My arm has lost all feeling, the numbness crawling toward my
chest, toward my spinning clock heart. The Land of Promise comes
into view. I dive, spiraling faster, picking up speed as I drop. My spirit pitches through the roof of the chateau and lands in my bedchamber.
My body kneels on the floor nearby, eyes closed. I drag my spirit
across the carpet and roll over into myself. Gasping awake, I clutch my wounded arm and fall onto my side. My spirit brought the injury into my body. My arm bleeds, the flesh around the bite gray from decay.
The door flies open, and someone rushes in. Only when they bend
over me do I see it’s Asmer. But she is not a she. The commander no
longer has a womanly body. All except her feminine face and long red hair is shaped like a man. She has a boxy upper body that tapers down to a square waist and a flatter chest and bottom.
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Asmer leans over me and inspects my wound. “What did this?”
“Cythrawl,” I wheeze.
She grabs the clumpy paste the surgeon used on my side off the
bedside table and smears a handful over my bleeding arm. A warm,
tingling sensation chases away the numbness and returns feeling. In
seconds, the wound begins to close, and color returns to my skin.
Asmer sits back on her heels. “Not many souls survive an encounter
with the cythrawl, especially not twice.”
“I wish I felt lucky. How did you know I was injured?”
“I was with Her Majesty, and I felt a threat breach the protective
enchantment over the chateau. I must have sensed the cythrawl’s poison in you.” Asmer lifts me to my feet and helps me lie down on the bed.
Her female face on the male body feels less surprising the longer I look at her. “Would you like me to fetch Lord Callahan?”
“Let him rest. The salve is working.”
“You shouldn’t be alone tonight. The salve will take full effect by
morning, then you should be out of danger of the venom reaching
your heart.”
I collapse into the pillows. “Send Osric. He’ll come.”
Asmer pulls the blankets up to my chin. “You must wonder why I
look this way.”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“It isn’t a secret. I was born male. That’s who others saw, but that’s not what’s in my heart. Every morning when I wake up, I glamour
myself. The charm wears off in the late hours of the evening.” Asmer picks at a hangnail with rapt intensity. “As a human, you must think I’m strange.”
“I think you should look however makes you happy.” I glance down
at myself. “I would glamour my clock heart if I could.”
Asmer waves her hand over the front of me. “Like this?”
I pull aside the top of my shirt to reveal smooth, bare skin. My
scar in the middle of my chest and my ticker are gone. Though I can
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still hear the timepiece ticking, tears of astonishment sting my eyes. I have not seen myself whole in so long I didn’t think such a thing was possible.
“The glamour won’t last long, but it feels good to look how you feel inside, doesn’t it?” asks Asmer.
“It’s remarkable. Thank you.”
She steps back from the bed. “I’ll send for Osric. Try to rest.”
The commander goes, and I wipe at my tears. Markham’s stains
have been on me for so long I have forgotten what it’s like to look at myself and not see him. To only see me.
Osric hurries into the room. His shirt is untucked and his hair
mussed, as though he was woken from a deep sleep. “Asmer told me
what happened. Evie, why would you do something so dangerous?”
I pull the blanket up to my chin. “I didn’t mean to meet the cyth-
rawl. I went to the Everwoods first, then I got scared. I walked to the end of my timeline to see my future.”
Osric’s eyes grow wide as he sits beside me. “And?”
“It was awful.” I sniffle back my tears and sag against him. “What’s the point of Markham’s trial if he’s bound to win?”
“Is that what you saw?”
“No, but his freedom was implied.”
Osric rests his head against the headboard. “So that’s it, then. The prince wins and we lose. Our fate is doomed.”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. The Evermore timeline showed me some-
thing I’d never seen before, something Father Time has never men-
tioned. How could the timeline be wrong?” Osric lapses into silence
and drapes his arm over my shoulder. I lean against him and notice tiny lines around his eyes. More wrinkles? I sit up to look at him closer. “I haven’t seen you eat a charm apple or drink cider since we’ve been here.”
“I quit.” He drops his chin shyly. “I was waiting for you to notice.”
“Osric, that’s grand!”
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“Do you think so?” He turns his head from side to side to show me
his profile. “Am I aging gracefully?”
“You’re still unbelievably handsome, if that’s what you mean. How
did you quit? I thought you were depending on the charm apples to
heal more quickly.”
“I came home to replenish my supply, then thought about what you
said and decided to let myself grow older. I’ve lived hundreds of years, and I’m proud of my age and wisdom. Asmer gave me cleansing tablets
to ease my thirst if I have any cravings for another apple. Being home helps as well. Every creature who visits the Land of Promise reaps the rewards of its mighty creation power. I know you have a negative view of the humans working for elves, but many of your kind came to live
here willingly to ease their ailments and illnesses.”
“This place is a wonder,” I admit. My clock heart turns smoother
here, seamlessly moving time. “I’m proud of you for coming home,
Osric.”
“I’ll find out tomorrow if it was the right choice.” His tone turns
apprehensive. “My parents will be at the trial.”
“They will be glad to see you. You’re their son.” Markham’s com-
ment about living up to the memory of his father returns to my mind.
Added to the queen’s grudge against her brother, I’m still confused.
“Why is Imelda upset with Killian for leaving? I thought she would be angrier about the other things he’s done.”
“You should ask her,” Osric replies. “Imelda rides every morning.
Meet her at the stables at dawn.”
“I don’t think she likes me very much.”
“Imelda doesn’t like anyone, except maybe Asmer.”
I consider not saying anything, but Osric may already know.
“Asmer told me she was born male.”
“She has always been female at heart. The glamour charm reveals
her true self.” Osric shoves a pillow under my sore arm to prop it up, 166
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and I smell an unfamiliar cologne on him. Either he’s wearing a new
scent or the cologne isn’t his.
“I saw you speaking to Dalyor,” I say, watching his nonreaction
from the corner of my eye. “Where did you two go?”
“I went to his practice. Dalyor sings tenor in the royal choir. We
met there long ago when I was a member as well. He asked me to come
along for old time’s sake.”
I was expecting something more scandalous, a passionate tryst in
a garden shed perhaps. “It’s sweet that you went to listen to him sing.”
“My father was the royal mins
trel for years, then he was promoted
to royal choir conductor. I thought he might be there, but he retired while I was away.”
“You must have inherited his talent for music. Why haven’t I ever
heard you sing?”
Osric nudges his foot against mine. “Do you use all your talents?”
He means his question lightly, but I respond in earnest. “As a lass, I wanted to explore the high seas like my father. But I love carving wood and creating things. I hoped to become a clockmaker like my uncle.”
“Hoped? Evie, you can still dream.”
“I cannot think beyond tomorrow.”
“We must, or what’s the point in fighting the prince?” Osric kisses
the top of my head and pulls away. “Get some rest.”
He takes a quilt and pillow over to the sofa. I adjust my bedcover
and notice my ugly chest scar and clock heart are back again. Asmer’s glamour has worn off, and the wound on my arm looks terrible. The
salve is healing the bite mark, but the attack is still fresh in my mind.
“Osric?” I whisper. “Would you mind sleeping beside me?”
“If that will help you rest.” He settles next to me and starts to turn down the lamp. I stiffen at the loss of light. He leaves the lamp shining dimly and opens his arm to me. I fit myself against his side and try to fall asleep, but my dread holds me awake.
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Osric begins to sing softly in his native tongue. His rich tenor eases into me, soothing away my concerns about the morrow. I shut my
eyes, exhaustion pulling me down into sleepiness, and his gentle music sweeps me away.
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Chapter Eighteen
Queen Imelda’s head snaps around as I enter the stables. “Everley, you’re up early. I hope you slept well.”
“I did, thank you, Your Majesty. May I join you on your ride?”
She hesitates, then bats a flippant hand. “If you wish. My stable
hands will prepare you a horse. My mare Berceuse is tolerant of new
riders.”
Two spriggans teeter on their ropy legs to a stall—they’re the stable hands? The long-faced, twiglike creatures are less intimidating when they aren’t trying to trip me, but I still dislike them. The spriggans lead a white mare out of her stall. I blink fast, not believing what I’m seeing.
Berceuse has an ashen diamond between her eyes, the same as the mare I was riding in my vision of the battlefield.
“Is something the matter?” asks the queen.
“No, no. She’s a pretty mare.”
“Meet me in the warm-up yard.” Queen Imelda mounts her gray-
speckled stallion and rides out of the stables.
My nerves jitter as the spriggans saddle the mare. I brush the dia-
mond on her nose. So, the horse is real? This doesn’t mean the battle I saw is imminent.
I launch into the saddle. All that’s left of the cythrawl’s bite is a bruise, but my arm is still sore. Taking up the reins, I ride Berceuse into the yard where the queen’s stallion is walking laps. Another spriggan
Emily R. King
opens the gate, and my horse and I saunter out into the vineyard. The field hands are arriving for work, trolls and elves in sun hats and loose clothing. They touch each tree and bid it good morning.
“What are they doing?” I ask.
“These olive trees have been here for generations. They were planted around the vineyards as protection for the fragile grapevines. Some of them are a thousand years old. They greet them out of respect for their longevity.”
Our horses trample over fallen grapes. The food has been left on the ground to spoil, something I rarely see in my world. Too many people would starve with such waste. “You could feed a lot of mouths with the fruit on the ground.”
“We don’t have enough hands to pick our vines clean,” replies the
queen. “In the days when we had human laborers, these vineyards and
orchards were pristine. Now, whatever our field hands cannot get to
falls off to rot.” Imelda exhales swiftly, expelling all discussion of their crops. “You and Berceuse are well suited for one another. You’ve ridden before?”
“My father and older brothers taught me.”
“I taught Killian how to ride. Along this trail, in fact.” The queen ducks her head as she leads us between heavy-laden apple trees. “The first day we rode, he loved the freedom. He begged me not to go back.
We had lessons and music practice yet to do, but we stayed out almost the whole day. My father was furious with us for wandering about
unsupervised. As the oldest child and his heir, I was to blame. He took away my piano privileges for a year.”
“A year?”
“I understand that’s a long time for a human, but for elves, it’s a fair punishment to deliver upon a disobedient child.” Queen Imelda’s voice softens. “Taking away my piano lessons was the same as taking away
my favorite toy. Killian would play his violin close by me so I wouldn’t 170
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miss my music as much. Our impromptu riding excursion is still the
freest day I’ve had.”
I shift in my saddle, her story about her and her brother sitting
uneasily with me.
The vineyard ends, and we set down a wider dirt path. More day-
light expands our view of the region to reveal crisp mountains lit with hazy morning light. Queen Imelda and I ride side by side through
peach trees.
“Markham mentioned your parents to me,” I say. “What happened
to them?”
Her face falls, her tone dull. “Our parents, like many elderly elves, lost hold of their minds. After countless decades of living, an elf’s memory often declines and our minds erode. It’s a long, difficult, demoral-izing death. Forgetting your family, not remembering your own name.
Mother showed signs first, then Father. I had my duties as queen, so Killian cared for them. He was with Mother and Father so often it was as though I’d lost all three of them.” Her lips turn downward. “Killian still has a loyal following. He’s revered for his devotion to our parents and his musical talent.”
I’ve never seen or heard Markham play any instrument, not even a
single note on a pianoforte. “What did he play?”
“Everything. He’s an exceptional musician, the greatest of his time.
No instrument is beyond his skill, but his favorite to listen to and play is the violin.” The queen’s voice thickens with begrudging admiration or prideful jealousy. Maybe both. “Music is very important to elves.
We rely on musicians, minstrels, choirs, and operas to tell our stories.
We rejoice, mourn, teach, and worship through music. Killian made
his audiences’ souls sing with the call of life. In the eyes of our people, he could do no wrong.”
“I’m sure your people revere you as well. You’ve been their ruler a
long while.”
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“I made a misstep that they haven’t forgiven me for. One of the
disadvantages of living a long life is having more time to hold a grudge.”
“May I ask what it was, Your Majesty?”
Imelda pulls back on her reins, stopping her horse. “Show me your
clock heart, and I’ll tell you.”
“Pardon me?”
“I’ve a curiosity for your curiosity. So I will share my most private secret if you do the same for me.”
I stop my horse and slowly undo my shirt buttons. I reveal my
chest scar first and then pull aside the cloth to show her my ticker.
“Killian gave me the one in the middle, which is why I need the clock for a heart.”
“Impressive, Everley. Your resiliency is uncommon for a human.”
Imelda star
ts off on her mare again, leading me toward the outside of the orchard. “Now, for my secret. One day, when Killian and I were in our early adolescence, we snuck out at night to pick charm apples. The section of the orchard that grows them is under guard all day and night to deter thieves. We planned to draw the guard away by setting a small fire to the branches the gardener had trimmed off the olive trees and set in a burn pile. I lit the flame, and the guard came running. Killian and I took off for the orchard and stuffed our pockets ful of the apples.
Neither of us ate them, but their seeds always fascinated Killian. He would cut them out and store them in a vial he kept in his pocket. He liked carrying the potent creation power, ‘like a god’ he would say. We were returning to the chateau when we heard the shouts and saw the
flames. The fire had jumped from the burn pile to the grass and spread to the olive trees. Three of our oldest, most precious trees perished.”
Imelda stops before a wide gap in the line of olive trees. “Killian and I were found missing from our beds and pulled into our father’s study for questioning. Killian had the idea to set the fire as a distraction, but I was the one who lit the flame. The blame of our escapade fell entirely on me. I was the heir, and future rulers are not allowed to make such 172
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reckless mistakes. The world heard about the terrible loss. Our people have thought less of me since.”
“And your brother?”
“Killian’s guilt was soon forgotten.” Imelda sets our horses into a
walk again, away from the olive trees. “My brother has done terrible things, and I take responsibility for what he’s become. He’s my kin.”
“What will you do with Nightingale?”
“Destroy it. The elven council of justices won’t allow me to touch
the instrument yet, as it’s evidence for the trial, but the threat must be eliminated.”
I would think twice before destroying the heartwood of an elder-
wood tree, but such a decision is for a queen to make, I suppose. “What do you plan to do with Harlow?”
“Miss Glaspey refused to answer questions about Killian. As his
accomplice, her punishment could range from expulsion to execution.
The decision depends on his proven guilt.” We ride in silence toward the training yard. The queen pulls in front of me, blocking my way to the gate. “I won’t relish this trial. Killian is my blood, but that won’t prevent me from inflicting the punishment he deserves.”
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