by Lexa Hillyer
“After all these years, you aren’t interested in knowing the truth about your mother?”
The stallion shuffles beside Isbe, letting out a huff. It nudges her as if to agree.
Of course she wants to know. She’s desperate to know. But she is gripped too, with a complete and overwhelming fear. “Just tell me this. Do you know what happened to her? After . . .”
The reverend mother steps closer to her with a rustle of her musty robes. Her voice is much softer as she replies. “Your mother always loved the sea. When the king banished her, I believe Cassandra set sail across the strait, maybe to one of the small islands in the north. I never heard from her.”
Isbe’s ears ring.
“However,” Hildegarde adds. “She left me this.”
The woman has approached her and now reaches out, her hand finding Isbe’s upper arm. She draws Isbe’s hands together, turning her palms up, and then, moments later, presses something into them. Something cool and lightweight, made of crystal or glass. The object is hollow, with a long, narrow opening at the top. One end is pointed, the other round.
A slipper. Just larger than the length of Isbe’s hand.
“She left you a . . . shoe?”
“A glass slipper,” the nun corrects.
“But why?”
“It was her most precious possession, that is all she told me. Something given to her by her own mother. She was cautioned never to lose it, but she said nothing of its true meaning or import. She wanted me to give it to you. However, I too was sent away soon after, and felt it would be safer in my possession than yours.”
Now it’s Isbe’s turn to snort. “You stole it.”
Hildegarde sighs. “Isabelle. I see you hold an unflattering impression of me, but I only want what is best for this kingdom, and I believe we are alike in that. It takes great bravery to travel in secret through the countryside, harboring a fugitive prince. Your mother would have been proud.”
At this, Isbe takes a step backward, her throat seizing up tight. It’s too much. This is all too much. She wants to throw the glass slipper and run—but she’s overcome with the wild impression that if she lets go of it, she’ll never possess it again. Not that it will shatter, but that it will simply vanish in the air.
“Isabelle.” Now the reverend mother has grown to the size of three men on the backs of three horses, and Isbe is certain she will be stampeded by the woman’s words, by her intensity. She is a storm cloud ready to break open and send down a torrent that will erode everything Isbe knows to be true. “I did not just come here for money.”
Isbe clears her throat, determined to stand strong, even as her world mudslides. “You came for me.” It is a statement, not a question.
“I came to galvanize you. I thought the slipper would inspire you.”
“Inspire me to what?”
“To lead.”
6
Binks,
a Male Faerie of Modest Nobility,
Who Still May or May Not Be Important to This Tale,
Except That He Once Again Happens to Be
in the Right Place at the Right Time
He wouldn’t have believed it if it weren’t for a lack of jam.
He approaches the swollen corpse with caution, glancing over his shoulder to make certain the town green is clear.
Surely there can be no other reason for Claudine’s brash escape from the relative protection of her manor, can be no other justification for the violet smears staining her mouth and face. She was fascinated with the vines, spoke often of their virulence—many of her maids could attest to this. And yet apparently she ate the purple flowers anyway, driven by, one can only imagine, a deep and unappeasable hunger.
Maybe if the roads hadn’t been closed, if trade hadn’t halted . . .
Maybe if there’d been just a little more jam to go around . . .
Claudine’s deep pockets have already been picked, Binks is disappointed to discover—even the collar of her heavy coat crudely shaved off by what can’t have been a very good blade. He is already wary of getting too close to this . . . this rotting, bloating flesh hill, its dance of maggots, its terrible reminder that even the fae must perish like the rest. He has begun to think better of his own sojourn to the village, and curses the bad gamble that lost him his preferred driver as well as three of his best mounts. He would have demanded his own butler drive him into town, but the man began to sob wretchedly, talking of plagues and soldiers, of lords with bloody sockets where their eyes should have been.
Binks is not usually one for mass hysteria, as the timid make terrible game mates. He is not too proud, however, to admit that perhaps his manservant was right: these are dangerous and unpleasant times.
He is in fact about to turn back when he spots a scroll balled in Claudine’s fist. Her fat fingers, nearly as blue as her lips are purple, curl tightly around the vellum. It is not easy to wrench it free. Perhaps a love letter, he thinks, or a tally of debts paid and owed. Perhaps a list of items for a maid to procure from market. But no. Claudine must have grown desperate if she had left the safety of her manor to seek out a courier on her own.
Binks has always had a nose for other people’s business. Information can prove more valuable than even the best of latterlu hands.
He wrenches the note free at last, and sees that it has been addressed to the Faerie Duchess Violette. He averts his eyes from Claudine’s purple-smeared mouth as he breaks the letter’s seal with one of his carefully filed fingernails. His pulse leaps, like it does in response to a marked card, a twisted lip, or a sleight of play.
The message says only this:
V:
IT IS TIME.
IT MAY IN FACT ALREADY BE TOO LATE.
MALFLEUR MUST BE STOPPED.
OUR ONLY HOPE IS TO FIND THE HART SLAYER.
—C
7
Isabelle
The wreath Aurora left on her bureau whispers to Isbe when she returns to her room from the stables, and she wonders how she didn’t notice it earlier: crocus, its scent says, and spring, hope, sisterhood, promise. It slips easily onto Isabelle’s head.
Matilda’s hands tremble as she pins up Isbe’s short hair neatly and affixes a long veil. The kitchen wench is one of the few servants she can trust with this task.
Isbe was a little too narrow and a little too tall for Aurora’s gown, but with the help of a tailor they managed to make a few necessary adjustments, and now the heavy layers of silk sway against Isbe’s body, the fine boning tightens around her torso, stiff with formality.
Isbe is shaking too, as Hildegarde’s words still reverberate through her. She offered the nun a place to stay and make herself comfortable for the duration of the festivities, but Hildegarde had refused—she took her money and set off immediately to Isolé.
When Isabelle had first heard Aurora’s letter read aloud this morning, she was in shock. Her reaction was reflexive and immediate: Bring Aurora back. This is all a mistake. She hardly even listened to the response of the remaining council or what William thought. But after Hildegarde placed the glass slipper in her hands, something shifted. Shock began to give way to realization.
She had built her whole life until now on the idea that the alliance was contingent on Aurora marrying William. That had been the entire point of her journey to find the prince and compel him to return to Deluce with her in the first place. It never occurred to her that there could be another way. That Aurora could simply and willingly relinquish her title. Isbe never thought one’s identity could radically change overnight.
But it’s as if Aurora has stepped out of her own storybook and into a completely new one.
And now Isabelle has been handed a chance to be queen in her place. She’s worried desperately about her sister’s safety—but what kind of person would she be to receive this opportunity and say no?
Still, the decision was made in such a whirlwind, she’s not completely sure whether she’s doing the right thing. It feels like s
he’s snipping a thread that once tethered her to Aurora, and to her old life; like she is once again flying backward off a boat and into the roiling arms of the sea.
Meanwhile, the prince waits at the altar in the courtyard. He has been told only that his bride has been found and is even now being dressed for the wedding.
When Isbe descends the stairs, one hand trailing lightly along the rail, three servants lifting the train of her gown, she is convinced that in a matter of mere hours she has become someone else. Not Aurora, exactly, but a princess from one of Aurora’s stories—a vision of regality and romance. Gone is the girl who loved a stable hand, who once kissed him in the rush and gurgle of a spring stream. Gilbert’s grip on her shoulders as their vessel swayed, the salt sting on her cheeks—of tears or seawater—his lips against her mouth, his fingers tracing her jaw . . . these sensations live on in her memory, but faintly, like the wash of a distant tide seeping through the sand.
She moves slowly, every step bringing her closer to the choice that will change her life forever. But soon enough she is led through the arched south entrance to the bailey, then down a path of pebbles and strewn petals. The guests’ stares are as tangible as the heat thrown from a hearth fire. None of them yet know the truth.
“Princess.” William’s voice floats above the muffled din of the crowd as she approaches him. She hears a question in his voice, and wonders if he can guess at her identity through the veil.
Her hands are placed in his, which are solid and strong. These are the hands that have spent hours carving fine miniature cannons, knights, and warships out of marble—the hands that have held her in the intense and heady silence of the hearse they shared, in the steam chamber beneath Almandine’s estate, and in the wine caves. These are the hands of her husband. In his wrist pulses the soul to which she’s going to bind her own.
During the ceremony, she is not expected to respond to the priest—after all, ostensibly, she is Aurora, and cannot speak. It is only toward the end of the vows that the priest pulls out the letter Isabelle gave him and begins to read aloud.
A confused murmuring spreads through the crowd.
It’s then that Isbe lifts her veil.
Gasps ring out. But it is too late for anyone to protest.
The priest lowers something onto Isbe’s head. It’s the same crown her stepmother wore for years, the one that would have gone to Aurora had she not left this strange and hasty letter—had she not formally abdicated. The crown is not heavy, but Isbe can feel its cool weight pressing down on her temples.
“Yes,” she says quietly when the priest asks if she accepts this responsibility, accepts the title of queen.
And then, in a blur of intoned prayers and carefully pronounced vows, she answers again, “Yes.”
Then “Yes.”
Then “Yes.”
The feast and celebration are a somber affair—full of worried whispers Isbe is certain are meant to be overheard. She can hardly stomach her serving of roasted boar decorated in caramelized pomegranate seeds. She takes a big gulp of spiced wine instead, letting its heat shiver down through her chest and limbs.
Thankfully, no one stops the prince from leading her away before the dessert course is served.
As soon as they step into the royal bedchambers—newly appointed and prepared for them, having remained empty since the death of King Henri and Queen Amélie—William gently unpins the veil from her hair.
She breathes a sigh of relief.
“What changed your mind?” he asks quietly. They have not had a moment alone until now to speak of it. And yet she finds she is still nervous, that she doesn’t know how to answer.
What did change her mind? A nun, she thinks. God, perhaps—a distant figure to whom she’s given little thought before now.
Or maybe . . . her mother. Her heart. A tiny shoe made entirely of glass.
Or maybe she hadn’t fully made up her mind until she stepped into her room to find the wreath Aurora had left behind, and was flooded with the sudden understanding of what her sister wanted. She wanted her own chance at love.
And she wanted Isabelle to have the same.
I realized I couldn’t lose you too, she is tempted to answer, which is also true.
But the truest reason Isbe changed her mind is not because it was what William said he wanted, or what, deep down, she wanted, or what anyone wanted, for that matter. It was because Hildegarde was right: Deluce needs Isbe. Not just a bride, not just an alliance, but her.
“I couldn’t let this dress go to waste,” is all she says, tilting her face up toward William’s.
“No. With everything at stake, we wouldn’t want that.” His finger traces the line of her jaw, and all the humor that welled up in her explodes into nervousness, the full tilt of what she has done registering abruptly, like when Freckles used to spook, leaping into the unknown with Isbe desperately clinging to the reins. She holds on now to the prince’s doublet, flat against his firm chest.
His hands wrap around her waist, pulling her against him. His lips meet her temple and linger there, then drift to her cheekbone. He kisses the corner of her mouth. She parts her lips, inhaling. But this kiss remains incomplete—his breathing has altered, just subtly—he leans in and lifts her up, carrying her backward across the room, and she’s half tempted to push him away, to say what a terrible, doomed idea this is, after all.
He sits her at the edge of the bed.
“I’ve been thinking,” she says now. “That I can help.”
“I’m listening.” He takes her hand and kisses the inside of her wrist.
“If Malfleur can convince so many men to join her ranks, why can’t we do the same? While you advance the army, I can recruit. Increase our numbers—”
He stops her with a kiss. “Yes,” he says. Then he kneels before her, his hands on her knees. “I wish.” He sighs. “I wish it wasn’t like this. That we didn’t have to speak of war. That I didn’t have to leave tomorrow.”
She knows he must ride to meet with a new brigade of soldiers tomorrow—that she may not see him again for at least a fortnight. There’s so much to be done, but it all feels impossibly far away.
“Nothing ever comes of—”
“Wishing,” he fills in. “So you’ve said many times. And still I do.”
His words feel too heavy for this moment, especially when her heart feels so eager, so alive it might burst from her chest like a spring bulb finally breaking through frozen soil. “We have tonight, at least,” she reminds him, touching his face—the strong jaw, the serious mouth, the small knitted scar.
“What shall we do with it?” He turns her hand over and kisses her knuckles, his patience a form of torture.
It suddenly occurs to Isabelle that she has been waiting for this—waiting and dreading and wanting and then pressing that want back down within her—ever since that night in the caves, the air pulsating with the cool memory of merlot. “I’m sure we can think of something,” she says.
Then his hands have found the border of her skirts, have shifted them, ever so gently, have found their way under all the layers of fabric and ribbon and fuss, have discovered her legs, bare beneath the silk. He pulls back the dress, revealing only her left knee. He kisses the tender spot just to the inner side of it. Isbe flushes, heat coursing up her leg and through her whole body.
Then he whispers against her skin, so softly she hardly hears the words, though she can feel their tickle across her thigh. “Yes. I’m sure we can.”
In the morning, he is gone. The dress was, thankfully, designed for only a single use, and it now lies half in shreds somewhere on the cold floor, along with the wreath and the veil.
She wants to reach over and find the prince there beside her; she wraps her arms around herself instead. Last night was . . . there are no words for last night. But now is the dawn of a new time, and a new Isabelle.
She is married. The word seems odd to her, delicate and yet binding, like the soft click of a lock.
She floats somewhere between before and after—she’s gone ethereal, and might in fact no longer exist. She should be afraid, but she is not. Already another idea is forming. Her mind skims through the sheets and the sensations and the sighs, and travels back to the one thing that now tethers her to the present . . . packed safely in a velvet-padded box beneath her bed, the tiny gift of her mother’s—heartbreakingly fragile, yet sharper and more real than anything. The strange, the beautiful: the slipper of glass.
PART
II
WHOSE BLOOD MUST SLAY
8
Wren,
Formerly a Maiden of Sommeil,
Indentured to the Mad Queen Belcoeur
Wren has never liked secrets. She imagines them as smooth, invisible stones that fit inside your palm—at first, they give you a sense of importance, of meaning. But then you learn that you can never put them down. They startle you awake at night with their clumsiness. In the water of dreams, they pull you under.
Some secrets are given to you without your having any say in the matter. They become worn and polished inside your hand. You begin to forget their heaviness. You begin to lose track of where your skin ends and the stone begins.
It is late. Wren leaves the small campsite where Aurora lies sleeping and moves through low trees toward the soft babble of a nearby creek. Kneeling in the damp moss, she collects a pool of silt-laden water in her hands and splashes her face. Again. Again. She looks up at the watery clouds, smears of darkness against the greater black. She heaves in a breath, willing herself to be calm.
But she knows she cannot remain calm. Not when she is holding the weight of a terrible secret.
Not when she knows she must be dying.
Wren searches for her reflection but finds only fractured images in the rippling stream: eyes that don’t align, a mouth that wavers and splits, skin that is at turns moonlit and shadowed. There’s no evidence of her concealments in those features, but they haunt her nonetheless.