by Ryan Graudin
“I’m sorry, too,” I whisper.
He pulls back, looks at me.
“I d-didn’t . . .” Quiver, shake goes my voice—as undone as the rest of me. I’m glad he doesn’t ask about it, since I don’t think I could bear telling him I almost died. Again. “I didn’t mean those things I said.”
Richard’s hand slides down to mine, weaving our fingers together. “You did.”
“I—”
“You meant some of them,” he says. “And you’re right. You’ve given up so much for my sake and I—I haven’t been there. Not the way you need me to be.”
“Richard—” My throat squeezes.
He goes on, “All this king stuff—it’s getting to me. I’ve been so caught up in trying to lead this country. Trying to keep everything in balance. And I’ve left you behind. Not to mention becoming a first-rate workaholic prat in the process.”
“Second-rate. At the most.” A smile flickers over my lips.
“That’s awfully generous of you.” Richard smiles back: all light. His fingers knot tighter in mine. “Do you want me to give up the crown? Because I will, for you. I could abdicate. Pass the throne to Anabelle. We could find a little cottage in the Highlands. No cameras. No press. Just us. For as long as we wanted.”
At first I think he’s speaking in metaphors: a poet’s language. But then Richard looks at me. The burn of those candles still lingers in his eyes.
He’s dead serious.
I can’t help but imagine it: Waking up late in rumpled sheets. Drinking flasks of Earl Grey on a loch’s stony shores. All the time in the world to talk, to kiss, to rest. Together.
But I think of Lights-down and the Reforestation Bill. Magic-fusion batteries and looped Faery lights. I think of all our conversations with Queen Titania, imagining new worlds. Resurrecting Camelot.
I think of the poisonous blossom pinched in Julian Forsythe’s fingers. I think of the Labyrinth’s empty cell, its escapee loose in the world: impossible, dangerous, and angry. I think of the marching protestors, their hands tearing at my dress. I think of Blæc’s teeth, how they too almost tore me to shreds. How wide the gap is between these two worlds.
Richard—with the blood magic sleeping in his veins, with his fiery passion, eloquence, and ideas—is the perfect bridge between magic and mortal. The thread holding the kingdom’s future together. No one, not even Anabelle or Titania, could keep things from unraveling if he surrendered the throne.
“The kingdom needs you,” I tell him.
“None of this is worth it, Embers.” He tucks a stray hair behind my ear. “Not if it means losing you.”
My eyes hold Richard’s, dig deep past the royal mask—one he’s worn ever since his father’s death. It fits so well now that even members of Parliament have a hard time remembering he just turned eighteen. But here in the wavering candlelight he looks young. And tired.
I’m not the only one who’s made sacrifices.
So I offer up four words, small and whispered: “I’m here to stay.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he murmurs. His fingers keep threading through my hair, forging paths and shivers. “We need some time away, together. Let’s take a holiday after the coronation.”
“Sounds perfect,” I tell him. “I’ll let Titania know she’ll be liaisonless for a few days.”
“Make it a few weeks.” His fingers pause. “Why did Titania call you away? You were just at her court on Wednesday.”
Part of me wants to tell him about the empty cell and Guinevere’s tragic insanity, how it’s poisoned my dreams. But Titania’s order rings clear and true in my head: Tell him nothing.
As much as I dislike her orders, the Faery queen is right. I can’t unload all these extra worries onto Richard. Not when he’s already awake most nights, pacing halls and carving deeper shadows beneath his eyes.
None of this makes me feel better about lying. “There was a problem with some of the second-stage battery prototypes. The shipment of battery shells wasn’t gutted out well enough before it was sent to court. Every Fae who tried to get near it was crippled with nausea. They summoned me to dispose of it.”
“None of them started going mad, did they?”
I shake my head. “Lights-down is giving them more strength to resist. It won’t be as easy for the older ones to unravel. They’re strong enough to work with metal now.”
“Good.” The king sighs. “We don’t need another insane immortal running about. Especially now.”
Truth lurches high in my gut. I think of the aura staining the walls of the Labyrinth: insane immortal, signed and sealed. I think of how the escapee is running about, probably starting a magical killing spree as we sit here.
Tell him nothing.
I push all of this back down, into the deepest corners of myself. Far from him. “We try to keep our crazy Fae quota to one per year. Preferably less.”
Richard laughs: a warm, sunny sound. “Do you know how much I love you, Embers?”
His touch slides along the angles of my cheeks, my collarbone. The thrill of him—familiar, yet somehow always new—soaks into every pore. Becomes my light and center in this dark room.
His fingers are knuckle-deep in my hair, and he pulls my face so close I can count each summer freckle still lurking on the bridge of his nose. The flames on the table soak into his eyes, smelt them like copper.
His lips are warm like sunlight, soft like cashmere. They melt into me. The places his lips have been shimmer with cold. Richard’s breath scarves my neck and his kisses trail down, forging new paths all the way to my collarbone. My breaths quicken and my heart is a smithy hammer. Beating hard. Forging new, brilliant things.
Want rises inside me, like the first surge of an unleashed spell. Swelling, aching, and strong. Sparkling within my chest. I grasp at the settee cushions, pull even closer to him.
I rake my fingers through Richard’s hair. A sound rises from his throat: deep, guttural. I start fumbling with the zipper on the back of my shredded dress, just as he goes rigid.
Richard scrambles away from me so fast I nearly tumble onto the floor.
“No.” He’s breathing hard, as if he’s swallowing something back. “Not now.”
I’m blinking, trying to make sense of those few, blunt words. “What’s wrong?”
He shuts his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at me. “I just—can’t.”
My lungs are breathless. A vacuum sucked dry. The sparkle in my chest has vanished; in its place is a low ache.
And I think of the Faery light, how it exploded back to life during our argument. And I remember all those times we kissed, before I gave my powers to Herne. The times Richard left with a bloody lip or sore ribs because my magic ripped through him.
“Are—are you afraid of me?” The question shudders from my lips. “My power is gone, Richard. What happened to that light earlier . . . that was an anomaly. It won’t happen again.”
“No.” Richard stands. He’s turned with his back to me. “It’s not you, Embers. I promise.”
Not me. His words ring false. Hollow. I hear the fear crammed into every one of his long-strung breaths.
“It’s not you,” he says again, firmer this time. So I know for certain he’s lying. “I’m just—I’m feeling a bit off.”
My fingers work over my sad dress. Its ruined tulle and unraveling flowers. I pick at a loose thread and pull. Watch all of its beauty come undone from a single snag.
Not me. Not me. Not me.
I don’t believe him.
I gave up my spells and magic. I’ve tried to become one of them. But the mortals are still scared of me. Even Richard.
I try to ignore the heavy silence that’s fallen between us.
“Emrys,” Richard murmurs. “You’re hurt.”
I look to him, so beautiful against the darkness. Candle-glow catches crimson against his fingers. The color is wet, bright. Richard studies it hard in the light before he nods down at my arm. I follow his gaze, realize
where the red came from.
Guinevere’s mark is still bleeding: a slow, steady ooze. I try to smear the blood away with my fingers, but there’s too much. As if the hurt is fresh and not almost a day old.
“It’s nothing,” I say, even though I know it’s not. From what little I’ve experienced of mortal wounds, I know it shouldn’t still be weeping.
“I’ll go and find you a bandage,” Richard clears his throat. “Mend it up.”
It’s not the blood that stings. Not the cut that needs a bandage.
But because he’s Richard—because he’s mine—I let him.
Seven
“Do you think I’m making a mistake?” Anabelle asks as she glides across Windsor Castle’s Grand Reception room. So many flowers pour from her arms I can barely see her. Entire bouquets of orchids, carnations, and lilies of the valley.
“Shouldn’t the florist be doing that?” I ask as she wrestles the arrangements to a corner table.
Once the princess is sure the vase is secure, she turns, hands on her hips. She’s dressed down today: a tailored button-up and indigo jeans, hair pulled back in a French plait. But Anabelle has a way of making these look like the height of elegance. Even if she is wearing flats.
“I was checking the flowers”—Anabelle’s voice fades, a cross between a sigh and a hush—“to make sure they’re safe. This is the coronation ball, Emrys! We can’t afford bad press. They’re already abuzz that we’re having it here at Windsor instead of in London. One paper called it a ‘wretched breach of tradition.’ And that was after Mum gave me a two-hour lecture on the subject.”
“The flowers are fine. Eric and Jensen have already checked them. Three times,” I tell her.
But the princess is on to other subjects. “What if people think Windsor is too far? What if no one decides to come? What if too many people come?”
I shut my eyes, try my best to empathize, but the feelings don’t surface. Instead I’m rubbing my temples, trying to fight the dull throb of my skull. I know it’s because I’m not getting enough sleep. I manage only two or three hours a night before I jerk awake, drenched in sweat, my arm oozing from freshly split scabs.
It’s been two whole weeks since the Labyrinth of Man, but the dream keeps coming. Each time it’s the same. Breena stands with her back to me, facing the clouds. Ravens crowd at my feet and my ears flood with the same, relentless syllables: RE-MEM-BER. Over and over. The mist clears and Arthur’s kingdom burns. Guinevere appears, shrieking riddles—insanities into my ear.
And always, the final fall.
It happens every single time I close my eyes, start to drift. So I’ve stopped closing them. Lived on cups of black coffee and pulled all-nighters helping Anabelle piece together the final coronation details.
The princess is still staring at the flowers, listing off everything that could possibly go wrong. “What if all of this falls apart?”
“You’ve done an amazing job,” I tell her. “We chose Windsor so our magical guests could attend more easily. If the press doesn’t understand that then good riddance.”
“We need the press on our side, Emrys. They have power. They make quite a nasty enemy.”
She’s right, but I don’t think it matters. The press has made their side quite clear. Every morning, there are new headlines. Choppy, alliterative punches to the gut. Things like: DRAGGING US DOWN TO THE DARK AGES and BRUTAL BLACK DOG BITE BRINGS OUT INTEGRATION PROTESTORS.
“Well, you’re not going to get stood up. Half of Parliament is already here for a tour of potential reforestation sites. And Titania plans on arriving this evening.” I can’t keep the strain out of my voice when I say the Faery queen’s name.
The dreams have kept me up at night, yes, but it’s Titania’s silence that’s weighed on me. The utter lack of news. With every messenger sparrow, every youngling Fae fresh from the Faery queen’s court, I hold my breath and hope for something which might point to the escaped prisoner. But Queen Titania’s notes come to me empty.
Every time I think of asking I hear her words: clean and hard as steel. This is no longer your battle.
And then there’s Richard. Who pretends that everything is fine, that he didn’t pull away. Who pecks me on the cheek between meetings and says he isn’t afraid.
But he is. I see it in his eyes when he thinks I’m not looking. I feel it in the way he doesn’t kiss me deep. There’s so much space between us, even when our bodies are pressed together.
I’ve given up everything and it’s still not enough.
“I just can’t help worrying. I can’t . . .” The princess shuts her eyes. The circles under them are so dark they could be ink stains.
She’s pushing too hard. Just like the rest of us.
“Belle, are you all right?” I step closer to the princess. She’s breathing hard, her face pink.
“F-fine.” She opens her eyes. There’s a smile on her lips, but I still see how they’re shaking.
“You’re not fine.” I reach out for her shoulder. “You’re about to have a panic attack. Sit down.”
It happens all at once. A whirlwind of sound and shatter. The vase behind us becomes fragments by our feet. Blossoms spread like leftover confetti, stewing in a pool of water.
Anabelle stares at the mess with wide eyes.
My hand is suspended, still halfway reaching for the princess’s shoulder. All the hairs on my arm are alert, humming.
“I—it must have—” The pink in her face deepens to a sunset shade. “I must not have placed it right.”
She kneels down in the puddle, starts scooping up shards and petals. I look at the corner table, note that it was far wider than the vase. All the windows in the room are closed, shielding off any wind.
I look at Anabelle, fishing fragments out of the water with panicked fingers.
“Belle . . .”
She looks up when I say her name. Eyes as messy and shiny as the puddle.
“Did you do that?” My question hangs, uncertain. Trying to ask without really asking. The tremble in her lip, the shattered vase . . . the barest whisper of a spell.
There are shiftings in the earth. Old powers waking.
Old powers. Like the royals’ blood magic.
“I—” Anabelle blinks and stands, jeans dripping. “Of course not. I wasn’t standing that close.”
Had I really felt something? Or was it all just a mirage? Phantom pains of magic lost? The way an amputee still feels the twitch of his toes.
“It was an accident.” The princess wipes her hands over the wet of her jeans. “That’s all.”
She’s so convincing when she says this. So solid and sure. I look down at the puddle under my feet. It’s already soaking into my ballet flats. Pieces of my reflection waver off its surface.
I stare at my arm again. The gooseflesh is gone, but the scabs from Guinevere’s nails remain. Red and still soft. Barely sealed from last night’s dream fall.
Manic dreams and phantom magic. Is this what the seeds of insanity feel like?
Is this how it began for Guinevere?
I try to push these thoughts away as I bend down, use what little magic there is inside me to form a mending spell and make the vase whole again.
For all of Anabelle’s fretting, the coronation ball is well attended—by visitors from far and wide. Countless languages drift about the room, tickling the dreamy edges of Faery light chandeliers and nonpoisonous floral arrangements (which Eric and Jensen have checked yet again).
I stand in the corner of the room while the guests arrive. Their coats fall away, revealing tuxedoes and gowns. They grab champagne flutes, gather in herds to talk about politics and prose.
“Is that the king of Tonga?” Richard lingers beside me, studying the newest arrival—a slender man in a suit full of sashes and medals. “It is, isn’t it? Oh, drat. What’s his name again?”
I watch as Anabelle—who’s already trotted nearly a kilometer in her heels, flitting from group to group with a graceful grin�
��greets the newcomer.
“I’m not even really sure where Tonga is,” I tell him.
“Me neither. But don’t tell anyone.” His warm breath prickles the edges of my ear. Makes me wish he was closer. “Geography was one of those classes I always considered optional. I was supposed to study that massive guest folder Anabelle put together for me, but I haven’t had the time.”
Richard’s sister is glaring at him—Get over here now or else spelled out by fierce brown eyes.
“Looks like I’m about to fail a foreign relations test.” He sighs and places a hand on the small of my back. Lightly, lightly. These are what his touches have been since that night: careful, never too close. Torturous and aching in the worst of ways. “Care to join me?”
I know I should go with him. Stay by his side and smile until my cheeks go numb. But there’s a reason I’m watching the door. Waiting.
I can’t do anything about the dreams or Richard’s unspoken fears. But Titania’s silence—that I can fix. And I plan to, as soon as the Faery queen makes her grand entrance.
“I’m going to stay here,” I say.
“I see how it is.” His hand falls away. Not that it matters. His touch so barely there I can’t even tell the difference.
I think of the pages in the binder I helped Anabelle put together. The one Richard was supposed to study. “His name is King Tupou.”
“What would I do without you?” I don’t even try to answer as he walks away.
More faces flood through the door. Page after page from Anabelle’s binder brought to life. The prime minister of Canada and his wife. Lord and Lady Winfred. The president of France. Richard’s mother, Queen Cecilia.
“Expecting something to happen?”
“I’m sorry?” I turn at the voice and there they are. Eyes bluer than blue. Like the aqua wash of a curled neon sign.
“You’re looking at the door as if it’s going to spontaneously combust.” Julian Forsythe smiles, and though his face is handsome, the expression looks all wrong. Painted like a clown’s grin. “Though I must say it wouldn’t surprise me.”
