"The kissing?" Netta prompted, when Aurelie fell silent.
"Yes. Well, it's nice, but I feel like he's kissing an idea of me. As if, when our lips meet, he's closing his eyes because if he really looked at me, he'd be disappointed. I wouldn't measure up to this image he's created of a marriageable mortal woman." Aurelie scrubbed her gloved hands together. "How ridiculous I sound. Forget it. Forget I said anything."
"Loic couldn't be disappointed in you, Aurelie," Netta said evenly. "You're a princess through and through."
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"A princess?" Aurelie scoffed. "Worse than that, I'm the Heir. Can you imagine a Fae like Loic taking responsibility for a boring mortal kingdom? No, he's not after my title and hardly my wealth. The Door to the Fae world is inside a cave with treasure stacked higher than my head, but he never gives it a second glance."
"Do you"--Netta cleared her throat--"do you care for him?"
"Of course. But of the two of us, I always thought Loic preferred you. That's another reason I had to say something. You won't come with me, and you won't let me tell him you're here. Meanwhile, he keeps kissing me. It makes me sick, lying to both of you."
"What about Garin?"
Aurelie was glad of the dark and her own hood. "I don't see how he figures in." Her voice shook a little, but she steadied it. "He had lots of chances to talk to me in Dorisen, but every time I saw him, he was too busy doing something more important."
"Like helping you get away from the Inglises?" Netta said.
"The last time, yes. But he never once said he was glad to see me or that he'd missed me or that he wanted to be friends again."
"And you mentioned all those things to him?"
"Netta!" Aurelie put her hands on her hips. "Whose side are you on?"
"Yours, Your Highness. Always," Netta said, so stiffly that Aurelie hugged her.
"Please don't be angry. You're right, I could have spoken first. Garin and I've both got more pride than good sense, I'm afraid."
"Not the only one," Aurelie thought she heard, but when asked to repeat it, Netta shook her head.
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"My feet are freezing. I won't last out here much longer. It may not signify, but my news has to do with Garin, too."
"He's not hurt?" Aurelie's face felt numb, her lips two chips of ice. "You wouldn't have kept that from me?"
"No, no. It's about the fire. Mother's friends were gossiping in her workroom today. Someone's cousin had traded for a load of smuggled cloth and got news along with the goods. Dorisen's council ruled the fire was set on purpose. Not by Jocondagnans, though. Garin's been accused of the crime."
Outrage melted some of the frost that had chilled Aurelie to the bone. "Burning his own family's ships and warehouse? That's absurd."
"Captain Inglis claims it was a revenge gone wrong. He'd been working for her under a false name. Supposedly, he only meant to burn her goods, not knowing that his family was responsible for everything stored in their warehouse. Then the fire got out of control."
Aurelie remembered Garin dressed in Gargouille's gold and crimson, his evasiveness at the iceboat warehouse, his asking whether her people had set the fire. He hadn't told her everything, but she couldn't believe him a villain. "He must have had a good reason for whatever he was doing. Inglis is lying."
"Of course she is. This way." Netta pulled Aurelie to the right. "Garin disappeared before they could put him in prison, and Inglis has offered a reward for his capture. It's big, enough to buy a small farm or a racehorse."
"What do we do?" Dread, more than cold, made Aurelie shiver. "How can we help him?"
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"I've been thinking. First, we make sure that the report is true. About what the council determined, I mean. We know Garin is innocent."
"And then?"
Netta shrugged. "And then we wait. Where would you go, if Lumielle turned against you?"
"To Cantrez, to Grandmere's farm. Or wherever you were, Netta."
"And if we couldn't help you?"
"G-garin," Aurelie said, tentatively, and then with more confidence, "or Loic. He pretends to be above mortal concerns, but he cares more than he lets on. Maybe more than he realizes. Of course, I'd have to find him first. When he's in a disappearing mood..." She spread her hands wide.
"About Loic." Netta's steps slowed, as if she sensed the yellow squares of light shining from the palace.
They'd reached the maze's final corridor. Clever Netta, walking, talking, and navigating, while Aurelie could barely put one leaden foot in front of the other. Hearing of Garin's danger had thrown her feelings in sharp relief, like the lantern casting a long shadow along the pavement outside the maze.
It was the shadow of a footman. Barret, if she wasn't mistaken, venturing into the garden to find them. Aurelie held Netta's elbow, keeping just inside the hedge. Her friend was entitled to her opinion about fools and pride, but would she recognize her own error?
"What about Loic?" Aurelie whispered. "Will you come with me tonight, tell me I'm imagining things?"
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"No, I--just don't hurt him, Your Highness," Netta said from the depths of her hood. "Don't lead him on, if you don't truly love him."
Aurelie wanted to shake her, but the footman had seen them. "Your Highness. Mademoiselle," he called, relief plain in his voice.
"Here, Barret," Aurelie said. She and Netta left the maze and walked toward the footman.
"And the stars, Your Highness?" He glanced up at the sky. "Did you enjoy the vista?"
"Oh, yes. Delightful," she lied. Again.
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Chapter 18 Loic
Because flying dogs attract attention of precisely the wrong sort, 1 take the shape of a sea eagle for my next survey of the princess's city. It's not an appealing vista. At this season, one might reasonably expect rooftops and avenues draped in elegant white. Instead, a spell of cold, dry weather has settled over the land. Bereft of winter's snowy mantle, Lumielle resembles a slattern too lazy to wash. Soot streaks the slate roofs and stone buildings; silent fountains preside over dirty streets. Clutching the city's two islands to its icy breast, the river has frozen along its length as far as the western sea. Beyond the city walls, the countryside lies brown and bleak. Mud on mud. Ugly. Detestable. Soaring over Lumielle, this judgment strikes me as a trifle harsh. I am restless this afternoon, which is not uncommon, and spoiling, as men do, for a fight. Which is rather unusual. I pride myself on a benevolent detachment, cultivated at some cost. Unlike mortals,
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whose young "grow up" by abandoning the evidence of their senses to conform to their elders' prejudices, dracs mature in strength and wisdom. Ever more keenly, we recognize the folly that informs our mutual existence, and delight in sharing that knowledge with the deluded creatures. What have humans, with their limited faculties, to teach a drac?
Only consider how I embarked on my wooing of Princess Aurelie. Each flattering word and tender glance led her inescapably to that first kiss, which the dear soul thought was her idea. So credulous, mortals. I enjoyed it, too. Pretty girls, Fees Vertes, the occasional lutine (though not that vulgar Helis)... many have called me an excellent lover. Darling Aurelie will, too.
All proceeds as I intend, so I do not understand the tight sensation along my jaw when she speaks, the desire to snap at her--with teeth--for being the girl she is and not another. What's to choose, between mortals? Brown eyes, brown hair, pleasant manners both, the princess perhaps a trifle prone to flights of valor. The other more sensitive, her speaking voice pleasingly husky, her mind lively. Dear Aurelie is a perfectly decent specimen, and she'll make a delightful wife.
She's not Netta.
That is the crux of the problem. I'd prefer my humans interchangeable. Time has not sanded fine their particularity, as I had expected. Instead, they've lodged under my skin, these girls; they prickle like burrs. It's as though nothing has changed since we frolicked together, two against two. As if to mock me, the wind carries an echo of d
istant laughter, a trace of familiar scent. Shall I make myself
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ridiculous, peering in each windowpane, hoping for a glimpse of one mortal woman's face? Shall I insult Aurelie by asking her to please deliver her replacement?
Not poetic, a sea eagle's scream, but effective.
Far below me, small figures peer skyward. Some hide in doorways, others under trees. In full, glorious voice, I fold my wings and drop from a great height. Horses plunge down the streets; dogs bark. Marching in an open field, a company of raw recruits abandons their weapons and, in some cases, their boots. A timid woman faints against her escort's arm. Faster, faster, a streak of white light with Death's own voice, I swoop toward the river.
More like a phoenix than an eagle, I rise again in majesty. Though the wind blows wet, promising snow, its sluggish breath lifts me. I glide, inhabiting this new shape with my usual ease. Onward I fly from the human city and its conundrums. Busy, busy, busy, the men below fill bags of earth and stack them against the city walls. I leave them to it, following the finger of ice to the marsh at the river's mouth. Just beyond, the ocean surges against a breakwater sheltering several large ships at anchor.
Keen vision, sea eagles. I spy fish swimming in the gray sea. A girl crouches on a ship's deck, polishing brass rails with a rag and powder. Along the shore, men dig trenches in the sand, more fortifications for this war they're all so keen on. Deep in the marsh, a man conceals a small boat under a pile of reeds. Furtive, he peers around (but not up, naturally), then shoulders a knapsack and trudges in the direction of the city.
Oh, hoi Shall I help or hinder him? I follow, contemplating which course of action would provide me with the most entertainment.
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When at last he climbs up the stairs from the river landing, I've decided on the shape of our encounter. This section of the bridge connects the royal palace with the southern half of the city. In the center of the span, a high tower rises to defend the island from the water side. Along the bridge's length, the mad and the destitute huddle against the stone railing. Despite the cold, the bridge teems with holidaymakers. Both the begging and the gaiety strike my ear with a desperate note.
I've assumed the form of an old woman, and I am sitting against the statue of a bronze warrior queen atop a prancing horse. Like the other beggars, I've set a ragged cap before me. Unlike them, I do not importune the passing multitudes. As my chosen victim approaches, I push myself up and stagger as if my legs have stiffened on the cold pavement. The horse rearing on its plinth is poised to kick me in the ear, but the man takes my arm and guides me to safety at the railing.
"Steady now, little mother," he says. "Madame's steed has a fiery eye."
"Thank you," I reply in a croaking voice unlike my usual dulcet tones. In a nearsighted fashion, I aim my spectacles at my benefactor. His barber is a Iutine, apparently. Twists of brown hair and a scrim of stubble obscure a face older and harder than I remember. The gray-green eyes haven't changed: steady, intelligent, reserved.
Garin picks up the cap and shakes it. "Slow morning, eh?" For the first time, he looks me full in the face. His breath hitches, and those perceptive eyes narrow. Folding the cap over the coins, he tucks it into my gloved hand. "Snow coming before dark. Best save this for later."
"You wouldn't have a bite to share with a hungry soul?" I wheedle.
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"All right." He shrugs out of his pack and leans against the bridge railing next to me. A cloth-wrapped bundle yields several smoked fish and a wedge of dry cheese, fie divides the food and pushes the larger share toward me. As he should. He's not forgotten, in barren Skor, how to deal with my kind.
We chew, watching the humans hurry past us: soldiers, students, travelers, all oblivious to the river drac and the Skoeran enjoying a companionable meal in their midst. Street vendors push rattling carts. Children trail after them, pursuing the aromas of hot fruit tarts, spicy soups, roasted chestnuts. 1 would enjoy a sausage but am too polite to complain at the lack.
Garin stows the empty napkin. "Finished?"
"Yes, thank you."
He tips an imaginary cap before hoisting his pack. "A privilege to dine with such a lovely lady."
Hah! The first sarcasm he's permitted himself. In an instant, we're back on our old footing of friendly rivalry. Garin won't watch me with a troubled frown when he thinks my attention is elsewhere. He won't mince words, trying to spare my supposed feelings when I ask him a simple question. I have no desire to kiss him, and am not troubled by my disinterest. It's enormously refreshing. I block his path. "Where are you going?"
fie folds his arms across his chest. "Why, to seek my fortune, madame. Have you a suggestion for me?"
"Absolutely, young sir."
Laugh lines crinkle around his eyes. "Do tell."
"Why not enlist? The army pays decent marksmen a bonus."
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The amusement leaves his face. "No soldiering. My heart isn't in the fight, and I don't think this lot would have me."
He jerks his thumb toward the palace, and I remember that, technically, he's Aurelie's enemy. How piquantl Could he be spying on his old playfellow? The hidden boat does suggest a clandestine entry. "A peacemaker, eh? That limits your prospects in Lumielle, young sir."
"Perhaps we could discuss my employment somewhere else?" He casts an uneasy glance up and down the crowded bridge. "A person of your wisdom and experience, madame, might resolve a few questions for me."
In character, I cackle. "Disappointed in love, are we?"
He shifts under the pack and glowers at his boots. "Not that kind of trouble."
"But it's my specialty! Why, just last evening, I entertained the dearest girl. I'm sure you'd enjoy seeing her, too."
Garin's sullen expression dissolves into a fond smile. "So Netta finally came to Lumielle? I thought she hadn't left Cantrez since the--for a couple of years, now."
"Not her. The other one."
"What?"
On another occasion, I'd savor his astonishment. It's not easy to put Garin out of countenance. But I've smelled a lie--no, not so strong: an evasion. Why would he attempt to mislead his old friend the drac? That incident with the goat dung was so long ago; surely the boy wouldn't have been holding it against me all this while.
Indignation swells too large for an old woman's genteel frame to contain. "Netta never left Cantrez?" I forget my persona, and my voice
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rolls out, too commanding for verisimilitude. A passing goodwife lets out a startled gasp and hurries on.
"We haven't exactly corresponded, with the war, and all," Garin says. Another half truth. His skin exudes unease, sour as old sweat.
"By all means, young man, let us chat in private." I grasp his shoulder. He feels the claws inside the tattered gloves and accompanies me docilely enough down the steps to the river. We make our way along the frozen hank and into a half-ruined building. A door in the far wall opens to my touch. Garin stumbles in the chill darkness, but I'm in no mood to accommodate his deficient vision. Paving gives way to crumbling stairs, another door, this one solid oak, and a rough, unlit passageway that reeks of old stone and older gargouille. I shed the crone form and resume my own shape.
"I assumed the three of you had been called away to the capital, without time for making a proper farewell," I say. "If Netta remained in Cantrez, why did she never visit?"
"You'll have to ask her."
Garin's loyalty is commendable, but inconvenient. My roar thunders in the cavern. "I'm asking YOU."
He is, alas, unimpressed. "Ask the princess, if you're so chummy."
I sense a sore spot and poke at it. "More than chummy. I intend to claim her hand."
"You and Aurelie? Married?" His voice cracks, and then he laughs. The long, relieved sound pursues the fading echoes of my anger. "Oh, very funny, Loic. You've gotten subtler. I fell for it, I admit. Why's she really coming down here?"
"You don't believe me?" My head spins, in a f
igurative sense. I've
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been lured into a web of sticky human lies and must fight my way clear, strand by clutching strand. Beginning with the most salient fact I do not yet possess. "Did something happen to my Netta?"
"She's safe," Garin says.
"How do you know?"
"Aurelie told me in Dorisen."
Truth, but not all of it. Maddening that Garin won't satisfy my reasonable inquiries. I'm concerned for a friend's welfare, and what's my reward? Defiance. A stone, or one of Aurelie's grandmother's blockheaded bleaters, would be more forthcoming. "You'll stay with me until we resolve this with the princess."
"Fine." He sounds impatient. "Try her. When Aurelie clams up, which she will, I'd suggest finding Netta and asking her yourself why she stayed away."
Easy for the mortal to say. Dracs in the prime of their power don't crawl to human girls, crying because they've lost favor. But I will know. The princess will tell me, or Garin. Neither will be permitted to leave tonight's revel until I have assured myself Netta's wellbeing.
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Chapter 19 Aurelie
The dying fire muttered and smoked. Aurelie lay in her bed, staring up at the lively scenes painted on the ceiling. Nymphs cavorted, dragons roared, unicorns flaunted their ivory horns. Her head ached; she had woken from a sound sleep to worry about Garin. Netta assured her he would come, but what if Inglis's men had captured him? Or, almost worse, what if he were free but no longer trusted Aurelie enough to make his way to Lumielle? What if he got caught somewhere between the invading Skoeran ships and Jocondagnan defenders? She could imagine a hundred dreadful scenarios, and few hopeful ones.
She couldn't help feeling she'd failed Netta, too. Once again, her friend had refused to accompany Aurelie to the Fae world. Two years it had taken the blind girl to brave the capital. Would the Fae linger near Lumielle while Netta gathered the courage to visit? She
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