Heart of the Moors

by Holly Black

All along the table, faeries began to laugh. Aurora stared at him in astonishment, a smile growing on her face.

  “You know how to be polite,” Maleficent said finally. “I will give you that. You haven’t screamed once.”

  Phillip didn’t admit how close a thing that had been. “It’s been a delightful dinner.”

  “I am not sure I would go so far as all that,” Maleficent said.

  Aurora nudged her. “Godmother.”

  She took a deep breath. “Very well. You are welcome in the Moors. Aurora may even walk you to your horse, if she’d like. But I warn you, be careful what you say. This welcome can be revoked.”

  Phillip supposed that was as much as he could have hoped for. He pushed back his chair and stood. “Would you walk with me?”

  “With pleasure,” Aurora returned.

  Together, they walked away from the banquet table. A cloud of tiny faeries blew around them and away.

  “You were so very good tonight,” Aurora said. “And I really do think you impressed my godmother. And you ate—”

  “Let’s never speak of it!” he said, and she laughed.

  They walked on through the night. Aurora moved through the Moors nimbly, hopping easily from stone to stone.

  “I will miss you very much when you’re back in Ulstead,” she said.

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I did get a letter from home asking me to return,” he said, “but I haven’t replied to it yet. That’s not what I came to say to you the other night.”

  She turned to him, frowning. “What is it, then?”

  Phillip needed to say it the way he’d swallowed that mouse heart: all at once.

  “I love you,” he told her.

  Her entire demeanor changed, shoulders tensing. “You’re teasing me, aren’t you? Because of everyone’s fussing.”

  “I love you,” he repeated. “I love your laugh and the way you see the best in everyone. I love that you’re brave and kind and that you care more about what’s true and right than what anyone thinks—”

  “Stop, please,” she said, shaking her head. “Your kiss didn’t end the curse. It wasn’t True Love’s Kiss. That means you can’t love me. You can’t!”

  “We met once before that,” Phillip said. “And your aunts were shouting at me to kiss you. That can’t possibly count.”

  If anything, that made Aurora look more stricken. “It’s not fair! All the things I said in front of you—the way I acted. Sitting up alone at night and playing games before the fire in our underclothes! I would never have behaved that way if I thought—”

  Phillip felt cold all over, cold that extended all the way from his heart to his fingertips. He had thought it was possible that Aurora wouldn’t return his feelings, but he hadn’t expected her to be horrified by his confession.

  “I see,” he said stiffly, and made a formal bow. “I should not have spoken. I will take my leave of you.”

  “Yes,” Aurora agreed. “You should go.”

  And numbly, trying to show nothing of what he felt on his face, he did.

  The day of the festival dawned early. Aurora awoke, kicking off her blankets. She flung open her windows, letting in a rush of sweet air that carried the scents of blooming flowers and baking bread.

  None of it made her feel any better.

  Every time she thought of Phillip, she had a curious sensation in her chest, as though she were wearing a too-tight corset. And it seemed she couldn’t put thoughts of him aside.

  The night before, she’d found herself gazing down at the fountain at the edge of the royal gardens, hoping that she would see Phillip waiting for her there. If he had been, she would have gone down and tried to explain—although she wasn’t sure exactly what she would have said.

  Marjory came in, smiling. “Are you eager for the festival to begin?”

  “Yes,” Aurora said, trying to focus on that. “Today the humans and the faeries will dance together and eat together. Surely they will see that we’re not so different.”

  Aurora thought of what Nanny Stoat had told her: We want enough food in our bellies to be strong, enough warmth in the winter to be hale, and enough leisure to have joy.

  But the thought of food and leisure and joy made her mind wander to the monstrous banquet of the night before. Phillip had been such a good guest that everyone had liked him. And she’d been so happy.

  Until the end.

  Being in love had nearly destroyed Maleficent. Denying love had destroyed King Stefan. And King Stefan’s inability to love Queen Leila had probably ruined her life, too.

  Love was terrifying in its power.

  Love was just plain terrifying.

  Marjory smiled at her, looking a little skeptical. “I hope so, Your Majesty.”

  For a moment, Aurora couldn’t recall what they’d been talking about. Then she remembered. Humans and faeries, getting along.

  “They will,” she insisted. “They must.” She had to get something right.

  For now, Aurora insisted on wearing a simple dress of gray wool that buttoned all the way from her neck to the floor, with pocket slits that showed the red lining.

  “I will come back and put on my prettiest gown for the festival, but there’s so much still to do,” Aurora said, pulling it on.

  “My lady, no one expects you to get dirty,” Marjory replied.

  “But I mean to help out any way I can,” Aurora said, “and there’s no telling what that might entail. I promise to return.”

  “See that you do,” Marjory chided. “Wouldn’t you be a shock to your people, dressed as you are.”

  Moments later, Aurora was down the stairs and in the kitchens. Despite her head cook’s assurances that she wasn’t needed, she helped take pies out of the oven, climbed a ladder outside to stir enormous vats of soup, and even turned a spit to help cook a mess of fresh-caught fish. Feeding the whole village was an undertaking, and the kitchens were a buzzing hive of activity.

  After a breakfast of a bowl of cream, which she shared with a castle cat, Aurora hastened out to the gardens, where servants were setting up long tables and benches for the hundreds of people expected to come. Soldiers were setting up stations to make sure no one brought weapons onto festival grounds. Ribbons and garlands of flowers were being strung from the trees.

  Knotgrass, Flittle, and Thistlewit flew around, enchanting ever more ribbons and blooms. An abundance of flowers sprouted from the tops of poles. Ribbons wrapped themselves all the way around the supports of tents and the backs of chairs and occasionally the hilt of a guard’s sword, to his surprise and consternation.

  “Isn’t it glorious?” asked Knotgrass. With a wave of her hand, more peonies rained down around a maypole, carpeting the grass in pink. “I do hope everyone behaves themselves.”

  Aurora hoped so, too, although she saw Thistlewit turn several bouquets of peonies into daisies. Flittle, for her part, was sneaking off to add bluebells everywhere she could, but at least she wasn’t changing either of her sisters’ flowers. It did seem to Aurora that there were a lot of flowers and a lot of ribbons—and more all the time. The maypole was starting to look a little bit top-heavy, and the tents were sagging under the weight of the many flowers tied to their supports.

  “Aunties,” Aurora said, “perhaps you’ve done enough decorating.”

  The three pixies buzzed around, frowning. “Oh, no, my dear. There’s so much still to be done,” said Flittle.

  “Though it does take a lot of our magic,” Knotgrass said. “Not that we begrudge it to you.”

  “Oh, no,” said Thistlewit. “We would work our fingers to the bone to be the least help.”

  “As we always have,” Flittle put in, not to be outdone. “The sacrifices that we’ve made—”

  “I have an idea,” Aurora said, interrupting them before they got too far along with their protestations of abnegation. “The riddle contest will be the first event of the festival. Perhaps you three can be in charge of that.”

&nb
sp; “Yes, of course!” Thistlewit said, drawing herself up with great self-importance. “It’s our pleasure to be helpful.”

  Aurora watched them fly off with a heavy heart.

  She’d once hoped Phillip would win the riddle contest—in fact, she’d chosen riddles as the sport because of him. But now her thoughts were tangled. She didn’t know what she wanted.

  Marjory waved to get her attention, drawing her from her thoughts. Aurora was surprised to see her marching across the lawns of the castle. “The kitchen staff said that I would find you here,” the girl said sternly, putting her hands on her hips. “You must hasten! The first guests will be here soon, and you’re still in that old thing.”

  Aurora glanced at the sun, which had dipped lower in the sky than she’d thought. Musicians and jugglers were setting up on the grass. Her stomach growled from a lack of food, and she recalled that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  “Very well,” Aurora said. “I’m hastening.”

  In her rooms, her dress was spread out on her coverlet, along with smallclothes and dressings for her hair.

  Marjory insisted that Aurora take a bath and be perfumed before being laced into a gown of deep blue with a tight bodice, puffed sleeves that narrowed at her upper arms and ran to her wrists, and a low neckline that revealed her finely woven white chemise. Down her arms ran embroidery of leaf-covered vines blooming with white and pink flowers. When she moved, her full skirt swirled around her.

  As Aurora drank a cup of tea and ate a slice of bread with cheese, Marjory braided her hair loosely down her back with blue ribbon, then tucked sprays of white flowers into it.

  “You look like you stepped out of a story,” said Marjory, pinching Aurora’s cheeks to bring up the color in them.

  “Now you sit down,” Aurora said, rising, “and let me tie ribbons in your hair.”

  Marjory blushed. “Your Majesty, that wouldn’t be proper.”

  “Oh, it won’t take a moment,” Aurora said, “and we have so many that would go well with your dress.”

  Marjory allowed herself to be convinced to sit and let Aurora weave ribbons through her hair. When they were done, Marjory looked into the queen’s mirror with a shy smile, turning her head back and forth.

  “Do you have plans for the festival?” Aurora asked.

  “My sisters are coming up from the mill,” Marjory said delightedly, “and we’re going to play all the games and listen to the musicians. I hear there’s a wonderful storyteller that has a tale of being turned into a magical cat!”

  Aurora supposed it was a good sign that the man hadn’t fled the kingdom. Maybe her godmother was right, and the experience had taught him a lesson and not harmed him any.

  She hoped that was the case, at least.

  And yet it was with some trepidation about the day ahead that she lifted the golden flower-and-leaf crown that signaled her as queen of Perceforest and the Moors and placed it on her head. With one last smile at Marjory, she headed for the palace grounds.

  Musicians were playing, and jugglers were tossing shining balls into the air. Guests had arrived. Courtiers walked along the grounds in groups, with pages and maids by their sides. Villagers wandered on the grass, giggling and pointing. Children ran in packs, getting their best clothes dirty. And she saw groups of faeries, too. Faeries made of moss and bark. Pixies and hobs. Foxkin and wallerbogs and hedgehog faeries. The humans gave them a wide berth, but they were there. All of them together, receiving pennies and cakes and cups of cider from palace servants.

  The cooks had begun to set out the first course of entremets. These divertissements—like castles of spun sugar, and pies that released live doves into the sky, and swans that seemed to breathe real fire—caused spectators to gasp in surprise. The children, especially, many of whom had not so much as tasted sugar before and had never seen such things, were in transports of delight.

  Lady Fiora walked up to Aurora, along with Lady Sybil. Lady Fiora’s black hair was braided up on her head, and she wore a gown of the palest pink. Lady Sybil wore yellow with matching ribbons and a hair caul of gold net.

  “You look splendid, Your Majesty,” exclaimed Lady Sybil.

  “As do you,” said Aurora, grinning. “Both of you.”

  “But you’re not wearing the necklace,” said Lady Fiora. “The one my brother had made for you. Didn’t you like it?”

  “I thought the iron was inappropriate for today,” said Aurora stiffly.

  “Ah,” Lady Fiora said, changing the subject with a nervous laugh. “Are you ready for the contest?”

  Lady Sybil took Aurora’s hand. “Oh, you must come. Everyone’s so eager.”

  Aurora looked toward the crowd gathered around a stage and saw Knotgrass flying over them. “Are there many contestants?”

  Lady Sybil giggled. “You’ll see!”

  As they drew Aurora closer, she spotted Lord Ortolan waiting for her by the stage. Her aunties were there, too. The crowd gave a cry when Aurora stepped up. She grinned and waved, and the shouting got louder.

  Knotgrass buzzed up to her. “Oh, Aurora, your friends had so many good ideas for riddles!”

  “Ah, good,” she said, realizing that though she’d asked her aunties to arrange things and hoped it would keep them from burying the festival in flowers, she had no idea just what they’d arranged for the contest.

  “My queen!” Lord Ortolan said, pitching his voice loudly so that the audience heard him. “Your subjects await the opening contest of the festival—a contest to win your hand for a single dance, the first of today!”

  At that pause, Aurora jumped in, turning to the crowd. “Thank you for coming. I hope that all of you—my dear subjects—will drink and eat and laugh together.”

  Another cheer went up at her words.

  Flittle, Knotgrass, and Thistlewit began explaining the contest. Many villagers and courtiers and faeries alike waited in an area separated from the rest of the crowd by ribbons, having signaled their intention to vie for a dance with the queen. From young boys to elderly men with canes, to several people Aurora suspected of being ladies with their hair tucked up in hats, to Fair Folk, at least two dozen contestants were ready to answer riddles. Count Alain was among them, leaning against the stage and whispering with three young noblemen Aurora recognized from court. Robin, too, had come, probably to represent the Moors. Possibly to confound Count Alain.

  “I see that Prince Phillip won’t be taking part,” Lord Ortolan observed to Aurora in an undertone. “I heard a rumor that—”

  “Yes. He is taking his leave of us soon,” she whispered back, trying not to let him see that it bothered her.

  “For our first round,” said Flittle, “I shall ask a riddle and each of you will come and tell me the answer. Answer incorrectly and you leave the stage. Answer right and you remain a player.”

  She intoned the first of the riddles:

  I saw a being

  Of shining beauty.

  She came over the roof

  And through my window.

  Then west she went,

  Hurrying home.

  With her gone,

  Night departed.

  Each contestant came forward to whisper an answer to Flittle. Some she nodded at. Others she sent away. The first round eliminated a little under half the contestants.

  “The answer is the moon,” said Thistlewit triumphantly. There were murmurs in the audience—perhaps from people who’d guessed correctly, perhaps from those who were sorry to see someone they knew lose. “I shall be the one to speak the next riddle.”

  She did so:

  Bent over as I am,

  Yet I am meant for fighting.

  Loosen my string and I stand up taller.

  But unstring me and I serve no one.

  To do your bidding, I must be cleverly tied,

  And never will I work alone.

  More muttering followed from the audience. Aurora supposed that they were whispering guesses to one another and hoped the
y would not be so loud that the contestants would overhear.

  The words of this riddle stuck in her head. Perceforest had been on the brink of war with the Moors throughout most of her childhood—and though she had been well out of it, plenty of these folks had not. And before that, things had been worse.

  “The answer is a bow, you clever dears!” Thistlewit continued.

  The initial group had been cut down quite a bit. Remaining were Count Alain and one of the other nobles, a Baron Nicholas; three men from the town, who gave their names as John, Jack, and Mark; and Robin, from the Moors.

  Aurora felt a strange hollowness.

  “What a good idea this is,” Lady Sybil said, clapping her hands together. “I know an excellent riddle. May I ask one?”

  “Of course.” Thistlewit smiled at the girl, then addressed the crowd. “Now that we’ve narrowed down our contestants, we will ask each one a riddle. They must answer it correctly in front of everyone or be eliminated. Fail and the same riddle will pass to the contestant at your left.”

  Robin was up first.

  “Go ahead, Lady Sybil,” Thistlewit said encouragingly.

  With a giggle, she began:

  She is sharply defended

  Yet dies because of her beauty

  And her mysterious perfume.

  She will live on in poetry,

  Decorating my mantel with her grave.

  “That’s quite grim,” Lord Ortolan said, startled.

  But the crowd seemed to enjoy it, cheering for her as she said the words.

  Robin bowed with a flourish as he stepped forward to answer. “We faeries love a good riddle. And we particularly love one as pretty as this. The answer is a rose.” He waved his hand in the air, calling forth three roses. They were light blue and larger than any Aurora had seen away from the Moors, including the ones Maleficent had caused to grow at the borders.

  The crowd cheered as he gave one to Thistlewit, one to Aurora, and the last to the blushing Lady Sybil.

  Count Alain was the next contestant to be tested as Robin walked to one side of the stage.

  Lady Fiora touched Thistlewit’s shoulder. “May I ask one next?”