by Sarah Cross
But it wasn’t the gown and the shoes that appealed to Mira—it was the way the dead mother looked out for Cinderella. Watched over her, stayed with her … And if fairy tales were real—if there were things like curses and destiny—then maybe Mira could plant a hazel twig near her parents’ graves, and they would be with her, in a way. Maybe she could ask the tree to make her stop missing them.
Half in and out of consciousness, fantasizing about her own little hazel tree, Mira curled her fingers around the fence—and sliced her hand on one of the spikes.
Pain swept through her like wildfire. She trembled when she saw the cut on her finger, the blood flowing freely. She didn’t like blood—not the sight of it, not the slippery feel of it. Her knees went weak and she feared she was about to col-lapse—to pass into a life-stealing sleep. Lost in the back of a graveyard, prey to wolves and men and anything and everything for a hundred years.
If she screamed before she fell asleep, would the driver hear her? Would he know what to do? Would people think she was dead? Would they bury her?
“Mira!”
The call came from behind her—and she did scream. Her heart raced in her chest. And then two hands grasped her shoulders, and her mind caught up with her fear.
“Mira, it’s me.”
“Felix,” she said. By the time she recognized his touch, his voice, she could barely hear herself over the pounding of her heart. “You scared me.”
He pulled her into his arms. “You cut yourself.”
Her knees stopped wobbling as she relaxed against him. She didn’t collapse, didn’t lose consciousness. The pain in her hand was still there, but the fence wasn’t her trigger. It was a wound, like any other wound.
She clutched the arm that curled around her, unable to help herself; stained his sleeve with blood.
“Felix,” she said again. “How did you … ?”
“The valet told me where you went.” He shook his head and muttered, “I should fire him for sending you here. Cemeteries aren’t safe at night. You should have called me.”
“It was late when I got back. I didn’t want to bother you.” She didn’t want to admit that she’d worried he’d be busy, or on a date with someone experienced, someone sexy, and she’d have to hear the girl’s voice in the background while being turned down.
“You never bother me.” He looked past her into the trees, eyes narrowed like he was searching for something. “What were you doing, staring into the dark just now? Was someone there?”
“No,” she admitted. “I just—I do this thing where I space out and stop seeing what’s in front of me. I disappear into my head. I always do that.”
She was studying the night shadows that veiled his face and remembering the heart on Blue’s back. “Felix, something happened today. I—” She stopped herself; took a deep breath, barely able to say it, to make it real. “Remember how you thought I came to Beau Rivage for a reason? That there was something I was meant to find here? I think I found it.”
“What did you find?” His voice was low, appropriate for a graveyard at night, like he didn’t want anyone to overhear, not even ghosts. He pulled her closer, his hands on the small of her back, and she let her arms go around him like they belonged there.
“I’m like you,” she whispered. “I’m cursed.”
She was the first girl he’d fallen for, and he was nice to her, he made her laugh and fixed her bike chain when it broke and he flirted with her and pretended to cheat off her history tests, when really it was an excuse to stare at her. At how her red hair fell over her shoulders and onto her desk, and how she’d fling it away, like it was a weapon she was losing patience with. He always got bad grades anyway. He was rich enough that it was okay to be an academic failure.
He didn’t expect anything to happen between them because it couldn’t happen; but he wasn’t immune to wanting it. His heart surged every time she smiled at him. Surged with hope that this could be different. But he was careful. The one time she asked him to a school dance, he lied and said he wasn’t allowed to go; his father was dragging him off to a business conference. She seemed to sense the lie and never asked again.
But then on his birthday …
He kissed her. He stupidly kissed her. And it was better than he ever could have imagined. Until it was over. Really and truly over.
He would dedicate a piece of his heart to her. He would never forget her—but that was all the recompense he could offer. He couldn’t bring her back.
She’d never looked more beautiful, more perfect, than she did when she was dead.
Mira told Felix everything.
Her curse. Her meeting with the fairy. Even how certain she’d been that she would find her parents at Enchanted Rest, and her disappointment when she hadn’t. Felix listened as she poured out her heart, her confusion, and started to ask questions only when she’d worn herself out. By that time, they were tucked away in a rounded booth at Twelve, the Dream’s jazz club, named for the underworld nightclub where twelve princesses were said to dance, night after night, until they wore through the soles of their shoes.
The Dream’s version of Twelve was a secret cove of a room: rounded booths arranged in a half circle in front of the stage, shadows pierced by haloes of candlelight. Filmy curtains shielded each booth and could be drawn closed to give the booth the look of a sultan’s tent. Silver plum branches served as centerpieces—copies of the silver branches from the Twelve Dancing Princesses fairy tale, branches the soldier-hero collected in the underworld as proof of where the princesses went to dance.
Mira slumped against Felix, as exhausted as if she’d danced all night herself, and his arm came across her shoulders to pull her close.
“How’s your hand?” he asked, turning her wrist to look at it.
“Fine,” she said. “The cut wasn’t deep. I just don’t like blood. And I was worried about … you know. I panicked.”
“I bet,” he said, stroking her fingers. It reminded her of the way Blue had held her hand when he’d first learned about her mark: examining her fingers, as if imagining the wound that would one day condemn her to sleep.
“You’re not alone anymore,” Felix said. “You have a place here. In Beau Rivage … and with me. So you don’t have to be afraid of this. Of being cursed.”
She burrowed into his side, taking comfort in his closeness. In belonging.
“There’s still so much I don’t know,” she said. “Like …”
Felix’s other arm circled around to grasp the one that held her, so that he was holding her against him, his arms locking her in casually but protectively. She wanted to stay there forever.
“Like … I don’t know the truth about you,” she said. “Or Blue. What your curses are. Everyone else seems to know, but no one will tell me.”
She tipped her head to look at him. “Blue says you won’t tell me either. Is that true?”
Felix stared steadily at the stage. She couldn’t see his eyes, but his throat didn’t quiver with a swallow, his hold on her didn’t tighten. He didn’t show signs of being tense.
“I can’t tell you. It’s part of the curse: I can’t reveal it.”
“You can’t tell me anything? But I know what your mark is—what Blue’s mark is, at least. Can you tell me what the heart means?”
Felix sipped his drink. One song ended and the audience broke into applause as the musicians segued into another. Little by little, the amber liquid in Felix’s glass disappeared.
“We’re called Romantics,” he said finally. “That much I can tell you. But that’s all.”
Mira tried to push the rest of her questions down—if he couldn’t answer, he couldn’t answer. But she wanted to know everything about him. If he had a dark secret, she wanted to know that, too.
Romantics. What was a Romantic?
So much of Felix’s life was closed to her. She never saw him when he was working. The time they spent together centered on her, not him. And his suite was almost as anonymous a
s the rest of the rooms in the hotel. Other than his clothes and his movie collection, which was too varied to really tell her anything, his personal effects consisted of a fairy-tale anthology and some business books.
Maybe he kept his private things in his other room.
Suite 3013—the room that was forbidden to her.
But what did he do there? Why did he need another room when he barely made use of the first one?
“Tell me something,” she said.
“Tell you what?” he murmured, head dipping closer. The scent of warmth and cologne wafted from his throat.
“What’s in suite 3013?” she asked, careful to keep her voice casual. “Is it your office?”
“It’s nothing that would interest you, Mira. Ask me something else.”
He made it sound like it was no big deal. But at the same time, he was throwing up a wall. Maybe it wasn’t a big deal. And there were other things she wanted to know. …
“Okay. You said that I belong here,” she started. “That I have a place here.”
“Yes …”
“What about you? Who are your friends? What are their curses?” The rest of the question lay under her tongue, unasked: Who are you … when you’re not with me?
“My friends … there aren’t a lot of them. Just a few people I hung out with in high school. I don’t really connect with people that easily.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “I don’t have time, for one. My dad’s been training me for this job since I was in high school. I turned twenty-one a few months ago. You know how I spent my birthday? In a conference room with my dad, going over work stuff so he could dump his responsibilities on me and take off for a while. Now he’s out traveling the world, and I have a casino to run. It doesn’t leave a lot of time for friends. Forget about college. I can’t even imagine what that’s like: spending four years figuring out what you want to be … when my life’s been mapped out for me for so long.”
His chest grew still for a moment. “So I can’t relate to most people my age. They’d probably say I’m too serious. And maybe I am. But I’ve lost things, too, and most people … they have no idea what it’s like to really lose something. They don’t understand how that changes you.”
“I know what it’s like,” she said.
“I know you know,” he said into her hair. “You’re too serious for your own good. You should stay away from me; I’m a bad influence.”
“You don’t make me more serious,” she said. “You make me the opposite. I was morbid to begin with.”
He laughed. “Were you? So I can only improve things.”
“Exactly,” she said, pleased. She fidgeted with his cuff link, twisting it between her fingers, contemplating a confession: You already have improved things. I don’t obsess over my parents’ deaths when I’m with you. I don’t think about what’s missing. I think about what’s here.
I think about you.
But she wasn’t brave enough. A confession like that would change things. Break things, maybe. It was more than just I want you. It was closer to I need you … and that was dangerous.
Instead, she asked, “What did you lose?”
Felix stiffened. This time she could feel the tension in his body: the intake of breath that didn’t get released immediately.
“I don’t talk about that,” he said.
“You can trust me.”
He shook his head. “It’s bad enough thinking about it all the time. I don’t want to have to talk about it, too. I’d rather focus on something nice. Like being here with you.”
Mira closed her eyes. She’d sunk down a little, and her head rested against his chest. She could hear his heartbeat, and as she listened, Blue’s mark—a heart as red as blood and as smooth as a scar—appeared in her mind. It was surrounded by darkness. A reminder. A warning.
Felix’s curse had hurt him—that had to be what he meant. He’d lost someone because of it, and it still haunted him. But who?
She wished he would tell her.
She wanted to be the person he told everything to.
“Where did you go?” he murmured. “Thinking about your parents again?”
“I—” He’d already asked her not to press him. “A little,” she lied.
“We’ll find them,” he said. “I promise. And you know what? When we do”—he unwound his arms from around her, slid out from the booth—“we’re going to bring them something.”
“Bring them something? You mean besides me?”
“Come on,” he said, smiling. “I think you’ll like this.”
As Felix unlocked the door and led her into the flower shop, a sweet, wild perfume enveloped her, so intense she could taste an entire garden when she breathed. Mira found herself surrounded by bins of cut flowers in every shape and color. All waiting to be chosen.
“Sleeping Beauties are supposed to have an affinity for flowers,” Felix said. “Is it true?”
“You mean … because of the wall of roses that grows up around the castle when they—when we—sleep?” She lifted a white rose to her face. “I do like flowers. I like them better when they’re out in nature. But this is nice, too.”
“I thought we could put together a bouquet for your parents,” he explained. “Something to lay at their graves when we find them.”
“I’d love that,” she said, smiling. “Thank you.”
She tried to picture her mother and father in this room. Which flowers would they like?
Mira wandered through the shop, choosing flowers as they called to her: lush red roses, purple iris, pink lilies that curled like starfish. When she’d gathered them into a thick bouquet, she handed the bunch to Felix, and he bound the stems and slipped them into a vase.
Mira watched him, still holding the white rose. Biting her lip, she asked, “Why are you so nice to me?”
Felix cocked his head. “Why wouldn’t I be nice to you?”
“Not just nice. You go out of your way for me, and I … I don’t think I’ve done anything to deserve that.”
“You’ve lost a lot. I want to give you something to make up for that.”
She blushed, regretting her earlier enthusiasm. “I take too much from you already. You barely have any free time, and I take all of it.”
“Only because I choose to spend it with you.”
“But what about—” She took a deep breath, not wanting to ask, but needing to. “What about that girl you were with the night we met? Cora. I don’t leave you any time to see her.”
“We’re not—” Felix shook his head. “We’re not together. And anyway—I’d rather spend the time with you.” He took her hand and pressed it to his cheek, his eyes closed, like he was savoring the feel of her skin. His jaw was rough; the blue shadow of stubble lightly scraped her palm as he turned his mouth to her hand—and she savored every second, too.
Felix’s lips brushed her palm, and then he kissed her there again, harder, marking her with the wet brand of his mouth. Mira shuddered, going light-headed. Her thoughts seemed to dissolve, like the world was falling away.
She forgot what she was asking. She just wanted his lips on her skin.
“Mira, are you all right?” he murmured.
She blinked and saw him standing in front of her, clasping her wrist and studying her, a dark vibrancy in his eyes.
“Yes,” she said breathlessly. “I just—I felt lost. When you kissed my hand … I guess I like you too much.”
It was probably obvious she liked him too much, but admitting it made her feel strangely vulnerable. Especially after last night.
Would he think she was too young? Or something pathetic, like adorable?
Felix stepped closer until his body was flush with hers, and Mira’s breath caught in her throat. She found herself staring at his chest, her heart thudding painfully, unsure of what to do; and he tilted her head back gently, so she’d look at him. His eyes were the deepest midnight blue.
“You’re not scared of this, a
re you?” he asked.
“No,” she whispered. “Not this time.”
A breath passed between them.
And he kissed her.
His lips pressed the world away, obliterated everything; and a slow ecstasy seeped through her, flooding her veins. As her nervousness thawed, she kissed him back. Tentatively at first, then with more confidence as his body responded to hers, and he parted her lips and pulled her closer. When he drew his mouth away, her legs trembled, like her strength had fled with his kiss. Like she’d forgotten how to stand.
Felix didn’t seem alarmed by her sudden weakness. He lifted her like she weighed almost nothing, and sat her on the glass counter, next to the bouquet she’d made, and a spool of red ribbon, a pair of scissors, and scattered sprigs of baby’s breath. He stood in front of her, so they were eye to eye.
“I feel like I’m melting,” she said. “Like everything sturdy in me melted away.”
Her emotions tingled on her skin like static electricity, like his touch had pulled them to the surface.
“At home,” she began haltingly, “when my godmothers were gone, I used to pretend that my parents were there. I’d imagine them doing normal things, like cooking, or watching old movies with me, or asking what I did at school. I guess because … I felt less lonely that way. I could pretend there wasn’t a hole in me. But when I’m with you, I don’t need them. I want what’s real.”
She was shaking. It was hard to be honest, to open up, and reveal something that sounded crazy. Because once you told someone the truth, that person had a piece of you—and they could belittle it, destroy it. They could turn your confession into a wound that never healed.
But Felix didn’t do that. He would never do that.
He understood.
“You’re not the only one … who can’t forget,” he said.