by Plum Pascal
My mouth screws up in distaste and I dislike the feeling of bitter jealousy that washes over me at the thought. I’m not being fair. He’s at least two or three times my age and has guarded me since before I had a name to put to these feelings—a name I quite believe to be ‘love’. Regardless, he’s entitled to be with others. I can’t selfishly horde his affection like a lovelorn dragon.
Ha. As if there were such a thing.
The scrape of the key in the lock is the only warning I get. I hastily swipe the damp cloth across the dirt on my arms and then stuff the damp cloth beneath a pillow to hide the evidence of my illicit visit. I’ve just spilled the last of the dirty rose water into my chamber pot and shoved the whole thing beneath my bed when someone steps into the room.
It’s not Elsie, or my uncle, as I half-expect. It’s a man who I’m only vaguely familiar with. He was sent ahead of one of the visiting dignitaries as his personal valet. I’ve seen him lurking about several times, always perched like a miserable vulture about to swoop when I’m about. A little over average height, average in appearance and garb, he wouldn’t ordinarily stand out to me. His lips are thin, his expression almost always dour.
But there’s more… there’s something about him. I don’t like the way he looks at me. I especially don’t like the way he lurks in my doorway, just staring. His eyes are a strange mahogany color that appears almost red when the light hits them correctly. The color of his eyes is the only thing about him that is mildly appealing but still, I can’t derive any pleasure from his gaze.
I draw myself up to my full height, which is admittedly not impressive. Neva was always taller than me, even when we were children. Still, I’m thoroughly middling and I can look him in the eye, which I do. The scoundrel ought to know his place and drop his eyes to the floor.
“You’ve entered the wrong room, sir,” I say patiently, giving him a chance to retreat. I don’t want to cause upset with his Prince before the dinner is set to take place, but if he means me ill, I want to at least try to give him an option to retreat before he’s slaughtered by my guards. “My maid ought to have told you as much, Mr. Anwn.”
At least, I think that’s his name. All of the valets seem to bleed together in my head. Rude of me to forget.
“Anon,” he corrects me, a muscle ticking ever so slightly beside his left eye.
“Apologies,” I say, though my tone makes it glaringly obvious I don’t mean the words.
I don’t feel too terrible about my discourtesy. He’s not meant to be in a woman’s chambers alone, let alone a princess’. He ought to know that. Still, he doesn’t move. His hands inch toward something beneath his cloak. And then I realize something alarming: why is he wearing a cloak indoors in spring?
My fevered imagination must be acting up again, because I swear he’s trying to go for a… dagger? Such a move would be insanity within the castle walls. There are at least three guards stationed in this corridor—guards who will come running if I so much as sneeze, let alone scream.
Still, I drop my hand into the hidden pocket of my gown. Draven always bribed the tailor to add hidden sections into my gowns. For storage, he said sagely to the woman when she asked. For my sewing needles and any pretty flowers I wish to press. But since I turned sixteen, there’s always been a blade in the interior. A small, two-inch throwing knife that Draven taught me to wield. He’d kept me in the garden afternoon after afternoon, tossing the damned thing until I could remove an apple from a fence post at fifty paces. I admit I deliberately missed more than once, just so he’d grip my wrist to show me the proper form again.
Anon takes note of the motion and something in his posture eases and he offers me a tight smile. When his hands emerge from his cloak, I don’t spy a weapon. Still, I let my fingers curl around the grip of my blade, just in case.
“Your lady’s maid has suffered an ague. Prince Achmed expressed concern and wishes me to accompany you to the gardens for your afternoon outing. He does not wish you to be lonely before your meeting this evening. I am at your disposal, Princess.”
I continue to stare at the plain, almost unremarkable man. There is something off about him, though I can’t quite put my finger on what is troubling me. Something in his bearing, perhaps. I swear I’ve seen a man hold himself in almost precisely the same way before. A guard? No, too indolent for a palace guard. They’re stiff, rigid. Not posh or arrogant enough to be a prince, either. What is it then?
Social niceties demand an answer, even as I try to bully my poor mind into divulging the answer. My responding smile is pretty and hollow as a painted flower pot.
“Thank you, Mr. Anon, but that won’t be necessary. I can find ways to occupy my time until supper. Perhaps I can take a stroll with the Prince after the meal? My night blooming jasmine is quite lovely. I’ve heard Prince Achmed quite likes jasmine.”
Anon continues to stare at me in mute frustration until I’m forced to abandon all subtlety. I cross over to him, keeping one hand lightly tracing the blade in my pocket while the other comes to rest lightly on the back of my chamber door.
I smile sweetly at him, though I feel anything but cheerful.
“Good day, Mr. Anon. I’ll see you and your Prince at supper.”
And then, with a flick of my wrist, I close the door in his face.
***
Uncle Spyros has an unctuous voice and an exterior to match it.
He favors my mother that way. Shapeless and on the shorter side, as most phobetors are. A cap of auburn hair, though his is much shorter than mom’s stylish bob. His eyes are a deep blue and he’s paler than almost anyone I’ve ever had the privilege to know. The exception, of course, being Neva, who was so ashy pale, she was mistakenly declared a stillborn the first minute after her birth. My heart clenches tightly at the memory of Neva and my chest feels clammy, though the interior of the great hall is warm.
Neva.
It was my fault.
I as good as killed my sister. And I don’t have the decency to remember the day my traitorous tongue condemned her. I’m truly a wicked girl and I imagine I will burn for all eternity, owing to the mistakes I’ve made.
I haven’t really been paying much attention to what’s being said around the table, too focused on strategic avoidance of Prince Achmed’s straying limbs. Throughout the first course of tomato bisque, he’d been rubbing his foot along my ankle and up the length of my calf, lifting my dress as he went. A soft smirk graced his lips while he ate duck swimming in a savory sauce, all the while replacing the foot with his hand, thankfully over the material this time.
I was finally forced to shove the offending hand away from my thigh when he tried to stray up—to play along the seam that runs between my thigh and hip. He’s been scowling at me ever since.
It’s not that he’s truly unattractive. He has a nice, angular face and the unmistakable bearing of royalty. His skin is a lovely golden-brown color, his angular jaw shaded with attractive stubble. His hair looks soft and touchable. His shoulders are broad, his waist cut lean, and muscle shows beneath his clothing. Most women would relish the thought of bearing his attentions.
But he’s not Draven. He’s not even a friend like Blakely Nonpareil of Sweetland, who may be the most charming prince I’ve ever met. I don’t know Achmed and thus far? I don’t care for him.
So it catches me entirely off guard when my Uncle drops the announcement casually into the conversation. I’m sure it has been building and I’ve been too dreadfully dense to notice, but still...
“What?” I repeat dully, staring up the line of the table to the place where my Uncle sits at the head.
He looks wrong there. Too short and too oily to sit in the chair of the late King Leon, lion-hearted king of Ascor.
Uncle Spyros’ pale face bunches like parchment. He’s not easy on the eyes on a good day. Dream manipulators like night hags and their male counterparts, the phobetors, range from plain to terrifyingly grotesque. When he’s angry, my uncle could scare the piss out
of any common variety hero at sixty paces and send them looking for a different villain to vanquish. Preferably in a land far, far away.
I’ve always worried there’s some of that in me, as well. I share blood with him, after all. I’m not beautiful, like Neva, but I have never been called ugly. Perhaps I’ve been fortunate and I’m just... human.
“Have you been listening, girl?” You know how I dislike repeating myself."
I flick a gaze to Anon’s position, behind Achmed, and I seize upon a ready excuse. “My maid, Elise, has been struck with an ague, Uncle. I’m afraid I may suffer the same fate in short order. I feel a bit faint.”
I tuck my chin and stare at my hands, affecting a slight tremor, trying to look like the most miserable wretch alive. It’s not difficult to fake. This whole affair is making me queasy and has been.
Uncle’s expression doesn’t soften. “Regardless, you will marry Prince Achmed within the week and return with him to his kingdom.”
I jerk my eyes up from my cuticles and stare at him in unflattering shock. I really should have paid attention while the arrangements were being discussed so I could object. Object and do so persistently. What in the name of Avernus is my uncle thinking? I knew this dinner would likely end in a marriage announcement but I did not expect… this!
“Uncle I can’t!” I splutter, shaking my head with vehemence. “You can’t send me away from Ascor! Marry me to a worthy suitor if you like, but I have to stay here. This… this is my home and these are my people! My responsibility. You can’t just…”
But I’m not given a chance to continue my sentence, because a bolt of pure agony strikes me between the eyes and it’s all I can do not to scream. The images are not half so potent as they might be, were I asleep. They’re still frightening enough to have me gnawing at the inside of my cheek to contain a whimper.
Mummy clutches the charred, crumpled figure to her chest, rocking it slowly. There’s a strange blankness to her face, as though she can’t quite form tears, though she wants to.
I cry enough for the both of us when I finally make out what’s in her arms. There’s barely anything left of the mangled body. Just charred bits held together in a blackened dress, like burned potatoes in a sack. The figure doesn’t appear human any longer. A tuft of black hair stands out pathetically on the scalp, still glossy in defiance of the body’s destruction. A pair of bloodstained slippers hang off her singed feet. They’re pretty satin, with double ties, the way I do them in the morning for her.
The slippers. The hair.
“No.”
The whimpered denial escapes me involuntarily. Tears begin to pour down my cheeks.
No. No. It’s not real. This can’t be happening… But it is. It did. This was exactly what happened.
Neva.
The scary monsters mummy hid me from me got Neva.
Mummy lifts her head and the recrimination in her gaze makes me flinch.
“You told,” she accuses. “Carmine, you told!”
“No,” I say, shaking my head uselessly. “No, I didn’t! I only told you!”
“Liar,” she hisses. “You told. And this is your fault.”
“My... fault?” I repeat the words as though they don’t make sense to me. Truly, I reject them. I can’t accept them… can’t accept the fact that my sister’s death is at my hands.
Neva is dead and it’s my fault.
Someone… someone must have overheard me telling mother. It’s the only rational explanation I can think. If I’d remained quiet, like sister had asked...
It is my fault. I have as good as killed her.
My fault, my fault, my fault...
When I drag myself out of the painful past and into the repellent present, I’ve seized fistfuls of my gown and am moments away from tearing the fabric to pieces. My eyes burn fiercely with the desire to cry. I can’t breathe. Can’t bring myself to look at anyone else at the table.
Uncle’s punishment is subtle and effective. Most of the guests at the table haven’t noticed what he’s done. They remain completely oblivious to my Uncle’s magic. Striking me with a psychic attack has more decorum than a physical blow.
I really prefer to be struck, if I’m honest. At least I see it coming. At least I know what to expect.
This was a favorite trick of mother’s, to use the Malaise on me, or really, anyone who displeased her. It’s not a concentrated attack, like the host of nightmares of which night hags are capable, but it strikes blindly as a smarting wound. And, of course, this is the memory that surfaces.
To most, it probably looks as though I’ve just tried to swallow my tongue.
“You were saying?” Uncle continues in a low, deadly voice.
“Nothing,” I gasp at last. “Nothing. I... I need to retire, Uncle. I don’t feel well.”
Uncle’s expression smooths into the non-threatening plainness to which I’m accustomed. After the attack he just lobbed at me? His expression rings false. Like calm waters with sharks swimming just beneath their surface. I shudder to think what he’ll do to me if I anger him twice in one night.
“Of course, sweetling. Prince Achmed, would you mind asking your valet to escort the Princess to her room?”
“No need,” I squeak, scrambling up from my chair. “I’ll find my way.”
I sway, truly dizzy.
Perhaps I am coming down with an ague. A sense of lassitude settles over me at once, almost pressing me flat to the floor. Still, I don’t want the enigmatical Anon with me. I’ll drag myself across the floor with my nails if I must. I need to be free of this room.
Staggering like a drunken sailor, I bypass the doors of the great hall. The second I’m out of sight, I get my wayward feet beneath me, kicking off the satin heels before running down the corridors like a hellhound nips at my heels.
THREE
CARMINE
My energy returns almost the instant I clear the dingy stone walls of the castle and burst into my gardens. It takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but I don’t need the faint silver shine of the moon to navigate my way. I know the garden path by heart, having walked it almost every day since I was old enough to do so.
I can’t claim sole credit for its beauty. Much of the original framework was put into place before my birth by Neva’s mother, the late Queen Camellia. She’s buried near the arbor, under a row of roses. The beautiful blooms are just starting to open. What remained of Neva is buried nearby, under a thicket of white roses that are among the most carefully tended in my garden.
I twist my gloved hands together guiltily. My hands feel strangely sticky, the way they rarely do any longer. I’ve always had problems with sweaty palms, which my mother always attributed to acute anxiety. The sweats happen most often when I’m around people, which is why I’m so often in the gardens.
The garden metaphor is apt, I suppose. This ought to have been Camellia’s space and Neva’s birthright. Instead, I’ve come in like purple loosestrife, choking out the original heir with my selfishness, taking over the place that is rightfully hers.
Though I never intended to, never meant to. Had I the chance, I would absolutely resurrect Neva and place her back in her position of first heir. But, alas, such chances are simply wishes lost on shooting stars.
The night blooming jasmine perfumes the air, as does the lingering scent of roses, and the sickly sweet scent of the Drecaine vines that have begun to sprout and wind their way along the high garden walls. They’re pleasant enough to smell and look at, but I don’t dare touch them. Deadly poisonous, they have to be handled with the utmost of care. I’m not quite sure how they made their way in, as they ordinarily grow only in Wonderland. I don’t question their presence here for long. Odd plants spring up in my garden now and then. I believe they are portentous of something—perhaps the fact that I may be a witch or perhaps one of my maids is. It would be an automatic death sentence, were Uncle to find out. So long as the vines stay on the walls, so long as they never escape this ga
rden, there’s no cause for worry.
The crisp evening air and familiarity of the place settles me, and I gain better footing the further I wander into my sanctuary. Perhaps it’s best that Uncle struck me with his power and I sought refuge here. I need to visit Neva, to speak to her, though I know nothing but the wind will answer me.
Still, I reach out to her. To tell her how awful this situation is—that I don’t want to leave. And I tell her how terrible Uncle is. And, of course, I apologize to her, such that I always do.
My Uncle only rules as regent because I haven’t turned twenty yet. In mere months, I will be of age to rule in Ascor. He’s only been permitted to rule in my stead because he’s my blood. He is not, however, the ruler of Ascor. Ascor is not like Delorood, which has handed its rule over to a foreigner after both the King and his heir died suddenly. Noble or not, King Bastion ought not be on the throne.
I reach the arbor at last. It’s a shady little alcove, climbing with yet more Drecaine vines. The wood is polished ebony and would blend almost seamlessly with the shadows, if not for the white blossoms that occasionally dot the vines. I’ve been trying to prune them before they bloom. Wonderland flowers talk and these vines are particularly ill-mannered.
“Whore,” one of them hisses at me the instant I sit down.
My eyes wheel to find it. It’s just a little thing, with a face barely peeking out from behind one lunate leaf. It’s only just begun to bloom. The bushy stamen would tell me it’s a male, even if the voice didn’t.
I scowl up at it. “There’s no need for name-calling.”
“You pruned my brother, you whore,” he hisses back. He’s quite the rude bloom. “I'll call you what I like.”
“If you continue to speak in such a way, I’ll prune you too!”
The thing looks like it’s scoffing at me. “If you don’t want us here, you shouldn’t summon us.”
