by J. L. Carter
Aidar makes sure to put extra emphasis on the words that Margaret has mentioned, in the past, to be flustering. Smiling still, he continues, “and one of the most frequently seen displays of this trust is for the receiving party to be bound.”
There are butterflies in Margaret’s chest. She closes her eyes, takes in a shuddering breath. When she opens them, nothing has changed.
There are still scorch marks on the ground. The glass is still shattered. Bullet holes riddle the walls of stores that children once gathered around.
Even the air is host to fall out from the war. It tastes like copper and hangs heavy in Margaret’s lungs.
She is suddenly desperate to be anywhere but here. Seeking comfort from something that cannot completely be explained, Margaret takes hold of Aidar’s hand and grips it tight. She misses his look of confusion, choosing instead to shake her head and mutter, “your ways are strange indeed, Aidar. Should we meet again, I will see what more I can teach you.”
It is high noon by the time they reach the edge of the city. There is no one else around. In fact, there has been no sign of anyone since they left the manor house at dawn.
Margaret is feeling giddy and nervous. Split in two. She takes hold of both Aidar’s hands, clutching them tight. “Aidar, I have to thank you. Julian has been absent during this war and, while it was for purposes that were educational and beneficial to us both, I have truly enjoyed spending time with you.”
Frowning, Aidar says, “and yet, you’re leaving. Funny, how that has turned out.”
“I’m leaving, but you are getting this as a parting gift. That means something, doesn’t it? You—once, you told me that it was meant to be yours.”
“Did you speak to your Duke about it?”
“I tried,” admits Margaret. The honesty is a breath of fresh air. “But he was dismissive of the subject. I could get no information out of him.”
“Unsurprising,” says Aidar. There’s something almost haughty about his tone. He shakes off Margaret’s hands in favor of extending one of them, palm up. “That man is insufferable.”
With shaking fingers, she reaches up and unhooks the clasp. Then, slowly, Margaret puts the necklace in Aidar’s outstretched hands.
The world blitzes, just for a moment. Aidar’s eyes go glassy and unfocused. As the necklace is pressed against his hand, as their skin brushes he sees it, just for a moment. A familiar face. Danai, his Princess. Her eyes are narrowed in distaste. Something dark lurks in them. She stands beyond the stars, surrounded by a halo of light that almost blinds him.
“I’ll never forgive her,” says Danai. “I will never forgive that wretch. You were meant to be mine!”
Aidar means to tell her that he is hers, but the words won’t come. They have never come. Although Danai carries some amount of meaning towards Aidar, there is also no denying that she has never, and she will never, mean the same thing that Margaret does.
Margaret’s fingertips are tingling. They linger on the chain for too long.
By the time she pulls way, the entire world is exploding around them.
22
Sometimes, good people have to do bad things.
That’s what Margaret thinks, as she steps back into the manor house. Madeline is waiting for her in the foyer. The maid looks like a royal mess, with frayed hair and ruddy skin. She rushes forward—but Margaret simply ghosts past her, towards the stairs.
The letter is right where she left it, tucked in the folds of her pillow. Margaret wrenches it out, fingers sliding over the paper to smooth out the creases.
—But first, I must ask you favor.
The man in our house, the supposed Prince of the Sky Men. He has expressed interest in our necklace before. I want you to give it to him. Craft a ruse – I don’t care what. Tell him something that will draw him to the edge of the town. Say that you will give it to him.
Once he is there, we will strike. If we can capture the Prince himself, then I have no doubt that the war will come to an end!
Margaret, you could be a hero.
Please, my dear. In four days’ time, take the Sky Man to the edge of town. I will take care of the rest.
A sob bubbles up at the back of Margaret’s chest. There is blood on the hem of her blouse, and copper dust coating the backs of her hands.
Sometimes, she thinks, good people need to lie. They need to bend the truth in order to save other people.
That’s what she did here, right? She saved other people?
Julian seems to think so.
He seems to think that this was the best option—that it was the only option
Downstairs, the front door clicks open. Margaret can hear Madeline’s voice but can’t make out the words. They are little more than an indistinct muffle. Julian’s words aren’t any clearer a moment later.
Unwilling to speak to her fiancé just yet, Margaret slips from the master bedroom into the master bathroom. Not for the first time, she is almost lost in the surreal nature of the room.
Stumbling over her own feet, Margaret rushes to the vanity. The large mirror isn’t like a person. It can only tell the truth. It can only show reality.
Today, the truth is that Margaret looks a wreck. There is a scrape on the underside of her jaw where she hit the ground during the scuffle and dirt smeared over cheek. Deep claw marks scour her left arm, where Aidar had grabbed her – trying to hold on? To use her as a shield? To prove that things were going to be alright?
To keep her safe?
The last thought is not without merit. It only serves to make the tears come down in a harder wave, leaving messy streaks in the copper dust that coats her cheeks. Margaret makes to curl her fingers around the crystal pendant – a nervous habit that she has developed over the months – only to find nothing but air and flesh.
Aidar still has the necklace.
Aidar still has the necklace and he is, as they speak, being carted off to the royal dungeons themselves.
“It was the right thing to do,” insists Margaret, but the words sound hollow even to her own ears.
Footsteps in the hallway break the young woman from her reverie. It only takes a moment for her location to be revealed: Julian steps into the bathroom and leaves the door open behind himself, as if providing a frightened animal with an escape.
“My dear,” he says, voice honey-sweet. “Are you alright? I had hoped that you would fare much better.”
“Scratches and bruises,” quips Margaret. “Nothing more than that. Julian—”
“I want you to come with me,” interrupts Julian, holding out one hand. It’s larger than Aidar’s, but his fingers are shorter, thicker. “To see the King—and to see our plans.”
The words are so startling, so out of the blue, that Margaret almost forgets her grief. She chokes on a bitten back sob, struggling to find her tongue.
“Oh, my darling,” coos Julian. He swoops in then, wrapping Margaret up with one arm and brushing the tears from her face with his other. “I promise you, things will start to get better now! Everything is going to work out exactly as it should. Our country will be saved, and it will be in thanks to you. The world will laud you as a hero!”
“I’ve never wanted to be a hero,” says Margaret, quietly. She brushes her fingers against her chest again. “But he still has my necklace, so I think that I will come with you. Must we leave now?”
Julian presses a kiss to Margaret’s cheek and then a second, firmer kiss against her lips. “Yes,” he says, words melting against the young woman’s mouth. “We must leave now, though I would love to stay and properly thank you for your service to this country.”
It takes very little time, after that, for coach and horse to be gathered up. While Julian fetches papers from Aidar’s studies, Margaret is forced to endure Madeline fixing her up.
“I can clean on my own,” insists Margaret.
The maid huffs. “Nonsense! You sit right there, and you let me take care of you. Now, I don’t know exactly what happened out
there, but you had a role in it. Didn’t you?”
There’s no chance to answer. Madeline vanishes into the confines of the massive closet. She comes back out a moment later with a yellow embossed corset and a billowing white skirt.
“These will fit a meeting with the King,” she says, and then bounces right back to her earlier train of thought. “Whatever happened, I’m sure it was frightening and hard, especially for a lady of your standing. But I know the Duke, and I have known him for a very long time. He is a good man, and he has a good heart. If this decision was his doing, then it must have been for a reason.”
Margaret lets the older woman guide her to stand. Madeline takes great pleasure in unhooking the clasps and ties of the Lady’s current dress, slipping it off smooth shoulders and letting it pool in a heap of red and black on the floor.
“Oh my,” she gasps, right before the yellow and white dress joins the first. Madeline reaches out, fingers running lightly over the deep, dark scratches on Margaret’s back. “Whatever happened to you?”
It’s obvious that the marks are several days old; proof of her last encounter with Aidar, when he had let her slip to her knees and give him a proper treatment of his own. Margaret’s face turns beet red. She’s quick to grab at the corset and pull it on.
“It was awful out there,” says Margaret, hoping that she sounds distraught over flustered. “There were so many soldiers, Madeline! They wanted me to distract Aidar and get him in the open, so they could swoop in and grab him. I didn’t think it would be so violent!”
She presses the pale-yellow fabric against her breasts. Margaret says, “soldiers came out of the woodwork, like a horde of furious ants! I don’t know the means or the whys, but they had weapons that looked very close to the ones that the invaders used. Bronze pistols, with gears of a strange black metal and clear tubes on the side. They fired it off—bee zap! That’s the sound it made. Bee zap, bee zap!”
It really doesn’t take much before Margaret isn’t just pretending to be upset. Talking about the sneak attack gets her chest pulling tight and her lungs working overtime. Tears prick at her eyes all over again.
“Over and over again, but the bullets didn’t seem to do anything more than make Aidar angry. He grabbed me—” And here, Margaret’s voice hitches. Her fingers brush lightly over thick hair. “and threw me onto the ground! My head must have cracked against the ground awfully hard, because the next thing I knew, he was being forced into a carriage and the Duke was helping me up.”
Madeline rushes forward again and, though it’s a right improper thing to do, she wraps the Lady of the House up into a tight hug.
“It will be alright,” insists Madeline. “My dear, my darling, everything will be alright.”
23
Margaret has never been the royal abode before. She finds herself in awe of the sight; the architecture and the guards, with their stern faces and brass clocks hooked to their waists. The young woman wants to question that, to know what parts of the Sky Men’s technology the King and Prince Regent are taking to become their own.
She doesn’t, though.
She walks next to the Duke, their hands twisted together. Julian is warm in a way that Aidar never is, for the invader’s skin is naturally cool.
They go into the castle together, but they don’t stay that way. Julian is quick to put his hands on Margaret’s shoulders, to give her a chaste but meaningful kiss on the lips. “I’ll be right back,” he swears. “I just need to make one stop while we’re here. Wait for me?”
“I told you once before, I would wait for you.” The word forever lingers on the tip of Margaret’s tongue, but she finds that she can’t push it into reality. If the Duke notices the way her sentence trails off into nothing, he doesn’t call her out on it.
“I love you,” says Julian, instead. “And I’ll be quick. I just need to talk with someone.”
After that, the Duke is quick to vanish out of the massive foyer. He knows this castle like the back of his hand and, due to natures that few understand or know of, has been given nearly free range over the room.
No one asks any questions when Julian steps into the King’s bedroom, nor do they raise their brows when he closes the door behind himself. The room is dark, heavy red blinds pulled shut over the windows. A single candle has been lit, but it sits on the hardwood desk opposite both door and four poster canopy bed.
Matching curtains hang from the silver rods that adorn the edges of the bed, and the quilts draped over the King are almost as heavy. He looks like an infant, there, tucked away within the confines of his room, sick and addled in both health and mind.
The King groans, head turning to try and look at Julian. His voice is a mere rasp when he asks, “is it done?”
“Almost,” says Julian, voice just as soft. He kneels beside the King’s bed, respectful of the man even in such a dangerous distress.
For the King, he has served his country in more ways than the common people will ever understand. He has given up love, life, and health to keep them safe.
Now, his years are dwindling. It is said that, within a few days, he will be sent to Windsor Castle in an attempt to cure his cataracts. Soon, there will be nothing left of the King, already a husk of his former glory. There are dark shadows under his eyes, and pale skin pulled taut over his cheek bones. He is gaunt and fading fast.
One hand sticks out from beneath the sheets, gnarled fingers grasping at something that the King can’t actually reach. “It must be done. It must be done soon. They can’t have it. They can’t have this place. But they want it! They want it so badly, Julian. All of it, all of it.”
“I know,” says Julian. “It will be. Everything will be taken care of, my King, that I can promise you. The final steps have been put into motion. We are set to finish this. The war, the blood shed—all of it. We are almost there. Rest assured that we are almost there.”
A faint smile tugs at the King’s lips. It’s only there for a moment before a pained grimace takes over. He flinches, as if something awful is wrong.
And it is, for the inside of his mind is plagued with demons that no mere mortal should ever have to see. The death of a country plays out within the King’s mind, stuck on repeat and constantly changing. When the images pass, he’s left panting, gasping for breath.
“Hurry,” wheezes the King. “Hurry. It’s happening.”
Julian frowns. “What? No! I’ve stopped it! The leader of the Sky Men is locked away!”
"Is he?" The King looks confused, then, as if he can’t quite grasp what’s being said. Julian wonders how much it conflicts with the images dancing in his head, how difficult it is for the old man to decipher reality from the nightmares that haunt his every waking move. “Is he gone?”
“Not gone,” says Julian, voice low. He brushes the hair out of the King’s face, trying to give him a more dignified look. “But captured. This whole Sky Regency has been stopped, my liege. Everything that you’ve told me, I’ve written it down. I’ve worked tirelessly to prevent the Prince of the invaders from going home. He can’t go home, my King, so he can’t signal the end of our days! There will be no one to send out the order. We’re safe. We’re safe here.”
Still, the King doesn’t look convinced. He struggles, trying to sit up, but he’s far too weak. His face is flushed, eyes heavy with fever. “Is that true? Are we safe, Julian?”
“We are,” swears the Duke. “We’re safe. England is safe. I’ve made sure of it.”
“Then—what have I seen?”
“It’s been avoided. The nightmares should stop soon. They should change, if nothing else. There is no more harm coming towards our kingdom.”
“We are a broken nation,” rasps the King. “We have fallen far, these last few months. Our people have been hurt in ways no one could imagine. Our lands ravished by a war that no one could have prepared for. We may be at peace for now, but the country is in ruins.”
Julian is quick to assure the king, “we can rebuild!”<
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“Yes,” says the King. He looks at Julian then, and there’s a spark of joy in his eyes. For the first time in many days, there is life on his face, relief in his twisted-up smile. “We need people. We need people to rise it from the ashes. The Sky Regency, it isn’t gone. Not forever.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Not forever. Just for now. But—we can learn. We will protect ourselves using the invader’s technology. They will not do us harm like this again. Next time – in the future, should they come back, when they come back, we will be ready.”
“To be strong again, the people will need to regain their confidence. We must show them that we aren’t broken yet.”
“No,” rasps the King. “We are broken. We are burnt. We are wounded. We must show them that we can come back from this, that we can heal. Help gather the people, Julian. My friend, help bring my country back like the myths of old, like the phoenix.”
And so, he turns away from the ailing King and starts out into the hall, for this is the news that he has longed to hear. The King is right, of course. There will be a long road waiting for them. But this? This is a promise of hope. This means that peace is just around the corner.
It means that Julian has succeeded, this time.
And next time? Should the King be right, should the Sky Regency return in the future, Julian will be ready.
“My notes,” he mutters, as he slips back to the foyer. “I’ll gather my notes. They’ll help, I’m sure. And the people! Someone needs to send out word! Margaret, are you ready? We can leave!”
