by Jean Lee
Charlotte shakes her head. She locks her arms around Arlen. She can’t talk. She can only sob into Arlen’s neck.
Ten years spent, building and rebuilding herself. All the scars upon her body. All the terror Uncle Mattie seared into her mind night after night for ten. Fucking. Years. She learned to shut herself away while he did what he did, be Elsewhere and Nowhere, and pull herself up through the ashes when he left. She turned her broken self into a weapon to break others. Even when she crossed the wall to face Orna and others in the Pits, she never felt so fucking scared as she did when Keller pressed himself against her.
Tonight was that first night locked in her room all over again, that look of I’ve already won shining out of those fucking glasses on Uncle Mattie’s face because Charlotte’s got nowhere to go. The new shadow in the doorway can bide the time all he wants. She’s gotta sleep at some point. She’s bound to be out of Rose House’s reach at some point. And then…
Charlotte’s never felt so weak, helpless, pathetic in her life. If not for Arlen’s arms wrapped tight around her and Dorjan’s hand squeezing her shoulder, she’d shatter, right here, right now.
“It’s what Keller promises to do.” Arlen’s growl matches his nephew’s as he says, “But we won’t let him. Never.”
“There’s no way Liam knows,” says Dorjan. “He’s only promised to go through with the wedding if they left you and Charlotte unharmed.”
“Well then,” Arlen’s tone lifts into something wickedly mischievous, causing Charlotte to look up from his soaked neck. “Perhaps someone should tell him.” She sees their shared smirks, the way fire dances in Arlen’s dark eyes. And his whole body, it feels so warm, just like Dorjan’s hand, like the green eye bright as summer grass, the blue eye open and free as the summer sky. Warm, and safe.
“Between the two of us we’re bound to find a window, once we get Charlotte out of here.”
Fear and shame still mix in her throat like old puke, but dammit, she can find some sort of voice to say, “Captain’s been keeping an eye on things from the lakeshore. I saw her before.”
“She could take you by Cairine and Aine…” Arlen stops when Charlotte shakes her head.
“No. They…he…” Deep breath, Charlie, you got this. Give YOUR fire the fuel. Contain them in words. Put all those fucking ice-tendrils in a fucking word-box that’s got four corners and a fucking lock. “I’m not some thing they can toy around with. I’m not a bitch to breed. I am…fucking pissed to shit and will make them sorry as hell they ever came here.”
Arlen hugs her again, and nods. “Still. I want you guarded while we reach Liam. Rose House is a powerful friend, but Keller’s intelligence frightens me too much to leave you alone anywhere now.”
Dorjan agrees. “Everyone’s going to be staying inside with those Celestine lingering in the Eastern Quarter.”
“How many?”
“Six—a hunting party.”
Arlen’s grin is positively lethal. “Then perhaps, Charlotte, there’s more for you to do that will drive the Artairs mad.”
The Voice in Charlotte’s heart laughs. The warmth of it cracks the ice in Charlotte’s muscles, and she feels that, yes, she can actually smile. “Goody for me.”
“Before I forget…” Dorjan reaches into his coat and pulls out Charlotte’s bone-knife. “You left this in the Pits. I was going to yell at you, but then you did have those lobster hands.”
Oh, the knife never felt so good in her hands before. Yeah, it doesn’t start on fire or make neat burning wings of doom, but it’s a blade, and it’s hers. “Cate’s the luckiest princeborn ever, having a brother like you,” Charlotte lets the thought out, surprising herself a little, but sorry for the slip? Nah.
Dorjan blushes. “Well then, here.” He pulls an extremely fast hat trick of hair tug, ear flick, nose tweak. “Consider yourself an Honorary Durant.”
And now Charlotte can’t help but hug them both, these two who were willing to fight alongside her before they had known her a single day. “Call me Charlie.”
44
Fly To Burn
Liam fills the kettle with water while Vincent hobbles over to the parlor and sinks into one of the hearthside chairs. Liam passes by him to hang the kettle and wonders how many more bruises and scars hide under Vincent’s suit as “reminders” to stay in line. He opens a window and rests his head a moment on the frame. Rain, blessed rain, is on its way. What a pity, with the matrignis dug by the scouts, rimmed with Arlen’s roses. Benches of earth, blanketed with grass, circle around to remind princeborns Aether’s Fire has given them Earth to rule. Yes, it would be a bloody pity if the matriginis were washed away, a pathetic mound of mud and dead petals…
But by Aether, there are Celestine breaking through the cloudbank. “Six…heart’s fire, there are six Celestine moving in Hunter Formation above the Eastern Quarter.” As orbs, they can crash through a stronghold’s wall with ease. Unfolded and limbed, they can effortlessly rip any Earthen creature in half, princeborns included.
Darra sways in and down into the chair next to the table. The distant firelight dances over her body with seductive grace. “Oh, la. They follow us everywhere. It’s quite boring.”
“Boring?!” Never in Liam’s exile has he seen so many at once. There had been an occasional visitor, but Liam merely stayed indoors as it hung about Lake Aranina before continuing on its way. But this many…mac an donais, what trouble is his family brewing?
Darra glances out the window, but not up. “I do hope the ashes don’t stain my dress too much. I want the train to pop with color as the rose petals fly away to burn.”
Fly away to burn. Oh…oh heart’s fire, that is what it is, isn’t it? This bargain I’ve made, this wedding, this life amongst these gods…I may taste the clouds, but I will only be burned, again and again. Liam swallows back his bile and sets to fussing with the tea tray. “We’ve some peppermint in the garden somewhere. I can do a working with it to help speed the sobering.”
“If I’m sober, I gotta actually feel this,” Vincent says with a sloppy thumb up at his neck. “In all our centuries, man, when have I ever wanted to be sober?”
Liam casts his mind back, and back, and back, and finds a film of vomit upon those memories, grotesque and repulsive. Even that day in the meadow has a slimy feel to it that drives him away. He doesn’t want to recall the years together as “them three mates.” “You made your blood dagger. No small feat, harvesting your own inner embers for the forge.”
Vincent’s got a cackle that can make any skin crawl. “With you gone, K saw me as a weak flank that needed arming. Told ’im Dad was ready to pass his stone ring on to me, but I think that pissed him off even more, knowing he’d never get one from your folks.”
The stone ring! By Aether’s Fire, Liam had entirely forgotten about Arlen’s old stone ring he’d retrieved from Orna. Where the deuce had it gone? He’d had it in the library after the battle, fallen asleep, then Charlotte woke him in the tunnel. Yet if his parents had found it, Father would be using it instead of his failing stone.
Charlotte carried me from the library through the tunnel, and in all this time never brought the stone into play. Perhaps she hid it as only she can…that mad, brilliant warrior queen…
A pit begins to form in Liam’s belly, but he ignores it to check the kettle.
“Don’t whine, Vincent,” Darra chides. “You couldn’t stop swinging it around for days when you were finished.”
Liam’s father jovially bullies Lord Aleron past the parlor’s archway and up the stairs without so much as a goodnight. But then, manners were never Father’s forte.
That honor belongs to Mother, who stands now in the archway. “I can see why you came in here. A calming space after such a chaotic day.” Her eyes rove over every one of them. “Vincent, why don’t you accompany me up the stairs? A little sleep cures much.”
“Not yet, Mother,” Liam says as he straightens his suit coat beneath the harness. “I want to see if Arlen h
as any peppermint in the garden for some tea. It will help Vincent feel much better for tomorrow, and I’m sure Darra wants everyone looking their best.”
Darra rolls her eyes. “Darling, please. What good can a little plant do? He’s a drunk, and always has been.”
Liam opens the door to the music room and looks over his shoulder. “Then perhaps you should not have served bloody veli in the first place. Darling.” He steps into the silent space, occupied only by dots and lines on pages. For a moment, he would have given anything to see Charlotte right there, playing the song of the sea, blowing hair out of her face as she goes, lips sliding from concentration to a smile at the sight of him…
His inner wings flutter weakly. He should not joke so cruelly with himself. It’s not like he can ever see her again, or hold her to skip stones together, to tease Arlen and Dorjan together, to do anything together at all.
A…it is strange, but…a pit in his belly becomes a hunger that starts to peck at his ribs. He’s not known such a feeling before, and he finds himself leaning on the piano, wondering if Father’s lightning has done more than scar him when it coursed through his blood sword and body before burrowing into the Pits.
“My son, you are not well.” Mother has followed him. Of course she has. “Listen to your mother and escort your bride upstairs.”
Peck, peck, peck. He’s got to…maybe for a minute upstairs, just to see if Charlotte’s okay, if he can just, steal himself away for a few bloody moments…peck, peck, peck. The pecking stings him more than Mother’s infernal echo inside his mind. The pecking chips away at the weights of the words until he can shirk them with ease, and say, “I promised Vincent some tea, and I meant it.” He walks to the porch for the garden without looking back.
And there is Arlen near the kitchen door. Panting? Why would he have been running? His eyes are damn near wild upon me, something must be wrong—
“What do we have here?” Mother steps down from the porch, her clothes like the sails of a crimson windjammer. “Tending your garden, are you?”
Arlen’s body steadies in a heartbeat. “I wanted to see how gentle the scouts were in harvesting the roses.”
They weren’t.
Every bud and blossom had been picked or cut of its bush, leaving nothing but a tangled wire of thorns weaving and winding beneath the windows. Rose House may have felt like a prison to Liam in the past, but it looks the part properly now, and it sickens him. “I cannot remember where you keep the peppermint. Vincent needs it.”
Arlen nods to the other side of the garden past the veranda. “The lakeshore would be my first choice to harvest it, but Orna trampled that little plot, I’m afraid. Still, there might be some this way. Treasa?” He holds out his arm. “Care to join us?”
Peck peck peck. How in heart’s fire can Liam talk to Arlen with Mother there?
But the question unnerves her, too. Her nostrils flare as she rests her hand flat upon his arm. A formal coupling that allows easy defense lest Arlen intends an ambush—always thinking of preservation, Mother Dearest, are you not? “Thank you.”
The garden mourns the loss of its roses; every flower smells less alive. Even the lavender’s sweetness is muted as they walk by, their petals ethereal in the moonlight. They approach the portion of the garden beyond the veranda and behind the East Wing, where the library sits dark and empty.
Peck peck peck. Why in heart’s fire did Arlen speak of a garden by the lake? You cannot grow mint by the beach…moving, moving the herbs he moved CHARLOTTE, he moved her, and he’s trying to tell me! Liam holds his hands behind his back so his mother cannot see them twitch, eager for flight. The lake is so close, yet…no. Aranina has Captain and the other Stellaqui, who’ve promised their protection for Charlotte. Liam will not leave Arlen to Mother’s wrath. There has to be another way.
Arlen kneels before one flower bed, eyes squinting. “Blast. Pardon me a moment.” He takes a handful of old leaves and rubs them between his hands. With a soft blow through his fingers the leaves light up, and he throws them into the air to be caught by the wind. The embers light the flower bed just long enough for him to spy the spearhead-shaped greens among the other kitchen herbs. “Here they are. And oh,” Arlen digs out a pale yellow flower with drooping buds by its root. “A little cowslip, too, for sleep. Should make the boy right as rain for tomorrow.” He holds both out to Liam, face a mask of calm civility. “Now mind you don’t lose the root. You’ll need the entire flower, or the tea won’t be strong enough to keep Vincent sleeping through the night.”
“Right, of course,” Liam says casually while tucking the plants into his coat pocket. No, I don’t, you cunning fox, the petals are for tea. But with some extra power at the root, the cowslip’s fragrance could put a room of folk to sleep. “I intended to use lavender, but cowslip’s a more potent choice.”
“Oh, heart’s fire, yes. You’d need at least a dozen lavender flowers to rival the cowslip’s root, and I doubt Vincent is that keen on lavender.”
Peck peck peck. Will the blood dagger cut the root? How to hide the working? If I only had the stone, I could do it all without being seen.
“You two and your flowers.” Mother stands a few feet away, arms crossed with one jeweled finger raised to her chin. “I don’t think you’ve ever spoken in such a way with your father about House business, Liam.”
“It’s a wonder you think he should, Bearnard’s control slipping as it is.” Arlen’s tone is flat, gaze unflinching.
A pause. Mother checks for any loose hairs from her bun. “He has made some foolish mistakes in recent years. And I don’t have to tell you how his stone ring sounds. Its power, too, is fading.”
“Frankly, Treasa,” Arlen offers his arm, and the three begin their way towards the patio door, “I’m surprised you didn’t permanently remove Bearnard as you fled the Isles.”
“We did not flee.”
Too quickly spoken, Mother, and you know it.
“Of course, you didn’t,” Arlen says. “But I imagine all that keeps Bearnard alive is his importance in those eternal plans of yours.”
Mother’s eyes narrow. Even the pecking within Liam stops under that firey gaze, though Arlen shows no signs of smoldering. “I’ve forgotten just how intelligent you are, Arlen.”
Arlen chuckles. “Thank Aether you did, or you would have certainly killed me long ago.”
Howling.
Movement tears through the forest away from the lake, as though night itself is fleeing.
“Dorjan!” Arlen bolts, slides, turns. “Liam, get your mother inside. DORJAN!” He tears around Rose House’s corner like any youth.
“What is…” Mother’s words freeze in her throat.
A light, round with jagged edges, as tall as Liam if not more so, is flying through the trees.
45
Meeting Stars
Cold spills onto Charlotte’s floor after her request to Rose House is answered. The bathroom is no longer the bathroom, but a slide down into darkness.
“I suppose a ladder is out of the question,” Arlen asks.
“Oh hush, Uncle, you’ll be fine.” Dorjan plops down and pushes, taking his childish “wheee!” into the dark along with him. “Ooof! Soil’s a bit damp, but nothing dangerous. Zilch for light.”
“On it.” Charlotte whisks into the closet. On the floor sits a box with a lantern, a jacket for her, and a jacket for Arlen. “Awesome, House.” She tosses the jacket to Arlen, sends the lantern down the slide.
A moment later the darkness gives way to a dull orange. “Cramped, but the tunnel’s long…I’m guessing that end is near the lake,” Dorjan says from below.
“Excellent.” Arlen winces when he dons the coat, but his fingers handle the buttons with ease. “I’ll sneak out through the library and meet you at the shore.”
“Why?” Charlotte motions to the slide. “We don’t need to separate.”
“No no,” Arlen’s voice almost cracks in pitch, his eyes looking at anything but the slide.
“You go ahead. I’ll be fine.”
Oh for cryin’ out— “Sir, there are three-year-old human kids who use slides aaaaaaall the time.” She does a quick side-step to cut off Arlen’s retreat, pinning him between her and the doorway down. “Aine’d LOVE that thing.”
Arlen glares. “I am not a child.”
Charlotte sighs. “True.”
She shoves him through the door and over the edge...probably a little too hard, but like he said, he’s no child. The panicky yelp he gives might say otherwise, but Charlotte ignores it, shutting the door and following suit.
The dirt slide lasts only a few heartbeats, and Charlotte lands with a soft thud in quiet light.
“I am just a bit sore, you know,” Arlen says as he shakes the dirt off his sleeves above Charlotte’s head.
Charlotte retorts with a raspberry and “Quit your bellyachin’, you’re fine.”
The three move in single file down the tunnel without another word. The soft movement of soil behind them is unsettling, but important—the slide is gone, meaning no one in Rose House can follow them.
Dorjan hands over the lantern to Charlotte, then presses his ear to the trap door above them. With a curt nod of his head for the all-clear, he opens it, filling Charlotte’s nostrils with damp night air soured by charred magic. Lake Aranina is but a few feet away, its surface ringed with silent ripples beneath an overcast sky. Charlotte doesn’t risk the lantern above ground, transforming the forest around them into an army of specters, probably shadowed Incompletes hiding in trees, of—
“Hail Captain,” Arlen whispers to her, “while I send word to Disraeli. Dorjan, keep guard.”
Dorjan’s green eye glows assent, and he takes his position facing the path to Rose House. Charlotte takes a handful of small stones and throws them into the water. As she watches Aranina’s surface for movement, a flock of tiny flames take flight from Arlen’s reflection, and it’s all Charlotte can do not to turn around to see what he did. No time anyway—a rock comes back and hits her in the arm. “Ow!’
