by Ryan Graudin
The picnic, complete with wicker chairs and a breezy linen tent, waits in one of the garden’s larger clearings. I half expect to see a croquet set leaning up against the folding table or a group of petticoated ladies sipping tea. But no one is under the canopy—Richard and I are the first ones here.
“So Anabelle will be able to see you now?”
I double-check my veiling spell. “She should.”
“Just a warning—she doesn’t open up to new people easily. Not at first.” Richard frowns. His eyes linger on the bloody reminders of last night on my arms, the bruises beneath them. “Is there anything you can do about those? Or should we come up with some excuse about a bad-tempered house cat?”
“Right. I forgot.” My dress is still in utter ruins as well: frayed lace and black. The mending magic threads it back together, new within seconds.
I mutter a few more words and watch the spell unknot my hair, wash my skin clean. I stare at my arms long after the scabs are gone, studying the light dusting of freckles and pinkish skin, how clean and unscarred they are, even after all I’ve been through. If only magic could fix everything this way.
Richard’s hand falls on my shoulder, fills me with shivers despite the warmth of the day.
“Are you all right?” he asks. “You don’t feel sick, do you?”
“I had a fight with Breena. She’s not going to like that I’m showing myself to Anabelle. Not at all.” I swallow, thinking of how the sickness might even be preferable to what I’m about to face. The thought of Breena glaring at me throughout the entire picnic makes me want to curl up under the table.
“I’m sorry—” Richard’s voice stops abruptly, replaced by the Morse code click of heels. “Belle!”
“Hey! Sorry I’m late.” Anabelle slides her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose. Her chocolate-brown eyes spring out to study me. Her gaze holds the same steel as her father’s did, as her brother’s does now. “Who’s this?”
My stomach drops at the sight of Breena, leaning in the doorway. Even several meters away her scowl is visible, loaded with condemnation. Her distance, her absence feels like I’ve lost a limb, not vital, but devastating.
Breena looks everywhere but at me, her nose slightly raised in the air.
“This is Emrys.” Richard turns me so that I’m completely facing his sister. “My . . .”
The sounds of the garden swell up—hushed secrets of leaves and birds’ untranslated ballads. I watch as Richard’s face flushes pink. Anabelle’s eyes dart between us.
“Girlfriend,” I offer out of the tightness of my throat. “I’m his girlfriend.”
Richard loosens next to me. Beyond us I hear Breena’s indignant choke.
“Girlfriend?” Anabelle lets the word settle on her tongue. “I knew it! That’s why you’ve been acting so off lately!” She shoots her brother a knowing look, then gives me a triumphant grin. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
“You too.” I steal another glance at Breena’s corner. She’s unmoved, a cross-armed statue of disdain.
Richard gestures to our waiting meal. “Shall we?”
I want to hang back, force Breena into a confrontation, but Richard keeps an arm wrapped around my shoulder. We walk alongside his sister. The sight of Anabelle leaping in her heels, goatlike, through the lawn brings a real grin to my face. I catch that smile, preserve it. As distracted as I am by Breena and the whirlwind of events outside the palace, I need this meeting to go well. I don’t need the other major female in my life to hate me too.
Breena doesn’t join us under the tent. She lingers in patches of sunlight, standing outside of the canopy like the watchful Guard she is. I need to get her attention, tell her about the ravens. . . .
“So, where’d you guys meet?” Anabelle smoothes her salmon pencil skirt and settles into her chair. Richard’s right. She’s stiff and reserved in front of me, like a television reporter reciting lines for an interview. The swearing princess who leaps feetfirst into pools is nowhere to be found.
My mouth is a drought-struck river, dusty and dry, as I scour for a convincing answer. Richard senses my panic, reaches across the table to lace his hand into mine.
“At a charity event,” he says. His free hand begins sorting through the picnic basket. “She was one of the coordinators.”
“Let the woman speak for herself.” Anabelle tugs the basket away from her brother. Every action, every word between them oozes familiarity. “You’re squishing the sandwiches. Let me do that.”
“I often think she should have been the oldest,” Richard mutters.
“Me too,” his sister says, looking back at me over the basket. “Funny that you organize charities. It seems like I should have seen you before.”
“It was my first one. I was rather nervous. I actually spilled champagne all over myself.” I manage a light, wind-chime laugh. “Richard was the only one who noticed.”
“Of course, that was a few months ago,” Richard offers. “She’s much less clumsy now.”
“Why’ve you kept her a secret this long?”
“So you wouldn’t torture her with Burberry catalogs and polo matches,” Richard teases.
The siblings begin to banter, but I don’t pay attention to their words. My focus returns to Breena’s storm-cloud stare.
Bree, I need to talk to you.
She doesn’t even flinch. I begin to wonder if the words got through to her.
What? she snaps back. Is it about your hot date? Or are you ready to explain why every soul feeder in London was at Buckingham’s door last night? Maybe you can tell me why Gwyn is dead.
Her words are like a thousand tiny paper cuts, stinging me to pieces. I wince under them, let go of Richard’s hand, and grip my chair’s splintering wicker.
“Are you okay?” The princess’s hand lands on my arm, jerking me back into the current, mortal conversation.
I’m clearly not going to get any effective communication with Breena here. But now’s my only chance. I have to tell her while she’s in my reach.
“I need to use the toilet,” I tell Anabelle. “I’ll only be a minute.”
I scurry away from the tent, alter my veiling spell as soon as Anabelle’s attention is elsewhere. Breena doesn’t look at me when I approach. Her eyes lock solely on the royal pair. Everything else about her is void of emotion, like she’s trying her best not to unleash.
“If it means anything now, I’m sorry,” I begin. “I was trying to do what was right for the crown and I failed.”
My friend remains a statue, looking only at the tent’s chatting diners.
“Bree, talk to me. I’m sorry! I should’ve listened to you.”
“But you didn’t,” she cuts in, syllables forged of cruel steel. “You let your love for Richard get in the way. Go and be with him. You’re no longer fit to be a Fae.”
“Maybe that’s true. But you’re going to need me. The ravens came this morning, gave me a message.”
Breena’s frozen state breaks enough to show me she’s interested.
“There were three of them. From the Tower.” I go on to repeat the ravens’ prophecies, watching the horror thaw out Breena’s pretty face.
“So you—we have forced the Old One’s hand.” Her voice fills with cracks. “Five days. That isn’t much time.”
“I’ve sent a message to Mab. I say we follow the ravens’ advice. The palace has already been breached. Who knows if Gwyn’s killer is still around. . . . We need to get the royals to Windsor and ask for Herne’s protection. It’s what Mab wants us to do.”
“Herne? What makes you think he’ll offer us protection? All he cares about are his woods and his hunt.” The words roll off Breena’s tongue with distinct distaste. “As for Mab—she’s been out of the city too long. She can’t even go to Windsor herself! No. We should go north to Balmoral Castle, where Mab can protect us. Think of all the older Fae in the court. Their power will be enough to protect your precious king and the rest of the crown.”
/> “North is where the Old One is. We can’t go there. We have to follow the ravens’ words. They’ve never misled us before,” I say, firm. I feel the fight dawning between us, brace myself for it.
“They left, Emrys. They know what’s coming. We have to go north. Those are my orders.”
I feel the weight of her age, those extra years between us, pressing down, trying to force me into submission. Normally I would have to bow, let Breena have her way. But I have something stronger than age: Mab’s blessing.
“I won’t let you.” The force of the queen’s magic swells behind my words. Breena can challenge me all she wants, but she can’t outrank me. Not in this.
“What do you mean you won’t let me?” Breena’s magic presses, probes me for weakness. “I just gave you an order.”
I don’t yield. “Mab gave me permission to ignore your orders if I thought they would hurt Richard. I don’t have to obey you. Mab wants them to go to Windsor and so do I.”
“Why would Mab do that?” Breena’s nostrils flare and her eyes turn to cyan slits when she realizes I’m right. “Doesn’t she trust me?”
I say nothing.
My friend buries her anger behind pursed lips and quick breaths. “You already have one death on your head. Are you prepared to handle the others?”
“It’s what I’m trying to avoid.” It’s my turn to be ice. I see her eyes shift to the tent, to Richard. I see traces of her wild spirit behind that stare, and I realize how much I’ve hurt her.
Breena says nothing else. Her glare drills deep into the diners.
“So be it.” I turn and walk back to the tent.
Anabelle is distracted with her shrimp salad sandwich as I approach.
“Oh! You’re here!” The princess nearly drops her sandwich when she spots me back against the wicker chair. “Richard and I were just talking about taking a trip to Windsor. I think it would be great if you could go with us. We’d get a chance to bond. What do you say?”
I force a smile, pry it wide across my cheeks. “I’d love to.”
“Well, Windsor it is then.” Richard holds up his sparkling water. “To Windsor!”
The glasses clink together. I swallow and try everything I can not to look back to where Breena is standing, staring.
“To Windsor,” I echo.
Twenty-Eight
The spell jerks me out of my drowsy state. I sit up in the bed, careful not to disturb Richard’s arm draped over my waist. He’s asleep, lulled by the fat raindrops skating across the window. The sound is peaceful, soothing—almost enough to make me forget the trouble that comes with the storm.
The sealing spell on my letter has been opened, torn by Mab’s hand. Cool air and relief flood my lungs. My messenger wasn’t intercepted. The ravens’ words got through. Now all I have to do is wait for the response. She’ll send it to Windsor. That’s where she’ll expect us, now that London has been compromised.
I look down at Richard. With the windows’ drapes drawn, he’s barely visible. Only the accented lines of his face rise up from the whiteness of his pillow. Half of it’s covered in lengthening hair. My fingers twitch, fighting the urge to brush it away. I must let him sleep while he can.
I lean back down and focus on the weight of his arm over my waist. This night has been a long one, filled with clamoring, avian prophecies and what I’ve done to Breena. My mind has been everywhere except with Richard, because I know what must be done. Time is running out for both of us.
There is no more middle ground. Only two separate paths.
The first is long and lonely, crowded with Fae, magic, and eternity. Sickness and slow decay. It stretches on and on. No end in sight.
The second path is much shorter. A single life. With Richard and all he’s come to mean to me. Without the yawning emptiness. Without power. And a few leagues away there’s a great blinding light, swallowing the path. The end.
After I made the choice to follow Mab, to look like one of them, I started on this road. I was always supposed to end up here, at this fork. For so many decades of queens, battles, and ballrooms, my humanness has been sprouting, pushing, and growing through so many tough, gravelly layers of Fae. Waiting for its exact moment to bloom.
I look at Richard, so peaceful and unaware of the civil war inside me. The fears tangled with silent, nagging doubts. Will Richard always love me? What if he can’t stay away from the bottle? Will this end as disastrous as the crumbling of Camelot?
No. Richard isn’t Arthur, and I’m certainly not Guinevere. We’re our own story.
But if he breaks my heart, breaks me . . .
This thought—full of dark debris—makes me shudder. Is the beauty worth the risk? Is the threat of brokenness worth the possibility of becoming whole?
Richard wriggles beside me and gives an unusually loud snore. Sleep has always been a thing of curiosity for immortals. That something could make the humans and the animals so powerless and unaware, but grant them visions and dreams of things to come, has always baffled us. Many Fae have even tried to dream—but the gift was never meant for us.
I stare back up into the blackness of the ceiling, watching the two roads in my mind’s eye. My heart is torn no matter which way I choose. But in the end I have to take the step. I can’t stay at these crossroads forever.
The air’s different here. I feel it even through the car’s thick glass windows. We’re barely outside the city, not even free of the identical lines of row houses, but the change is obvious, lifting the sickness and charging newness through my veins. I feel like thrusting my head out the window and letting my hair flow like phoenix fire, wild and free. But I’m sitting next to Anabelle and very visible, so I just sit and watch the trees fly past in blurs of green.
The houses grow fewer and the trees herd into dark, lush groups as we get closer to Windsor. The castle straddles these two worlds. One side looks over the accordion rows of shops and houses in its namesake city. Another, broader side watches over the tamed foliage of the Great Park. Herne’s territory. My eyes stay locked on the distant tree line as the car wheels up to the castle. Herne is here. I feel him.
He feels the royals’ presence as well. Change seizes the air, though whether it’s good or bad, I can’t say.
Anabelle slides out of the car after me, and Breena follows, her face made of complete fury. I’m surprised she came and even more astonished that the entire Guard caravanned with us to Windsor. The other Fae gave me strange looks when they realized my veiling spell was completely gone, but none of them said anything. My rank is too high for any of them to reproach me as Breena did. My old friend doesn’t speak a word. She uses Anabelle as an unwitting shield; every time I look at my friend I seem to be staring at the princess.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Anabelle’s arm sweeps out, presenting walls of weathered gray, their elegantly arched windows rimmed with yellow Bath stone. Beyond all this, the greenness of summer plays out in Herne’s woods. “We should go riding around the Great Park. There’s plenty of time before brunch.”
“Sounds lovely.” My stomach stirs, not with nausea, but from the thought of going into Herne’s territory so soon. Getting permission to stay on his land is one thing. Pleading his help against an Old One is far more nerve-wracking.
The castle rooms are time capsules of crimson drapes, Jacobean furniture, and flourishing, gold-leafed ceilings. Impressive, but stifling. After such a fresh breath of air and trees, the last thing I want to do is sit behind four walls.
“We might run into Herne,” I warn Richard as he changes into more casual jeans and a band T-shirt. “You won’t be able to see him. But he’ll want to talk to me. Or Breena,” I add, unable to hide my wince. “Could you find some way to distract Anabelle?”
“That shouldn’t be hard. What about Herne? Do you think he’ll help us?”
“Herne—” I’m gnawing my lip, trying to think of how to contain such a massive spirit inside words. “Herne isn’t bound by any rules, only the ones he make
s for himself. He’s only loyal to his forest. I can’t say what his answer will be, but he’s been willing to work with Mab before.”
“Sounds like a wild card.”
Richard smiles, and for a moment I forget all about the minutes ahead.
He reaches out, weaves his hand into mine, and nods at the door. “Shall we?”
Remnants of fear from my last encounter with Herne buzz through me, sapping the sunlight of our moment together. I try my hardest not to shudder. I can’t let anyone know I’m afraid. Not Richard, not Breena, and especially not Herne.
At the stables, our horses are tacked and ready to go. I mount my ride quickly, without help from Richard or the surprised groom. Compared to Kelpies, the hefty black mare feels like a Shetland pony.
Anabelle rides up on a petite and delicate bay. She smiles. It seems she’s warming up to me, if only a little. “If we try, we might be able see most of the park today.”
“And then what will you do for the rest of the week?” Richard asks, wheeling around us on his tightly wound roan. “You might want to save it. Besides, it’s getting pretty hot.”
His sister dismisses him with a laugh. “Listen to you talking all sensibly.” Her horse ambles close to mine so that I can hear her whisper, “There was a time when he was real wanker. It wasn’t that long ago, actually.”
I try my hardest to act surprised. “Richard? No!”
Breena’s snicker rises from behind us.
The princess continues to chat while we trot down the path, launching into several embarrassing childhood stories featuring Richard. I pretend to laugh and nod, but my eyes never leave the weaving tangle of trees. They’re old, much older than the sidewalk sprouts of London, and they’re moving. The stir isn’t just in their leaves and smooth, windswept branches, but in their core. Where the Dryads live, awake, alert, and watching.
We ride for half an hour down the groomed trail, watched by countless silent trees. Breath abandons my lungs when we reach the end of the Long Walk and continue. Trees close in around us, pulling us into the heart of Herne’s thick woods. The mare senses my great unease, her hooves grow jumpy, and crescent-white fear enters her eyes. The trees have stopped their slow, whispering movements. They’re dead still. The reason is soon clear.
