Grim

by Anna Waggener

  By the end of the half hour, it became common knowledge that His Magnificence was either in the orchard, the courtyard, or the hall, wearing red, or perhaps gray or dark blue, and a matching, or contrasting, mask that definitely covered his eyes and may or may not have been made of velvet. At a pause in the dance, a young noble came to whisper, with poise, that the servants were rushing blankets up the stairs and that His Magnificence might well be dying. Gabriel thanked him and led Erika away from the floor.

  “How can you listen to all that without worrying?” she asked.

  “Because,” Gabriel said, “His Magnificence the Throne is in a black waistcoat near the door with a glass of champagne.”

  Erika smiled. “And what color is his mask?”

  “His mask?” Gabriel shook his head. “No different than usual.”

  Jegud came up behind them. “You’ve taken my guest,” he said.

  “And you, your time,” said Gabriel.

  Jegud smiled. “I thought you might appreciate the company.”

  “I did,” Gabriel replied. “You wouldn’t know how much I did. This has been the first time I’ve ever entertained a beautiful woman without considerable implications.” He bowed to Erika. “I would say good night, but I expect to see you later. I hope that you’re radiant for my father, and lovely to him. For Jeremiah’s soul, your well-being, and my crown.” He kissed her hand. “No pressure.”

  “Never.”

  Jegud led Erika outside as quickly as he could. “Not too much trouble, I hope?” he asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Good, good,” he said without looking at her. “You told him about Jeremiah, then?”

  He had meant for it to prick, not cut, but when Erika stopped in her tracks, halfway to the door, he realized that he’d gone too far.

  “He knew,” Erika hissed. “How could you think that I would tell him anything? How dare you think that?”

  “You’re making a scene.”

  “Don’t tell me what I’m making.”

  “Erika.” Jegud took a few steps back down to her side and pretended to fix the tie of her mask. “I know that you’re falling in love with Jeremiah,” he said. He didn’t mention his suspicions of Jeremiah’s own feelings. It would be too much for Erika right now. It was too much even for him.

  “I never —”

  Jegud shook his head. “You can’t allow it,” he told her. “You’re here to catch his father. My father.” He tipped up her chin and looked past her mask, into the cool green of her eyes. “And I’m here to make sure that happens. Do you understand?”

  “But I —”

  “Yes or no, Erika? Because if you can’t do this, I’ll know why. I might be the only one in this entire room who would know why. And if you can’t do this, then I need to know right now, before I walk you up these stairs and introduce you to my father. I won’t say that he’ll save your children, because I’m not sure that he can. I won’t even say that he’ll save Jeremiah. Knowing that, and knowing everything else, are you ready to listen to me?”

  She opened her mouth and he shook his head again.

  “I want to help you,” he said. “But if you won’t let me — if you won’t follow me in lockstep — then this room full of piranhas will eat you up without even thinking about it. It’s just a game to them, Erika, and I need to know exactly what you’ll risk in order to play.”

  Erika stood frozen, her jaw stiff as she puzzled through silent thought and half-formed sentences. At last, she brushed them all off with a jerky nod.

  “I’ll play,” she said. “I’ll play everything.”

  “Even yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even Jeremiah?”

  She bit her lip.

  “Yes.”

  “Then we can go.” Jegud took her hand and led her past a group of chattering women. The front doors appeared before the couple like holy gates. Erika softened at the cool air that drifted in.

  “Are you ready?” Jegud whispered. She only nodded.

  The king stood in the courtyard, wearing neither hat nor mask, and sipping a flute of champagne. Beside him stood one of the few people who knew him well enough to recognize his face.

  “I don’t think that you’ve yet met my brother Michael,” Jegud said gently, and propelled Erika a few steps ahead of him.

  She was a peace offering, and he felt better for knowing that she understood. In the eyes of the court, she was nothing more than a beautiful, empty olive branch.

  The king was a man softened by age. The skin of his eyes was lightly swollen, likely helped along by liquor. Time had left notes across his body, the years scribbling their due into each wrinkle, leaving hollow thanks in every brown sunspot and every risen vein of his hands, writing damages into the silver-gray of his hair. He was more grandfather than king of the dead, and in one sweeping glance, Erika fell to feeling very sorry for him. He had held on to his perfect posture, but youth was no longer there to support it. The king did not seem to be a very happy man.

  “Jegud?” His eyebrows rose as he took in his son. “I wasn’t expecting you to come.”

  “I know my duty, Father,” Jegud replied with a bow. Beside him, Erika dipped in a low curtsey.

  Michael cleared his throat. “I should hope you would.”

  The challenge that flashed between the two brothers either went unnoticed or unacknowledged by their father.

  “I should always hope that everyone would know their duty,” he said.

  The silence went on painfully. Erika was trapped between the two scowling princes.

  “Your palace is beautiful, Highness,” she said, praying that was neutral enough.

  Michael shot her an acidic look. “Is that what you’re after?”

  “I didn’t —”

  “Your grand entrance is being missed, Father,” Jegud cut in.

  “Is it?” The king smiled. “Well, the people will always pine for what they do not have. I don’t much care to put myself on show. There at least you and I are not so different.”

  Michael kept his face expressionless and folded his hands behind his back. “Tell me, Brother,” he said, “where would one go to find such a delightful girl?”

  “Not as far as you would think. Erika is one of ours.”

  “Well, I would hope you wouldn’t involve the Low Kingdom,” Michael said dryly.

  “No, Brother. I mean that she is one of our charges.”

  Erika felt Michael’s eyes running over her again, and nearly shivered.

  “Isn’t that a little inappropriate?” he said quietly.

  “Not at all,” Jegud said. “The council has always held that the people are equal to the throne. Isn’t that right, Father?”

  “Certainly,” the king replied, but he was looking off in the direction of the lake. “Our lights are fading,” he said. “Should we add more?”

  “That is an excellent idea, Father,” Michael answered.

  The king held on to that same distracted but reasonable tone. “I was asking Jegud.”

  “I don’t see how it would hurt,” Jegud said slowly.

  “See?” A wistful smile broke the king’s face, but his eyes lingered on the faraway lake. “We can all agree on something.”

  Jegud, looking concerned, turned to his brother. Michael only frowned at him and glanced back at the manor.

  “I’ll go see about the lights, shall I?” Jegud asked.

  “That would be good of you,” the king murmured, as if to himself. “And thank you for coming, Son. I should have known. After all, you’ve always done as you were asked.”

  “I do try.”

  “Mm.”

  Jegud bowed to his father and threw a careless half bow at his brother, before taking Erika by the arm and rushing her away.

  “Father’s fine,” he whispered to her. “I promise.”

  “He didn’t even look at me.”

  Jegud pursed his lips, worried. “I know,” he said.

  “Boo.
”

  Jeremiah popped his head into the space between Jegud and Erika and draped his arms over their shoulders.

  “And how did the introductions go?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Jegud admitted.

  “Don’t lie, Jegud,” said Erika. “He overlooked me.”

  “He was dumbstruck,” Jeremiah said.

  “He was more struck by the lake than by me,” she said. “I tried, Jeremiah. I swear I did. I’m sorry.”

  Jeremiah took off his mask and ran the cuff of his sleeve over his forehead. A gurgle of laughter rippled from the building, followed by scattered applause.

  “Never fear,” he told Erika, but his tone had lost the cheerful lilt. “Magic will prevail.”

  “And if it doesn’t?” she asked.

  “Then I’ll no longer believe in miracles.”

  When the angel came, the children were asleep.

  It brought no slow creep of brilliance — just a blast of cold, white light that drained the color from their skin, like a flash-bulb overexposing film. It made all of the forest look dark.

  They woke at the same time, and their hands and arms went up to shield themselves from the supernova. When they squinted, they could just make out a slim figure in the mist. Then, as it raised its arms, they saw each pointed finger, and when it tipped its head, they saw the gently sloping nose. Its yellow-white robes were cinched at the waist, the pleated shadows running in long sunsets of copper and rust.

  It held out a hand and let the long chain of a necklace slip through its fingers, catching against its thumb with a jerk. The children crept forward, afraid and in awe, and saw a smudge of olive through the light. An emerald birthstone. They thought of Christmas two years ago, and the blush on their mother’s face. They thought of how she’d clipped it around her neck, and fluffed out her hair, looking so much younger. Looking so much happier. They thought of how she swore to never take it off.

  “Are you quite all right, Father?”

  The king shook off his reverie.

  “Yes, of course,” he said. “I’m sorry. I was only … But it doesn’t matter. What did your brother call that young lady?”

  Michael shrugged. “Erika, I think. I could ask Uriel for you. It’s his girl.”

  “Oh? But I thought —”

  “Uri asked Jegud to amuse her while he handled some business. You know how dedicated Uri is to the council.”

  “Of course.”

  “Why, Father,” Michael began, stifling a laugh, “you didn’t actually think that Jegud would find a consort for you? He hasn’t done anything but blunder away his life since Mother died.”

  The king blinked, and a sharpness that had not been there before slipped into his eyes. “Your mother is not the one who died, Michael,” he said. “I have not quite forgotten everything yet.”

  “I’m sorry, Father,” Michael stammered. “I didn’t mean —”

  “You don’t mean to do much at all anymore, do you? Or so you say, but that’s not really the case, is it?”

  His son paled. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Father.”

  “Come. You know very well what I’m talking about. We can both see that. And there is no need to call me Father at every opportunity. I’ve not forgotten who I am, at least, and I can’t imagine the uproar to follow if we tried to renounce you as well as Jeremiah. That certainly wouldn’t be worth it.”

  “I …”

  The king handed his empty glass to a passing servant and took the path that ran down to the lake, leaving Michael dumbstruck behind him.

  But the spell did not last more than a few minutes. Somewhere, a roulette pistol was being loaded.

  The angel held its glowing hand out to Megan. She drew forward slowly, hesitantly, but there was so much patience in the moment that her doubt did not at all matter. It waited without moving, palm open with a pillow of the clearest light she had ever seen. It saw through her. Saw her fear. Saw her mind. It understood. It could wait. It had all the time in the world.

  “I’m sorry, Brother. I hadn’t heard that you were coming!”

  The cry sliced open the night. Uriel stood at the top of the terrace, arms open, backlit by the manor. He took a few swaggering steps forward.

  “In fact, Jeremiah,” he went on, “I was under the impression that you hadn’t even been invited.”

  Jegud covered his eyes, guarding the flash of pain that shot through them. Jeremiah, meanwhile, made motions to replace his mask, before realizing that it no longer mattered.

  Instead, he straightened up, hat and mask in hand, and forced an amiable smile.

  “Good evening, Uri,” he called. “It’s been too long.”

  “Not so long,” Uriel replied. “Did you appreciate the letter?”

  “An engaging read.”

  “Eternally optimistic.” Uriel smiled. “But then I guess that you couldn’t survive, otherwise. Jegud and I were just discussing it: That safe spot is always around the next corner, isn’t it, Jeremiah? That escape hatch is always over the next hill. But what happens when the road runs flat? Does your mother’s magical luck disappear for good?”

  Protected by the folds of Erika’s dress, Jeremiah’s hand felt for hers.

  “Now isn’t the time, Uriel.” The gathering crowd turned to Michael, who stood in the courtyard alone. “You’ve been drinking.”

  “But that makes it all the sweeter,” Uriel said. “Your problem, dear Michael, is that you never do know the time. It’s after midnight now, and the day is already warming somewhere just below the horizon. It’s always been your intention to meet the sun, hasn’t it? And yet you always let the moment pass. Why not tonight, then? I think the dogs are ready for a little run, don’t you?”

  Jeremiah bolted, dragging Erika by the wrist. A courtier had arrived late, and was stepping from a dark, little calash. Jeremiah shoved Erika inside and leaped into the driver’s box, snatching up the whip and reins. The stallion leaped forward with a jolt, and they were off.

  Wind lashed at the fabric hood and sung along the lines of each slender wooden spoke. It wasn’t long before the howls of Gabriel’s hounds rolled down the drive, so painfully, fatally close. A staccato crack, crack, crack of the whip punctuated the screams of passing guests as Jeremiah tried to break the stallion from its panic. They were at a full gallop, and Jeremiah could see the horse struggling against the harness.

  He saw the line of the gates ahead. The guards were panicked, torn between safety and duty, and Jeremiah felt the familiar rush of stolen freedom, sweet and heady, rising in his chest. Crack. Crack. Crack. And then his eyes widened when the gates, slowly, inevitably, began to swing shut. Crack! Crack! Crack! He felt blood from the horse’s shoulders spatter his face. They could make it. They had to make it.

  The gates clattered shut with a sound that trembled in Jeremiah’s veins and made his heart skip. He dragged hard against the reins. The stallion reared, frantic. It was too late. Jeremiah leaped from the driver’s seat before they hit the ground. He tumbled, skin scraping gravel, to the side of the drive.

  The lead dogs slammed him down with their wide, sandpaper paws. Together, they lowered their muzzles and panted against the soft line of his neck.

  Uriel jumped down from the box of Gabriel’s carriage. Jeremiah could hear him crunching down the road with measured steps, taking his time. When Uriel reached the head of the line, he knelt down beside one of the dogs and tucked his fingers into its silver coat.

  “Pinned,” he said. “I could kill you.” He sounded reasonable. Affable, even.

  Hot saliva dripped onto Jeremiah’s throat.

  “Let him go.” The king materialized from the direction of the lake with a paper lantern cradled in his hands.

  Uriel’s eyes never left his brother.

  “It wouldn’t take much,” he whispered.

  Another carriage trundled up, with Michael and Gabriel side by side on the driver’s bench.

  “Let him go,” the king repeated i
n an undertone.

  A crowd began to swell, but Uriel kept watching a limp and haggard Jeremiah, and the king kept watching them both.

  A line of flushed cheeks filled the distance from gates to manor as every courtier, masked and beautiful, rushed down to see the dead bastard brother. Rumors flew down the road. There was a duel. There was a bloodbath. There was an arrest.

  The assembly that made it to the gates found a different story altogether.

  At the gates, the hush fell thick and heavy.

  At the gates, there reigned a morbid, dignified horror.

  At the gates, no one moved.

  The seconds stretched on, and as the crowd grew, the tension mounted. The outcome, whatever the outcome, would be on every lip come morning.

  “He’s still your brother,” Gabriel said at last, in the same soft voice his father had used.

  “By half,” Michael whispered beside him. Gabriel looked at him, surprised, and saw that his brother’s eyes were bright, and that he leaned ever so slightly forward.

  “He lost,” Uriel shouted. All the attention snapped back to him. “What due have we been taught to pay losers, Gabriel?” When he received no answer, Uriel closed his eyes, let himself unravel into vapor, and faded away.

  Gabriel clicked his tongue at the dogs. As they drew back, the horses began to shift restlessly.

  “Go home, Jeremiah,” Gabriel said. “Sign the council’s order and renounce yourself. I promise you asylum in my court.”

  Jeremiah got to his feet and brushed himself off. He helped Erika out of the overturned calash and gave a parting bow, first to his father and then to his eldest brother.

  “Thank you for your promise, Gabriel,” he said. “But it was never your court I doubted.”

  Gabriel looked at his father, whose hands and chest were still lit by the flickering lantern.

  The king’s gaze traveled across his line of sons: Jeremiah, Gabriel, Michael. Then he turned and walked away, an orb bobbing slowly in the dark. By the time Gabriel looked back at the carriage, the cast-iron gates were standing open and both his brother and the girl had faded into shadow.