But Renald only ran his hand through his greying red beard. “Sorry to bother you, Your Highness—and yes. Or erm, no. Were you about to go to bed? I only knocked because I could see the fire was on.” Squinting past her, he raised his brows. “Is that a potato sack?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she lied, giving him her best sheepish grin while shuffling her bag further over her shoulder. “And yes, I’ve just packed my leftovers.”
“As always. You children and your appetite.”
She nodded, quickly wracking her memory for any tidbit she could recall about him or his family. “How’s Emma doing? And the twins?”
“My wife’s great. Enjoying her time as a seamstress. The boys are a pain in my arse, as always.” Renald yawned widely. “Anyway, I’m here because your father had a bit to drink tonight.”
Her heart sank a little. “Ah. Again.”
“I’ve tried to bring him to bed, but he says won’t budge until he —”
Lilac nodded and squeezed herself through the door, shutting it tightly behind her. “I got it, Ren.” Then, she added, blinking as her vision adjusted to the dim hallway. “Are there a lot of you up there tonight?”
“Indeed, Your Highness. The battlement is secured.”
“Then head back up and get some sleep while your men do the work. I’ll take care of Henri the Terrible.”
“I’ll go and keep an eye out for Darklings, is what I’ll do,” he replied through another yawn. He winked at her. “Tomorrow, lass.”
“Tomorrow,” she lied through her teeth.
Down the stairs, Lilac found the king by almost tripping over him. Between the dimming hearth and baskets of fresh fruit, he leaned up against the wall with his legs sprawled. His prized horn tankard lay empty beside him.
Lilac stared at him for a second, then longingly back up the staircase. She was already tight on time as it was. Surely, she could call one of the servants to help him to his tower?
Then again, it might not be worth waking anyone else who might catch her in her escape.
She lightly covered his legs with the fur-lined ends of his cape. “Father?”
He gave a grunt and popped one eye open. “Hello, sweetheart.”
“Was it meade or wine this time?” She bent and sniffed at the tankard, but couldn’t tell. He’d emptied every last drop.
“Ale,” he burped, staring into the fire.
“Dad, you have to be careful. You’ll make yourself sick.”
“I don’t want to hear it, young lady.” The king opened the other eye and gave her a stern look before grinning. “We can both hold our liquor. Doesn’t mean we won’t get carried away on occasion.”
Of course, he remembered her love for wine as well as she. Some nights she would sneak bottles of their best reds upstairs after supper.
“Is that what’s in the bag?”
Lilac groaned inwardly. She’d forgotten she was still clutching it. “Not this time. Just pastries.” She stuck a hand in and rummaged through the fabric until she found the half loaf of bread and showed him.
“You and your scavenging. Just like that wolf.”
Lilac could only stare numbly into the hearth. Although she knew her father didn’t know what he was saying, she felt like she’d been punched in the gut. It was in this very kitchen that her Darkling tongue had been discovered, after all.
“Good night, father,” she muttered, heading toward the staircase.
“Wait. Lilac.” The king’s voice was suddenly pleading.
She spun to see him stumbling to his feet. “Is that why you drink?” Lilac blurted. A lump formed in her throat. “Am I why you drink?”
“No, I—your mother and I are proud of you, Lilac. And my, look how you’ve grown.” His cerulean eyes were suddenly glassy.
Tears formed behind her own lashes, but she harshly blinked them back. Regardless of how he felt now, she knew he’d always defer to the same awkwardness he and Marguerite had adopted after learning of her ability. It wasn’t as bad as the sideways glares and indiscreet whispers she got from the servants, but in a way, it was worse—they were her parents, after all. Not to mention the ten years they’d forbidden her from leaving castle grounds. It didn’t exactly express pride.
Her father cleared his throat to break the silence and keep himself awake. “Next week’s your ceremony,” he said gruffly. “It’s come ‘round much faster than I thought.”
Lilac could only nod stiffly. He might’ve felt that way, but he’d never tell her those things had he not drunk himself several tankards deep. She didn’t have time—time for him, for sentiment, or for a halfway apology.
Swallowing, Lilac lifted her chin cordially. “Thank you, father. Now, head to bed.”
“Are you ready?” He began shuffling to the outer corridor.
Not in the slightest. “Of course.”
Without checking to see if he actually made it up his own staircase, Lilac hiked the ends of her shift and sprinted up hers.
Once she was back in her room, Lilac hastily extinguished her fire and flung the makeshift rope over the edge. Holding her breath, she wrapped herself as she had before and leaned out into the biting cold, lowering herself three stories. Soundlessly, her flats hit the ground. The cool dew of the grass against her exposed skin was shocking. Her knees suddenly gave way under her weight, and she nearly stumbled back into one of her mother’s rose bushes.
Pressing her palm against her teeth, Lilac stifled an excited cry of relief. She did it. The conifer was heady, filling and opening her lungs as she took a few deep breaths to lessen the pounding adrenaline. The static air tasted evocatively sweet, hinting at impending rainfall.
Lilac straightened and glanced up at the massive expanse of green. The forest, even more enchanting up close, seemed to whisper. She imagined tendrils floating out of the fog and reaching for her, coiling around her limbs; claws scraping like ragged breath against her skin; sharp fangs, rows of them covered in saliva, waiting, daring her to come hither. Scowling at the exaggeration, she began to tremble—from the cold or fear, she was unsure.
Shivering, she pulled the cloak out of the sack and wrapped it around her body; it was scratchy, but at least it was warm. It shielded her enough from the cold, and masked the scent of her skin from the things waiting to eat her – or so she told herself.
The night was passing quickly. She had to get moving if she expected to find shelter for the night. As soon as she found a spring of some sort, she could follow it to the river, which would eventually lead to the town pond.
Fretting over Paimpont was for tomorrow, she decided. Clenching her teeth, she forced herself to stop shaking.
Lilac was a princess, not a flower. Just because she donned tiaras and gowns didn’t mean she was delicate, or incapable of slitting a Darkling’s throat. She had it in her to face and defend herself from the monstrous things lurking among the trees. Deep down, she would be just as capable a ruler as any king out there. Beneath the foreign silks and chiffon, she was like the jewels on the tiara she had left on her vanity. Lustrous, yet resilient all the same.
Hooking the burlap sack onto her shoulder, Lilac took one slow step away from the castle. Then another, and another, until the veil of trees swallowed her.
Pulse accelerating, the princess took off at a run—a willing pawn to the shadows of night.
2
When Lilac was nine, her mother dragged her to a soirée hosted by Duke Armand Le Tallec and his dotting wife, Vivien. Upon their arrival, the queen introduced Lilac to a boy with silvery blond hair that framed his face, and a row of very crooked teeth. He invited her to the garden to play chase with the other children, and he appeared so excited about it, too—until Lilac began outrunning him and his friends. At this, the boy announced to the entire juvenile populace that she had witch blood in her veins, that she’d cheated, and it was the reason she beat them.
In that moment, her ears grew warm. She abruptly ended the entire event by grabbing a poisonberry ta
rt off a silver platter and chucking it square into the boy's face.
A small crowd formed around the two children; the boy sobbed, wiping berry juice out of his eyes while Lilac stifled a laugh.
“Sinclair!”
A tall bird-like woman donned in mink, evidently his mother, rushed over to him and cradled his square head, her own face paling.
“Sinclair?” Lilac had giggled, blissfully ignoring the glower from her own mother, who joined the crowd. “That’s an odd name.”
Of course, the boy—this Sinclair—happened to be the son of the hosts. Queen Marguerite was livid; she apologized profusely as she led Lilac back to their carriage, and would spend the next few months showering the duke’s family with priceless gifts: pearls from the Celtic Sea, silks from the East, ivory from Africa.
After the ordeal, Lilac had wondered why the queen would even bother pandering friendship with Sinclair’s parents. Everyone had always doted over her; what she said or did, even in anger, had never incited such frantic consequence nor reaction from her parents. However, they were absolutely mortified when she’d pelted Sinclair with dessert in front of half the kingdom’s nobility.
She eventually came to understand the implications of her parents’ and the duke’s family ties—why they had cared about their relations with the Le Tallecs. They’d hoped to one day marry her off to Sinclair, so that their powerful families might unite. Her parents obsessed over the idea of one day marrying their daughter off to a family of comparable standard and structure. To them, Sinclair was the perfect candidate of a husband; he was a year older, and as young marquis would one day take his father’s place as duke. He would then take lead of the local cavalry, placing him at the second highest in rank, just under the monarchy. The king and queen hoped Lilac would marry Sinclair, giving him the title of king jure uxoris—allowing him to rule as king alongside her, as an equal. Then, their power as a wed couple would prove unparalleled. Then, no one would dare question Lilac’s qualification to lead.
At the time, those expectations from her parents were nothing but nuisance; marriage seemed so far off. She was a mere child, after all. Regardless, she knew she wouldn’t marry any poor idiot her parents chose for her, no matter how wealthy or prominent. No matter how hard anyone begged. Certainly, no matter how hard Sinclair or his parents groveled.
At least, that’s what she told herself.
Lilac’s tenth birthday was quite the ordeal, marking the halfway point to her coronation. The castle staff spent several weeks prior trying to accommodate the queen's pompous decoration requests. Supper was to be served in the west ballroom, but her parents seemed more concerned with making sure the foyer did not fail to impress. They had transformed the massive gold-trimmed double staircase by lining the railings with parchment streamers in various berry and carnation-stained shades of pink.
Of course, none of it was actually for her—just as the canary yellow gown her mother had custom tailored for the occasion wasn’t really for her. It was for everyone else, to ensure she met the public’s expectations of the royal family.
Much to her chagrin, the queen ordered Lilac to wear a corset for the first time that evening. When the young handmaid, Piper, failed to wrestle the screaming princess into it, she struck a deal. If Lilac wore the dress for a three-hour supper, Piper would willingly look the other way when she snuck down to the kitchen for mead and leftover cakes.
Most of the castle staff knew of her post-supper party routine; whenever her parents spent the night intoxicating and entertaining guests with their embellishments, she got to drink, too. It was only fair, and it wasn’t like she ever had much. Only enough to warm the insides, she would justify to herself, as she sat on the rug in front of her bedroom fireplace after having been sent to bed, dreaming of her next adventure outside the red brick walls.
Her birthday ball was a blur of court dancing and primping. In the early evening, complete strangers in their gowns and wigs kissed the back of her hands and told her how glamorous she looked. By the time Hedwig rang the supper bell, Lilac gratefully retreated to join her parents.
The dining table reserved for her family stretched across the length of the grand fireplace. During the social hour, their staff had it covered in a bountiful array of locally harvested goods: roast duck and rabbit, hocks of cured pork, bread baked that morning, and wheels of cheese that had been aging for years at the nearby fromagerie. There were tubs of beurre aux algues—specialized Breton seaweed butter, fruit salads doused in honey and goat’s cheese, and a mound of her favorite oysters.
Even at the first dinner party thrown in her own honor, Lilac felt completely alone at the head of the table. A dozen more circular tables surrounded them, each serving a handful of guests both familiar and foreign; she recognized dignitaries, nobles, and a few shop owners. Yet, the only attendees she knew personally were Armand and his wife Vivien, who sat to her left.
Thankfully, Sinclair was nowhere to be found.
“Sinclair, erm, wasn’t feeling well this evening,” his father had declared through a thick red mustache when she glanced around anxiously. “He is with the nanny tonight. But he wishes he could be here and sends his regards, certainly,” he added, when the duchess nudged him with a bony elbow.
“Ah, young love.” Vivien rose from her chair and placed a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “If it’s fine with you, King Henri, Queen Marguerite… Armand and I would like to make a toast.”
“Oh, Vivien,” the king said, arms spread open, “Of course.”
Although the woman was requesting the first toast at her daughter’s birthday—and in her own castle—Lilac’s mother nodded, beaming through clenched teeth. Silence rippled like waves throughout the hall when the guests realized there was a speech to be made.
“To the bright young woman sitting before me,” the duchess announced loudly, “I would like to raise a toast, to the most beautiful and rambunctious little girl in all of Brittany. I hope your birthday feast is everything you ever hoped for. And to His and Her Majesty,” she said, tilting the chalice in the queen’s direction. “May your royal offspring adorn the position they were always destined to fill. And Lilac, know that whatever happens, our family will be right there with you. Until the very end.”
The princess slumped further into her seat as the room burst into applause.
After dinner, Lilac gladly retreated to her room while the servants shifted leftovers to the kitchen. As exhausting as her parents’ social events were, she’d stuffed herself full of her favorites—the rich duck and oyster—but was careful to leave room enough for one drink.
After a soak in a lavender bath that Piper had drawn up, she found herself brushing knots out of hair next to the crackling fireplace.
Then, came a light knock on the door.
“Come in.”
The door opened a crack. “Your Highness? A minute?” It was Piper.
“Yes, of course.”
Her handmaiden entered, wringing her hands. She wasn’t much older than the princess and worked at the castle to help support her parents and their small farm. The girl’s unbound crimson hair gleamed in the firelight as she tucked a tight curl behind her ear.
“So, I know I promised you your kitchen ventures tonight. However, I thought I should inform you, there’s been some sort of commotion near the tree line. Your parents haven’t been woken, as the staff plan to handle it on their own… but the night sentry guarding the front gate has been attacked.”
Lilac left her brush on the ground and stood up to face Piper. “Attacked,” she repeated.
“Yes, Your Royal Highness.”
“Is he alive? Do they know what it was?”
“Well, he’s scratched up pretty badly and his right leg is injured, but they reckon he’ll live. They think it was a rogue animal. I mean, so far as I know a Darkling has never dared attack anyone here at the castle, so no one thinks one would try now.”
“Is everyone still tending to the guard?”
“Yes, Your Highness. They are treating him in the infirmary on the second floor.”
“Are the guards scouring the grounds outside?”
“Yes… All of them.” Piper’s brow furrowed in confusion at the odd questions and widening grin on the princess’s face.
Lilac ran to the door and slipped her flats on. This was perfect. No one would be on patrol inside the castle for a while, and the kitchen was on the ground floor. If she ran into anyone it would be Hedwig, but whenever she caught Lilac, she stuffed pastries and a cup full of wine into her arms and hastily banished her back to the tower.
“Piper, cover for me?”
“But Your Highness,” Piper protested, her cheeks flushing as red as her hair. “I came here only to tell you—”
“You know how I feel about you calling me that. Only in front of my parents, remember? And please?” She knew she should’ve felt guilty using Piper like this, but she didn’t. Not really.
Sighing, Piper reluctantly followed her charge out of the room and took the usual watch outside the door.
Downstairs, the kitchen was dark, but Lilac kept her eyes shut until her vision adjusted just enough. Feeling her way around, she made it past the stove to the wood cabinet where three glass bottles of mead were stored. The stuff of the honey gods.
A faint rustling across the kitchen almost made her drop the slim neck of the bottle she had just grabbed. Gasping, she turned and backed into the cabinet, scanning the four walls around her. Lilac couldn’t see much of anything, but someone was definitely moving around near the far wall, not even twenty feet in front of her.
Chills ran down her spine when she realized it was still pitch black in the kitchen; usually when Hedwig walked in on her, she’d be holding a candle. Any of the servants would have brought something for light.
More rustling. They were footsteps, she realized, moving from one end of the room to the other. She could make a run for it, but her legs were frozen.
“Hello?” Lilac whisper-cried into the darkness. Squinting, she could make out a low-lying shape. She almost yelled for it to reveal itself, but she wasn’t so sure she wanted that, either.
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