurt. “I’m offering you life.”
“What kind of life?” he asks, with a shake of his head. “A life spent pretending to be happy? A life spent trying not to get gobbled alive by regret? A life spent lying next to a girl who’s as disgusted by bedding me as I am by bedding her?”
Disgusted. The word hits me like a fist in the ribs.
“You said it yourself,” he says in a softer tone. “You don’t want to kiss me any more than I want to kiss you.”
My breath rushes out as I roll my eyes. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry or ball up my hand and hit Niklaas as hard as I can.
“I remember how determined you were not to have me as your husband,” he continues. “I can’t help thinking you’d come back to feeling that way. Sooner or later.”
He shrugs and stuffs a hand into the pocket of his new navy work britches, loose wool britches that do an excellent job of disguising the well-formed legs beneath. But I know they’re there, as I know the rest of his beautiful boy-ness is there beneath his clothes. I hate myself for thinking about it, for admiring any part of this prince who finds me as plain and uninspiring as I always knew he would. I have legitimate reasons for not wanting to kiss him, but for Niklaas it goes no deeper than a lack of attraction.
I don’t know why I let myself think the closeness between us might have changed things, that friendship and family feeling and jokes and mutual admiration might make a difference. Nothing makes a difference. Boys like Niklaas only care about whether or not a girl makes their blood rush.
Then make his blood rush, fool. This is no time to give up. Not on Jor, or Niklaas.
My lips part and the aching in my chest becomes slightly more manageable.
Maybe I can change Niklaas’s mind. The fairy boys always told me I was pretty. I used to know how to
dance and tease and flirt and might have had my first kiss sooner if Thyne wasn’t so protective of me. That girlish part of me is still there, locked away in a cell I made for her when I realized how dangerous it was for me to attract a boy’s attention, let alone his affection or desire. She is still there, trapped in the darkness, but aching to be allowed back into the light …
“Maybe I would have regretted it,” I say, my head buzzing with dangerous possibilities. “But I suppose we’ll never know.”
Unless …
How can I even consider it? But how can I not, when lives are at stake and Niklaas has so little left to lose? If he’s determined to give up, what difference does it make which devil takes him, his devil … or mine?
“I’m sorry,” Niklaas says with a sigh. “I’m sorry I can’t help you, and I’m sorry about what I said. I know why you lied, and—”
“It’s all right.” I lay a hand on his arm, waiting until he meets my eyes before I add, “I’m sorry, too.”
“You were trying to help me,” he says. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”
Oh, but I do. Or I will, if Gettel’s right and you, my friend, are wrong.
“Let’s go back,” I say. “Gettel said I’m allowed to eat at the table tonight.”
“Good. Kat will have someone else to pester with her questions.” Niklaas smiles, but it slips from his face almost instantly. “I’m glad you’re better. I didn’t want to leave until I knew you’d really be all right.”
“You’re leaving?” I ask, pulse speeding.
He nods. “As soon as I can put my things together and arrange for word to be sent to Haanah that things haven’t worked out as we’d hoped.”
“At least stay for the festival tomorrow night,” I say, ignoring the panicked voice in my head that urges me to steal a kiss right now, before it’s too late.
But I must make certain the kiss works. If it doesn’t, I am without a partner to help me free Jor, and Niklaas’s life is over. Too much depends upon the meeting of our lips to rush, not when even one more day might ensure success.