The Girl Who Chose

by Violet Grace

  Published by Nero,

  an imprint of Schwartz Publishing Pty Ltd

  Level 1, 221 Drummond Street

  Carlton VIC 3053, Australia

  enquiries@blackincbooks.com

  www.nerobooks.com

  Copyright © Kasey Edwards and Christopher Scanlon 2019

  Kasey Edwards and Christopher Scanlon assert their right to be known as the authors of this work.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior consent of the publishers.

  9781760640255 (paperback)

  9781743820889 (ebook)

  Cover design by Design by Committee

  Text design by Tristan Main

  Typesetting by Akiko Chan

  Cover image © aleshin

  To Ivy and Violet.

  Real love doesn’t clip your wings,

  it encourages you to fly.

  contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  FACT

  The Voynich manuscript is an illustrated codex, handwritten in an unknown writing system. It has been studied by scholars and cryptographers for centuries but no one has been able to decipher it. Yet.

  If anyone ever tells you you’re ‘The One’, check the fine print. Trust me, people only call you that when they want you to do something – usually something against your better judgement.

  That’s the thought hopping around my head as eighty thousand voices erupt in a deafening roar, echoing off the stone pillars of the outdoor amphitheatre at Windsor Castle. They’re all cheering for me.

  I feel like such a fraud.

  The stadium is standing room only. Same goes for the grass arena below. Every face is turned towards me, as I look down from the royal box in a gown with flecks of burnished gold and copper, my flowing silk skirt carefully crafted to look like liquid sunshine. Some have come for the ritual, to honour the birth of summer. Many of them have come just for a glimpse of me.

  I raise my hands above my head and a hush falls over the crowd. I reach down inside myself, feeling the Art well up from my core, channelling it through my body towards my outstretched hands. Blue sparks dance around my fingertips. I flick my hands, unleashing two massive bolts of dense blue flame into the still-dark sky. Manipulating the flames, an artist controlling her brushstrokes, I fashion an enormous circle followed by the flaming head of a unicorn within it. The insignia of House Raven scorches the ceiling of the world with electric blue.

  I’ve been pulling this little stunt for a year now, and it hasn’t gotten old. As the only known fairy-human in history, I can do what no other Fae can: channel the Art without a chromium instrument. More than this, my humanity gives me unparalleled power. Where ordinary Fae depend on human morality to cast their spells, my humanity means I am my own magical power source.

  I conjure a fire spell, and one hundred pre-prepared copper pots filled with kindling burst alight. Fiery tongues lick the darkness, framing the flaming unicorn insignia. The crowd gasps again.

  Caught up in the colour and the spectacle, I can almost forget – forget what I did, and what I didn’t do.

  Almost.

  I give a sideways glance to the Chancellor, who, as usual, is standing too close. He gives me the briefest nod of approval. My crown slips down my forehead, nearly covering one eye. I resist the urge to nudge it back up. That would be unqueenly. One of the many things I do that are unqueenly; it’s quite a list. I’ve mentioned to the Chancellor several times now that the crown doesn’t fit. But apparently symbolism is more important. This crown, set with rubies and diamonds that look like the leaves and berries from an oak tree, belonged to my mother, Queen Cordelia, and to her mother before her, and all the past Fae queens of Albion, dating back hundreds of years.

  Don’t get me wrong – being Queen comes with some serious perks. The food is good. I get to call Windsor Castle home, and spend my day performing for adoring crowds.

  But that, right there, is the problem: it’s all a performance. Queens apparently have all the power in the world, but try to exercise that power to do something useful and you’ll get some minder with no concept of personal space gently but insistently correcting your path back to pageantry.

  I had stupidly thought that things would change after my coronation. That the Order would look at me differently, actually listen to me. But no. Even though I defeated my uncle Damius’s army and secured the throne, they still don’t trust me. The Order only wants me on the throne so Damius can’t claim it.

  The truth is, I’m not The One. I’m the last resort.

  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about walking away from this whole royalty gig, in search of a place I feel like I actually could belong. But I owe it to Gladys to stay and do my duty.

  And I’ll never be reunited with my mother if I run away.

  An itch between my shoulderblades begs for my attention. I should ignore it. Stick to the plan. Avoid making a scene.

  Be queenly and all that crap.

  But then I look down at the steps leading from the royal box. The steps I am to gracefully descend, holding my voluminous skirts in one hand and the dainty bouquet I’m about to receive from the sweet little child planted in the crowd in the other, and …

  Nope.

  I won’t do it.

  Not this time.

  My iridescent wings burst from my back. They unfurl behind me, filling me with both relief and joy. I hear the Chancellor expel a disapproving sigh as my outstretched wing brushes past him, nudging him out of the way. Stifling a laugh, I launch off the royal box and soar over the crowd.

  I’m supposed to keep a certain distance from my subjects – close enough for them to see me, but too far for them to actually interact with me. The Chancellor says it adds to the wonder and mystery.

  It just makes me feel lonely.

  I hear the beating of wings and see the Protectorate guards launch skyward towards me. I’ve caught them by surprise. Jules, First Officer of the Protectorate and one of the only friends I’ve ever had, reaches me first, flying alongside me. Her sharp eyes tell me that she’s unsettled by my break from protocol. But the concentration etched across her face tells another story. She’s channelling the Art to pretend she has fairy wings. Flying with simulated wings requires a highly sophisticated spell and takes a lot of effort. If we were alon
e, she would trans to her unicorn form, but doing so in front of this crowd – any crowd – would be a death sentence.

  I land in the middle of the assembled throng. Jules’s wings disappear as she touches down beside me. A hush falls over the people as they stare at me in wonder. The intensity of their fascination tips me off balance and I mumble out a clumsy ‘Hi, how are you?’ and ‘Thanks for coming.’ Jules inches closer to me, alert in her brown leather bodysuit uniform.

  We’re surrounded by Fae who have dressed up in their finest clothes, but their gowns and suits are old and worn. I want to rip off the diamond and ruby choker around my neck and give it to one of them. But I don’t. Partly because I’d never hear the end of it from the Chancellor, but mostly because giving out treasure as though I’m handing out sweets seems about as obscene as possessing it in the first place.

  I walk through the crowd, people parting left and right, creating a path. Officers of the Protectorate hover overhead, the males in their unicorn form, the females flying with their fairy wings. A middle-aged woman reaches out to me, grabbing my hands. Jules steps forward, but I signal with my eyes for her to stand back.

  ‘Bless you, Francesca the Glorious.’

  Glorious is the last thing I feel. Outside the plush palace grounds, Trinovantum lies in ruin. It would be so simple to rebuild using the Art. But I’m learning that – just like in the human realm – poverty and inequality aren’t problems of resources or capability. They’re failings of will.

  The woman hands me an enormous flower. ‘Your mother,’ she says. ‘White roses were her favourite.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ is all I can manage with the lump in my throat. I take the rose and flinch as its razor sharp thorn slices through my palm. Pure terror spreads across the woman’s face as blood seeps from my hand.

  ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty, I beg you.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I assure her, quickly conjuring a spell to stop the bleeding and de-escalate the situation. I don’t fully close the wound. I’ll need a trained healer to do that if I want to avoid a scar.

  ‘I will cherish this rose,’ I say to the woman. And I will. Any link to my mother, no matter how tenuous, makes me feel closer to her.

  I continue through the crowd, Jules walking at my side. I overhear murmured retellings of how I defeated Damius and cured the pyct virus. The story grows every time.

  People push children wearing rags forward, handing me more gifts – flowers, cards, handmade figurines in my likeness.

  I accept as many gifts as I can hold, tears prickling my eyes, overwhelmed by their generosity.

  As the first rays of light paint the sky, the Supreme Executor fires a flaming arrow from the royal box down to a gong on the amphitheatre stage. The gong explodes with flames and ringing reverberates around the amphitheatre.

  Some in the crowd raise their hands in the air. Others pull bells, flutes and shakers from their pockets. As one harmonious group they look to the sky, and sing a song of hope and new beginnings. From the impoverished Fae on the grass to the high-horns sitting in the stadium, they are all playing the same notes and reciting the same words. I find myself singing along. Even though this is the first time I have participated in the birth of summer, I feel like I’ve known the words all my life.

  A wall of Protectorate guards and members of the Order fall in behind me, separating me once again from the crowd. My people continue to sing as I make my way back to my chambers through a thick blanket of early-morning mist. The sun has fully risen now, the bright morning light reflecting off the palace windows. The Chancellor catches up, walking too close by my side, his face red.

  ‘That breach in protocol was ill-advised, Your Majesty,’ he says stiffly.

  ‘Which one?’ I say lightly as we enter the palace and pass through the gilded halls.

  He pauses and leans on his walking stick as if conducting a mental audit of all my transgressions.

  ‘My dear Majesty,’ he says, trying again, ‘I fear you do not fully understand your importance – your value. We all have a role to play. Yours is to give your people something to believe in.’

  We reach my chambers and I stop, turning and locking him and his cronies in my gaze.

  ‘Something to believe in? Not someone?’

  He’s not interested in me as a person. I’m just an idea. A mannequin who can be wheeled out in front of cheering crowds to mark the change in seasons and distract them from how little is being done to help improve their lives.

  ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty, I misspoke. But everything was going as planned; it’s just that your flight was, well, unnecessary.’ The words are spilling out of his mouth now, trying to make amends. ‘You must understand, Your Majesty, we script and rehearse these events carefully so that nothing should ever happen.’

  I open my door and step into my chambers.

  ‘That’s exactly the problem,’ I say over my shoulder. ‘Nothing ever happens.’

  I shut the door summarily behind me and slump back against the wood panelling. Closing my eyes, I draw in a deep breath, trying to quell the anger rising within me.

  My heartbeat slows down, and I hear the faintest sound of breathing.

  Someone is in my room.

  The Art fires within me, and my wings flare in anticipation.

  Heavy velvet curtains are blocking out the early-morning light, pitching my room into shadowless darkness.

  And then I feel him. Or rather, I feel what his presence does to me. The longing that intensifies whenever he is near.

  Tom.

  I release the breath caught in my throat.

  ‘Hi.’ One word of his baritone voice is enough to do things to my insides. It always does.

  My wings fold back smoothly into my body as I place the white rose on the table by the door. Golden light flashes and my bed chamber fills with lit candles, hovering in the air, shifting around me as I move. They cast a warm glow on the most beautiful face I have ever seen. The rest of him doesn’t suck either.

  My eyes soak in every detail as he sits on the edge of my bed in a denim kilt and tight black t-shirt. From his unlaced army boots all the way up his long, muscular body to the tip of his spiky blond fringe, he is perfection.

  In so many ways he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

  And the worst.

  When I first returned to Iridesca, I wouldn’t let Tom even be in the same room as me. Extreme, I know, but with Gladys’s dying breath, she told me that saving the realms required sacrifice. If Tom and I are together, something bad will happen. Just what, I have no idea. Gladys took the secret to the grave. All I know is what she told me as she lay crumpled on the floor of the butterfly house: if I allow myself to have the one I want more than anything, the world as we know it could end and it’ll be on me. That sort of baggage is not something I want to carry. I was sure I’d find a way around it. Bending rules and getting around systems is what I’m good at. But after spending a year wading through books and manuscripts on the Art I’m no closer to even understanding Gladys’s warning, let alone finding a loophole.

  For the first few weeks after my coronation, Tom and I wrote letters. This quickly became achingly unsatisfying. Long distance was never going to work for us. Like fire and paper, we’re drawn to each other.

  So we became more creative. It’s amazing how many times you can accidentally bump into the one person you’re trying to avoid – even when you’re living in a palace with more rooms than Airbnb’s database and about fifty squillion square kilometres of gardens. But even though we’ve now spent loads of time together without the world ending, there are still lines that I’m not prepared to risk crossing.

  Standing up from my bed, Tom steps towards me. I tense. It’s not that I don’t trust him being so close to me. I don’t trust myself.

  He reaches for my hands as he slips into healer mode. ‘Let me.’

  I allow him to take my hand into his enormous, warm palms. He turns my hand over, inspecting the cut
from the rose thorn.

  The Guild of Master Healers offered to post Tom anywhere in Albion after the battle at the V&A Museum last spring. The Chancellor personally presented Tom with a number of very attractive options – all of them outside the city of Trinovantum, far from me. But Tom opted to work in the Protectorate infirmary at Windsor Castle. He said he wanted to serve those who served the Crown.

  His finger brushes over the cut on my hand and the walls close in, making it hard to breathe. He’s just doing his job, but my body hasn’t got the memo. Heat and urgency radiate from my palm, up my arm and straight into my core.

  Every cell in my body aches to return to that night, that one night when he leaned into me and spoke the words I didn’t even know I needed to hear. That night he looked at me and touched me like I mattered.

  I’ve tried so many times to recreate that moment in my mind, yearning to feel that way again. Just one more time. But it’s gone and I can’t get back to it. If only I had held onto him just a little bit longer and a little bit tighter, maybe it would have been enough to get me through each day and night without him.

  I look up at his face; huge ice blue eyes starting to dilate, long nose in perfect proportion to his angular bone structure, and his lips, red and full, parting slightly.

  Maybe he’s not being so professional after all.

  I swallow hard.

  He swears and turns away, his back muscles rippling through his shirt.

  When he turns back, he’s composed, businesslike. Golden light streams from his watchband, caressing my wounded hand. My skin tingles as the dermis knits back together, leaving no trace of a cut.

  ‘Thank you,’ I whisper.

  Candlelight dances across his face as he stares down at me through thick eyelashes, sensing, appraising.

  I stare back, torn in two. I should move my hand away now.

  Really, I should.

  Tom’s thumb brushes lightly over my fingers; soft, safe, enticing. It’s such a tiny gesture, meaningless and momentous at the same time.

  My head spins. I can’t think, all I can do is want.

  ‘I should go.’ His voice is raw, unsteady.

  ‘No, wait.’ I’m suddenly panicked at the thought of him leaving. I can’t be with him, but I can’t be without him either.