First Light (Forever After Series)

by Michele Paige Holmes

  “Not likely,” Maggie said with a weary sigh. “Rose is right. Ain’t no use trying to change things. But before…” Her eyes grew misty. “Once, I might’ve been a seamstress in the castle— I’m good with thread, ye know. Or, I mighta left this place altogether— mighta got me a man and some brats of my own.”

  “If you want to marry, why not find someone who lives here?” I suggested. “There are plenty of men— the soldiers and guards, those who work in the stables.”

  Especially those who work in the stables.

  Maggie’s head dragged back and forth in a pitiful sort of way. “Nope. Ain’t hardly no one been able to marry for near eighteen years now. His Lordship and Ladyship didn’t want no one celebrating with that death threat hanging o’er their daughter. And they especially didn’t want the threat of new children.”

  “Threat?” I asked confused.

  Maggie nodded. “Nadamaris came back, you know— after she left the curse. Brought her vile son with her, and they tried to persuade the king and queen to change their minds about the betrothal. When they wouldn’t, Nadamaris threatened to marry her son to another of Canelia’s newborn daughters. Said she’d mix our blood with hers one way or another. Though I don’t see how 'twould do her any good,” Maggie added sourly. “The fairies only bless those with royal Canelian blood, and an ordinary citizen marrying Nadamaris’s son would only have brats with royal Baldwinidad blood.” Upon concluding this rather long speech, Maggie reached into her apron pocket and produced a metal flask, from which she drank freely.

  For the time being, I let her indulge, taking advantage of the moment to try to comprehend what she’d told me. All her rambling about blood didn’t mean much, but something she’d said before had caught my attention. “Are you saying that no one has been allowed to get married for the past eighteen years?”

  “Yep.” Maggie tucked the flask away again. “Be that long in a few more weeks.”

  I couldn’t believe it. “But people grow up— they fall in love— they—”

  “How d’ye think Rose got her Mason?” Maggie asked. “She and her man risked it, thinkin’ for sure the king and queen would relent and let them marry if there was a child involved.”

  “They didn’t?” I guessed, finding the entire thing more and more preposterous.

  “And it were a right good thing he turned out a boy,” Maggie said. “Only a few girls have been born these past many years, and it near sends the queen into hysterics each and every time.”

  I leaned against the table for support as my mind tried to grasp this. It’s like everyone has been a prisoner here all these years. They can’t leave, they can’t pursue the labor they wish. They can’t marry… I thought of Cristian and felt a sudden pang of longing, for though I hadn’t considered marriage, I also hadn’t imagined that I— we— would not be able to continue our friendship or allow it to go in any direction we wished. Another thought struck me, this one lending me a before-unfelt sympathy toward Maggie.

  “Did you— was there ever— anyone you cared for?”

  She didn’t answer right away, but I watched as her fingers slid back and forth along the grain of the table.

  “Yes,” she said at last, without looking up at me. “There was a man I cared for deeply, but he was gone on the king’s errand during the time of the curse. So, of course, he could never come back to this side of the wall.”

  I frowned, trying to understand this latest bit of her tale. “But if it was the king’s errand—”

  “Didn’t matter,” Maggie said, cutting me off. “The whole lot of them tried to get back through the gates, but the soldiers had orders to kill anyone who attempted such. The men were struck down in cold blood, right there on the bridge.” She shuddered suddenly, then looked up at me, her eyes flooded with tears. “You can still see their blood on the stone.”

  Her face was anguished, her bloodshot eyes overflowing with intense sorrow. For a brief second I felt her pain as I imagined what I might feel if Cristian was struck down.

  And like that, the mystery of Maggie was solved.

  She’d lost the love of her life in the worst way imaginable, and her broken heart had never mended.

  I took one hesitant step forward, then another and another until I stood beside her. Not at all certain it was the right thing to do, I placed my arm across her shoulder and squeezed gently.

  She responded with a loud sniffle; then her weathered hand reached up to mine, patting it.

  “It was eighteen years ago today that my Gregory asked me to marry him. Two months later, he was dead.”

  Eighteen years not only pining for her love, but serving those who’d had him killed. Perhaps I’d take to drinking, too.

  “How do you do it?” I asked. “How can you serve the king and queen when it was they—”

  “Hush now,” Maggie swiveled around on her stool, pressing a finger to my lips. “'Tweren’t their fault. They were doing what they thought best for their daughter— for all of us.” Her gaze grew distant again. “The blame lies with Nadamaris. When she came she brought darkness and evil with her. We were all frightened— just like we are now.” Maggie raised her face to me, her eyes suddenly pleading. “There is still time for her to strike before the wedding, and if she succeeds in getting the princess… This drought you speak of will seem a pittance. If she gains access to the princess’s gifts, to Canelia’s magic, Nadamaris will rule every kingdom from sea to sea. It will be the end of us all.”

  “Sorry I’m late,” Cristian called to me a few evenings later as he ran toward the tree I perched in. “My father needed me.” Reaching up, he took the apples from my outstretched hand.

  “Needed you to…” I prodded, thinking he might finally tell me something of his family. “Help with a sick cow? Or shoe a horse? Feed the hogs?” Though I was only guessing that Cristian’s father also worked with animals, it was a fair assumption, as trades seemed to be passed down around here— whether or not one wished them to be.

  “He only wished to speak with me,” Cristian said. “Here, give me your hand, and I’ll help you down. It’s too dark to be up there.”

  I leaned forward, and he caught me in his arms then lowered me to the ground. For a brief second, his hands lingered on my waist. I stared up at him, wondering what he and his father had spoken of. Had Cristian told him about me? Was his father warning him against forming a relationship that could go nowhere— at least for now? I hoped Maggie and Mason were right and the rules would change after the royal wedding and the threat of the curse was past. But if not… I sighed inwardly as Cristian released me and stepped away.

  Very much wanting to know more, I tried another approach. “It must be nice to be able to talk with your father. I miss that.”

  Cristian took my elbow, guiding me gently around fallen fruit and across the uneven ground. “Where are your parents?” he asked. “Do they still live in that far away farmland you spoke of?”

  Not anymore. I wished suddenly that I hadn’t brought up the subject of fathers.

  “Or do they—” He stopped walking and turned to me. I met his gaze while doing my best to smile bravely and push the bitter memories away.

  “They died in the plague you told me of— didn’t they?” he asked.

  “Yes. They are both dead.” My face had betrayed me, but I didn’t yet trust myself to speak of Mother’s illness or the fire that had killed Father. Keeping silent these past weeks had not been a problem, as I hadn’t had anyone to talk to. But now that there was someone who might listen, I felt my burdens push their way to the surface.

  “Was it very recent?” Cristian asked gently.

  I nodded and drew in a quick breath as tears burned in my eyes. A single one escaped before I could hold it back.

  “I’m sorry. We don’t have to speak of it.”

  I couldn’t speak of it, couldn’t say anything, could barely swallow for the lump that had formed in my throat. Another tear, then another slipped down my cheeks. I turne
d away, holding back a sob, mortified to be falling apart like this. Except for those times I’d been alone, I’d held myself together so well these past weeks.

  Cristian stepped forward, closing the gap between us. He turned me to him and pulled me close, wrapping his arms tightly around me. I leaned forward as a sob escaped. I felt myself shaking in his arms. It was as if my well of sorrow had burst forth, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. The hurt, unfurled as it was, washed over me in intense waves so I would have collapsed except for Cristian’s support. But through all that pain, somehow my mind also registered that it felt good to be comforted and cared for in his arms.

  I don’t know how long I cried. I don’t remember when Cristian started stroking my hair and whispering words of solace. I’m not sure how we eventually left the path and sat beneath a tree, facing one another. But after some time I finally lifted my tear-stained face and gave him the tiniest smile.

  “And I’d hoped to talk about your family tonight.”

  He shook his head. “There’s nothing to speak of. We do not have the relationship— the affection— you obviously shared with your parents.”

  “I did love them,” I said. “Though I’m afraid I was little more than a great disappointment to my mother.” With stilted words I plunged on, telling him what I had told no one— my guilt when she was alive, made that much worse at her passing, and my fears that her displeasure with me and my neglect had hastened her death.

  “If that was true,” Cristian said, “Both my parents should have been dead long ago. I, too, have done nothing but disappoint.”

  “I cannot see how that is possible,” I said, thinking of all the qualities I admired in him.

  He shrugged. “Nor can I imagine it for you. But tell me of your father.”

  I hesitated, not wishing to open the floodgate of tears once more. But I found that I did wish to tell Cristian about my father. I imagined that Papa would have liked Cristian a great deal. “He was kind and patient,” I said. “And he didn’t expect me to be something I was not. He spent a great deal of time teaching me. If not for him I would not be able to read or write— or do much of anything useful,” I added, still believing the embroidering of tea towels was not a particularly essential skill.

  “He fell prey to the same sickness as your mother?” Cristian asked, jumping all too quickly to the part of the story I did not wish to recall.

  With courage I told him anyway— the entire tragic account— from the burden of caring for my father and our farm alone, to that fateful evening when I’d built up the fire and left it, and my ailing father, unattended. When I’d finished my tale, we were silent for several minutes. I tucked my skirts around my legs, uncomfortably aware of both the night’s cold and the chill that had settled between Cristian and me.

  “What do you think of me now?” I dared to ask after some time. I strained to make out his expression in the dark.

  “I think you’ve got it all wrong,” he said. “You’re not the guilty one— it’s the rest of your siblings who were negligent.”

  Not believing him, and not wanting to be patronized, I shook my head. “I built up the fire. I left the house. I can blame no other.”

  “Yes, but your father asked you to do those things. He wanted to be warm, and he wanted you to fix him some tea. Your brothers are the ones at wrong— not only for leaving you to care for your father alone, but also for taking the supplies you needed, so that you had to go out at night to get more.”

  I had no response to this but remained silent, thinking about what Cristian had said. For the first time since the fire, I really thought about the events of that evening— and the weeks leading up to it.

  “Your only fault was being an obedient daughter,” Cristian added quietly. “And you need to forgive yourself that. From what you’ve told me of your father, I’m sure he already has.” Cristian sighed heavily then looked away. “In truth, Adrielle, I am no better than your brothers. I recognized myself in your story— in them.

  “Don’t say that,” I exclaimed. “You aren’t anything like them.”

  “But I am.” Cristian stood and held his hand out to me. I allowed him to pull me up, and we stood facing one another once more, the last embers of twilight illuminating our hollow in the grove.

  “You deserve to know the truth, Adrielle.” He kept my hand in his as he spoke. “I don’t like to be serious. I don’t want responsibility. I do all I can to avoid my parents and their expectations— things I want nothing to do with.”

  Having learned both Maggie’s and Rose’s history, I imagined what Cristian might be up against. And I feared for him. Whether he wished to obey his father or not, if he didn’t, the outcome could be devastating— for both of us, if, as I suspected, I was involved.

  “And if you don’t follow their counsel?” I asked.

  Cristian looked away from me, out through the orchard, then down at our entwined hands. “Consequences,” he said solemnly. “Many, many consequences— for everyone.”

  Consequences aside— whatever those were exactly, as Cristian never would tell me— in the coming days, we continued in our project of clearing the orchard to feed the hungry. The work helped take my mind from my parents’ deaths and the task of finding Merry Anne or Cecilia. Though Cristian had made inquiries for me in the castle, so far he’d learned nothing about either.

  “That’s the last of them.” He hoisted a fifty-pound bag of wheat into the back of the wagon.

  “You’re wonderful,” I exclaimed. “Absolutely wonderful.” I felt like hugging him, so happy was I with the way he’d come through for me on our project. In addition to the bushels of apples we’d picked, somehow Cristian had managed to acquire large quantities of wheat, barley, and beans for our mission as well. Thinking of the joy and hope our little delivery might bring the families on the outskirts of Tallinyne, I could hardly wait for our trip.

  “Another two days, you think?” Cristian asked, using the back of his arm to wipe sweat from his brow before lifting another basket into the wagon.

  “Oh, yes. We’ll be done by then. The orchard is nearly bare. You’ve been a tremendous help.” And he had. What remained unspoken between us was the knowledge that we could have been done much sooner, had Henrie continued to work with us beyond those first few days. But he’d stopped coming, and I sensed it was because he disliked me. I didn’t know why he didn’t care for me, or what, if anything, I’d done to offend.

  Surely he wasn’t that upset by my one joke at his expense. Though I could come up with no other reason for his absence.

  Normally I would have been bothered by something like this, but with Henrie gone, it had been just Cristian and me together nearly every afternoon for three glorious weeks. And I so enjoyed his company, that I was almost glad Henrie didn’t like me.

  Cristian was a good worker— efficient and strong. Even so, I wondered how much earlier he had to rise each morning to complete his tasks so he might be free to spend the late afternoon by my side in the orchard. He was full of ideas, and we talked a lot during those hours of apple picking. He loved the outdoors as I did, and he longed to travel and see the world. I shared with him a little of my journey from my home to Tallinyne.

  After that one night when I’d broken down and told him of my parents’ deaths— and he’d spoken of the strain between him and his parents— we’d kept our conversations much lighter. I entertained him with stories of my large family, siblings who teased, the pranks— mostly at my expense— they pulled, and our life of poverty.

  Cristian seldom spoke of his background, and I didn’t push him to, realizing I still harbored plenty of secrets of my own. But I’d finally found a measure of peace— during the days, at least. My nights were still lonely and troubled.

  “Henrie has agreed to go with us and drive one of the wagons,” Cristian said as we left the orchard and headed back toward the castle.

  “That’s good,” I said. “I’ll be sure to thank him.” And I would, f
or though I was perfectly capable of handling a wagon— I’d been driving a team since almost before I could walk— if Henrie drove, that meant I was free to ride with Cristian. An entire day together. I couldn’t keep the smile from my face.

  “And Maggie’s all right with you being gone for the day?” Cristian asked, giving me a sideways glance. “Because we’ll have to leave well before sunup and won’t return until night.”

  “I’ll speak with her tomorrow,” I said, not at all sure Maggie was going to be “all right” with such an arrangement. In reality, I imagined a frying pan or two being flung my way after I made my request. “I’ll talk with Florence, too. She’s in favor of this, you know.”

  “So you’ve told me,” Cristian said.

  Since her abrupt appearance and departure with her sisters, he’d only seen Florence one other time. She’d come to the orchard alone to check our progress. She’d seemed a little giddy to find us there, tipsy almost, and I wondered if perhaps she’d been to gather eggs— and partake of a certain beverage— with Maggie. At any rate, Cristian hadn’t been duly impressed by her either time.

  “What if Maggie says no, and Florence won’t help us get beyond the gates?” he asked.

  “I have a plan,” I assured him. As I’d known he would, he respected my silence on said plan. I was hoping Merry Anne’s name still held sway over the bridge guards. If not, as a last resort, I knew I could use a pearl for our journey. In a way, doing so would be a relief. I could be free of their secret and share it with the one person I longed to tell everything to. But for now, I dared not say anything. I wouldn’t say anything unless absolutely necessary.

  During our time together I’d learned that Cristian was skeptical regarding things involving mysticism of any sort. He thought the princess’s curse a silly tale, and he didn’t believe in fairies. The only kind of magic he acknowledged was the kind created by hard work and diligence— the kind we were creating, harvesting the orchard and giving its abundance to those in need.