by Laura Kenyon
Griffin was cross-legged on the carpet when she came in, but had his arms around Snow before she even removed her boots.
“How’s Belle?” he asked, the top of his half-bald head glistening.
Snow hugged him tighter. “She’s shaken up.”
Griffin removed his glasses and let out a sigh of disbelief. He was a man of few words, but she never needed them.
“But she’ll be okay.”
He stuffed both hands in his pockets and watched her remove the cropped jean jacket and knee-high boots.
“Did you have any trouble?”
“Not at all,” she said, forgetting all about the wig in her purse. With all the hostility aimed toward them following the rampion incident, she’d decided to ditch her usual organic peasant blouses, slap on some lipstick, and at least try to blend in with the rest of fashion-forward Marestam for a little while. “Belle didn’t even recognize me at first.”
Griffin’s lips drew into a flat line as his focus traced the floor. “I guess that’s what you wanted.”
Snow shrugged and placed her purse on the table. He still disagreed with her theory that it might be better to just fall in line the way society wanted them to. It was a complete reversal, after all, borne of desperation and the sort of deep, maternal loss even a man as sensitive as Griffin could never fully understand. But if wearing high heels and enforcing Angus’s laws and even moving back into Tantalise Castle like “normal” monarchs encouraged their critics to back down … if staying on the path helped fill those cribs after all … it was worth it.
“There’s hot water if you want tea,” Griffin said as she fell into the corner of the sectional and pulled her feet off the floor.
“Thanks dear. I’m okay for now but…” She trailed off and flashed an irrefusable little grin. “Would you mind maybe rubbing my sinuses a little?”
Three seconds later, her head was in his lap and his pudgy fingers were digging heavenly little circles into her temples. She was waiting for the right time to tell him the news, when he forced her hand by mentioning that he’d found a stash of unsmoked rampion in the back of a shoebox while she was gone. “Just, you know, if you needed to take your mind off every—”
She was on her feet before he could even finish his sentence. Was he serious? After everything that vile weed had cost them? “Griff! Are you kidding me? After everything we’ve been through? Do you really think I even want to look at rampion again?”
Griffin fidgeted on the cushion for a minute, then looked at her like a dog caught in a sea of shredded toilet paper.
“I just thought. . .” But he trailed off, not wanting to finish his sentence. Did he really think that since they weren’t going to be parents anymore, they could just toss responsibility to the wind and continue behaving like his glassy-eyed philosophy students?
“Belle’s baby is alive,” she said, too kind to let him suffer for long.
“I know,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You said she was fine. That’s great.”
“No,” Snow said. “He’s alive. He’s breathing air. He’s out of her body. And she doesn’t want anyone to know yet because she doesn’t think it’s safe.”
Griffin opened his mouth and then shut it. “Well, as much as I like to believe in the overall goodness of humanity, she’s probably right.”
Snow nodded but was a little caught off guard. She’d expected a lecture about the dangers of paranoia, and how the loss of trust leads to the breakdown of humanity. “Okay. Good. So she wants us to take care of him until it is. Safe.”
She closed her mouth and watched his face carefully. There was an unusual mixture of shock, disbelief, mortification, fear, and sadness. He pressed his thick hands together and clapped them beneath his chin, as if his head was a lollipop balancing on his two tallest fingers.
“Are you sure you want to do that?” he finally asked.
Snow’s head tilted as she focused on him and tried to process such an unexpected question. “What do you mean? Belle is a dear friend and she needs us. Of course I want to help her. Don’t you?”
Griffin closed his eyes, took a long, deep breath, and expelled it slowly. He was definitely holding stress in his shoulders.
“Of course I want to help her,” he said. “That isn’t even a question. I suppose what I should say is are you sure you’re ready to do that? After everything we’ve been through, are you sure you can handle playing mother to a baby who’ll one day go back to someone else?”
Snow clenched her jaw and tried to visualize something peaceful. She wasn’t angry that he doubted her ability to stay unattached. She was angry that he knew her too well to stay quiet while she made a selfish, irresponsible decision. She was angry that he knew exactly what was going to happen.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “And I’m not going to be playing mother, as you put it. Belle has some magical ring that’ll let her pop in and out as if she’s in the next room. At most, we’re glorified babysitters.”
Griffin searched her eyes as if they were tiny polygraph machines, showing her heart rate spiking every time she lied.
“I’m just looking out for you,” he said, pulling his hands apart and pushing himself up from the couch. “I don’t want to see you get hurt again.”
“I won’t,” Snow said, giving into his hug while making a mental note to buy outlet covers for the baby’s safety. And sterilization bags for his bottles. Oh, and probably a standalone freezer—so they had a place to store a few months’ worth of breast milk. “Promise.”
THE MARESTAM MIRROR
Diamond Ropes and Velvet Cake
By Perrin Hildebrand, King of Gossip
THE sins have been tallied, the violations weighed, and there’s a good chance the King of Braddax will spend the rest of his days behind the thrice-fortified walls of Marestam Central Prison.
Carrying a mandatory minimum sentence of twenty-four and maximum of seventy-five years, Donner’s official indictment (which will be formally read at the arraignment hearing on Tuesday), includes one count of arson; nine counts of third degree assault with a deadly weapon; one count of second degree assault with a deadly weapon; one count of first degree assault on a pregnant person with a deadly weapon; and one count of carrying a weapon without a permit.
Wait, you might ask. What’s with all the weapons? Good eye.
The prosecution can thank the Magical Security Committee for that one. Late yesterday, just hours before the king’s official indictment was released to the press, the newly convened MSC voted to change the legal definition of “weapon” to include magical powers. If this holds up in court, Donner’s unborn child could be crowned King of Riverfell before it even takes its first breath.
Either that … or according to the head of the political science department at Braddax University, the public could depose their current ruler before Belle pops, thus eliminating that monarchy altogether. “It’s a slippery slope if I ever saw one, but this is an unprecedented situation. There’s a reason Marestam is the only constitutional polymonarchy in existence right now—and that’s because it’s an extremely precarious dance. If the people lose so much faith in one monarchy that they want to see it fall, it’s almost guaranteed that the others will follow. Even the most revered among us have skeletons.”
It looks like the people of Braddax could have a very difficult decision to make.
The good news for the blue bloods: Parliament alone can’t vote to depose a sitting monarch. They must put it to the public, as a referendum.
The bad news: Public opinion of the monarchies was at an all-time low in July, when forty-one percent of citizens said they would consider switching to a Parliamentary republic. (Source: UKM Polls) Add to that Donner’s rampage and the growing Monarch Morality Movement and, well, let’s just say I wouldn’t put any money on which of the Charmé kids will inherit the throne in a few decades.
IN ALL the hubbub over the chaos in Braddax, yesterday’s column neglected to mention one
of the most unexpected corporate mergers in the last century. Tirion Enterprises, the billion-dollar international real estate giant founded by Hunter Tirion, King of Regian, has announced a definitive merger agreement with Perdemi-Divan, the world’s second largest producer of alcoholic spirits, beer, and wine.
“The combination of Tirion Enterprises and Perdemi-Divan is a strategic step that unifies two great companies in the entertainment and lifestyle industry,” said Liam Devereaux, CEO of Perdemi-Divan. “Joining forces with Tirion Enterprises marries our established distribution networks with innovative and aggressive global practices to create a whole new, preeminent echelon in the current luxury game.”
What does that mean for us? I have no idea. The impetus was hidden somewhere inside an inch-thick legal document that gave me a migraine five sentences in. But as a shareholder of both companies, I think a champagne fountain in the lobby of every Tirion resort and country club is a good place to start.
Chapter Four
DAWN
At three a.m. in the kingdom of Regian, while most people were either asleep or slumped over a bottle, Dawn was hunched on the bathroom floor, scrubbing the toilet in her bathrobe.
She hadn’t intended to do it. She’d only intended to take a shower in the hopes that it would make her feel better, and that maybe Hunter would come home while she was in there. Maybe she’d see him lounging on the living room couch when she came out, wrapped in her towel. Or maybe—just maybe—he might hear the water, push back the curtain and join her, forgiving everything she’d done without saying a single word.
But then she saw a spot the cleaners had neglected. And instead of a husband and makeup sex, all Dawn had were deep red lines on her knees and six feet of Selladórean guilt on her mind.
“Everything I believed in has come crashing down,” Hunter had said, almost a full day earlier, while leaning limply over the crystalline evidence of her betrayal—love notes and fiber optic petals and part of a turquoise pendant that no longer fit its other half. “You’ve hurt me in a way I never thought possible. I’m going to need time.”
Time. The word played on a constant loop in her head, taking on a different meaning with each iteration. Did he need time to heal? Time to let her stew? Time to call his lawyers and initiate divorce proceedings?
Dawn pumped the sponge too hard and too fast in her fist, as if it was the bulb at the base of a blood pressure cuff and the waiting room was packed. Yellow soap bubbles fizzed out the cracks between her fingers, bubbled over her wedding ring, and slid into the suede cuffs on her sleeves. The soft pink fabric resisted for a moment but then embraced its dark side with a ravenous thirst, bleeding into a wild shade of red that would probably dry with permanent water spots.
It was amazing how quickly something so pristine and delicate could tarnish.
Not that she was ever pristine. Dawn had always excelled at hiding her misery behind obligatory smiles and lace appliqué. For years, life with Hunter had been all about ribbon-cuttings and press conferences and compulsory fornication. It had been about him correcting her poor use of the modern vernacular and gobbling up every piece of land he could find for his behemoth real estate empire. For years, Dawn’s only joys came in the form of snuggles with her children, drinks with her friends, and long, solitary walks in the moonlight while the rest of the kingdom slept.
Even now, she couldn’t completely regret her time with Davin (or Liam, as the rest of the world knew him) because it made her realize how much of the past she’d fabricated—how much of it she’d drowned with a golden but artificial light that left the present in shadow. She might have always longed for the notion of Davin Lima, even after Hunter turned his new leaf. Even after he revealed that his goal had never been to accrue all the money and power he could, but to build something he could use to reclaim Dawn’s homeland, to reclaim Selladóre from the government that stole it.
Dawn leaned back to survey the claw foot tub Hunter had installed as a wedding gift—a whopping ten days after they’d met. At the time, he thought it would be more welcoming to an eighteenth century teenager than his chrome shower with the tinted glass and double waterfall spouts. Dawn had told him that she appreciated the gesture, but still insisted on surrounding the tub with a thick lace curtain and opaque underlay nonetheless. Where she came from, a diamond ring was no excuse for advertising one’s flesh like a liquidation sale. She’d thought the curtain would let her keep some sense of privacy in her marriage to a complete stranger. Now, as she bent down to scrub beneath the rim, she realized she’d accomplished that just fine on her own.
Dawn’s hand froze as she heard something ping in the kitchen. She let the sponge go and stretched her ears. Hunter had been gone for a full twenty hours now, not including his thirty-second return after the kids’ bedtime, when he’d zipped in like a toy on a plastic track, grabbed his wallet and a fresh sports coat, and disappeared again. His only words, “don’t wait up,” would have been cliché if they were directed at anyone else. But considering his wife’s condition—that is, her inability to sleep after being comatose for three centuries—Dawn really couldn’t do anything but wait up.
One minute passed, then two, before she accepted that the pinging sound had probably been the refrigerator replacing the ice she’d taken for her vodka.
After their confrontation, all Dawn wanted to do was cry, scream, and guzzle vermouth until all the shame turned fuzzy and the fuzziness faded to black. She’d even considered swallowing seven boxes of sleeping pills—remnants of a night she wanted to forget—to see if they had any effect. She wondered, if she could just slip back into that coma, would Hunter forget all the horrible things she’d done? Would he kiss her back to life again and start over—if his kiss was even what broke her curse in the first place?
If it wasn’t for her children, she’d have nothing to lose in trying. But in addition to being a selfish, cheating wife, she was also responsible for two amazing little humans. She needed to keep it together to greet Morning when she came home from her sleepover, and to treat Day’s bloody elbows when he returned from his. She had to lie through an excruciating smile when they asked where Daddy was. She had to make sure they felt safe, secure, and loved. And she had to accept that if they didn’t feel this way, it was entirely her fault.
Another ping rang out. Louder this time. The front door clicked shut.
Dawn sprung off the floor immediately, her knees taking the grooves between the tiles with them. With that one sound, all of the questions she’d had seconds earlier—where had he been? who was he with? did he still love her?—scattered off screen.
Her feet came to an abrupt halt the moment she clapped eyes on him, but the rest of her body kept trying to lunge forward. “You’re back,” she chirped, arms still swinging.
Hunter was standing beside the fridge, catching cold, filtered water in a glass. She thought she might have seen his head nod about half an inch. It was a start.
“I was just cleaning the bathroom.”
Another nod? Maybe a full inch this time?
“How was your walk?” she asked, edging forward. “Have you eaten? I can make you something if you want.”
This time Dawn was positive she saw his head move, but it was a cringe at the suggestion of her cooking. Unlike Belle, who made desserts worthy of an expo, or Cinderella, who’d puréed her own baby food for all four of her kids, Dawn could barely broil a grilled cheese without setting off the smoke alarm.
Hunter gulped down the water and pushed it back for a refill. Dawn decided to try again.
“The kids were asking for you,” she said.
Bingo. Hunter pivoted and panned slowly from her bare feet all the way up to her bright red flyaways—though he somehow avoided catching her eyes.
“What did you tell them?” he asked, turning a blank stare to the water glass.
She parted her lips to reply, but his accusatory inflection tripped her up. Did he really think she’d badmouth him to their children?
“I just told them you were working,” she said, feeling two inches tall. “It wasn’t really a lie because if I had to guess where you actually were, that’s how my money would go.”
Had Dawn’s eyes not been glued to him, she might have missed the right side of his mouth rise a fraction of an inch for a split second.
“Where you’d put your money,” he corrected, placing his glass on the counter.
“Right.” Dawn nodded, for once welcoming his critique. But he’d neither denied nor confirmed her theory on his whereabouts. What if he hadn’t been working? What if he’d spent the past twenty-four hours seeking comfort from another woman? What if he’d hiked over to Davin’s mansion and socked him in the jaw? What if he’d gone to Angus Kane and tried to cancel the merger with Perdemi-Divan even though it meant losing Selladóre? She knew better than to push him right now, but—
“So you were working, then?” Her voice was small, desperate. She felt like a child asking why Mama didn’t kiss Daddy goodbye anymore.
Hunter responded by unbuttoning the top of his shirt and moving toward the bedroom. He must have stopped by a clothing store. Dawn was almost certain he was wearing a quarter-zip sweater when he left that morning, and she didn’t recall him changing when he returned to grab his keys. For some reason, she found this reassuring. Retail therapy was better than someone else’s bed.
“I’m tired,” he said, maneuvering around the couch. “Gonna hit the hay.” He glanced back at her—just for a second—and added, “That means go to sleep.”
Dawn’s heart skipped a beat. Was he joking with her? Was that an olive branch?
“I know what it means,” she said, trying to tease back with a know-it-all tone.
But instead of continuing the banter, Hunter scowled and sucked his right cheek inward. “Whatever,” he said in a tone she knew all too well. “Just trying to help. No need to get snappy.”
Dawn opened her mouth to explain, but knew he’d just see it as being combative. She was in a hole now, and if she didn’t carefully plot out every move, it would cave in around her. She balled her fists and took a slow, calming breath before following.