A Wicked Thing

by Rhiannon Thomas

  “He wanted me to be strong, like he is.” Rodric ran a hand down the horse’s back, tugging on the loose threads of the saddle. “I never lived up to his expectations.”

  “That can’t be true.”

  “It is,” he said. “I will never be a fighter.”

  “Fighting is not the only way you can be strong. I am sure your father knows that.”

  “No,” Rodric said. “He does not. But I studied hard. He made sure of that, too. I hope I’ve done enough to make a good king.”

  Aurora tilted her head, examining him closely, from the splayed strands of brown hair down to the large, booted feet. He did not look like a king. But, she supposed, she did not always look like much of a princess either. “Your father became king ten years ago,” she said. “But he was preparing you to be king before that?”

  If Rodric noticed that she had changed the subject, he did not comment on it. “My father believes there’s only one way for a boy to be, be he a prince, a noble, or anyone. And he was advisor to the king for many years, through all the famines and the uprisings and many other terrible things. Strength and knowledge were how he thought I would survive.”

  Aurora ran her fingers through the doll’s hair again. Her hands shook. “Were things truly so terrible back then?”

  “I don’t remember a lot of it,” Rodric said. “My father became king when I was eight, so the trouble before then . . . my parents tried to keep me out of it. But I remember being afraid. There was an uprising when I was six. I remember looking out of my window in the castle and seeing the city burning, and all the people, hundreds of them, filling the streets. They crowded around the castle and started hammering on the doors, screaming.”

  “What did they want?”

  “Food, I think. I told my mother, they can have some of my food. Give them some of ours. But she said no, it wasn’t really about food at all. They hated us, she said, and they were just looking for an excuse. The whole castle seemed to shake from the way they pounded on the doors. I don’t know what would have happened if they’d got in. They were there for days.”

  “What happened?”

  He turned to look out of the window. The narrow shaft of light fell over his face, making his hair glow. “The king—the old king—he called in the soldiers. They killed everyone who fought back.”

  Aurora swallowed. “But if they had got in,” she said. “If they had broken through the doors—”

  “They probably would have killed us all. They killed the guards. They killed the servants unlucky enough to be outside the castle walls. And the things they shouted . . .”

  Aurora shivered. She could almost hear the screaming, almost see the hate in the people’s eyes as they surged toward the castle. It was the same hate she had seen in Tristan’s once-affectionate face as he spoke of the king. It could not happen again.

  “After that,” Rodric said, “the king imprisoned my father for failing to save the kingdom from famine. He was the king’s chief advisor at the time, so the king assumed he must have been scheming against him, giving him bad advice to undermine him. He accused my mother of being a foreign spy. For a while, it was just me and my tutors, locked up in a tower. I wasn’t told what was going on, or where my parents were, or if I would see them again.” He bowed his head, staring at the faded, fraying saddle.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “That sounds awful.”

  “It’s over now,” he said. “And it will be worth it, if—well. It will be worth it.”

  The silence was like a living thing, creeping between them, crawling over their skin.

  Rodric stepped abruptly away from the horse and walked toward a large chest at the edge of the room. Two wooden swords stuck out of the top. “Are these yours too?” he asked. He freed one with a tug.

  “Yes,” she said. “Not that my mother approved. They’re not very ladylike.”

  “This is more like the toys I knew,” Rodric said, holding up the blade for examination. It was a roughly cut, simple thing, given to her by one of her guards on her birthday. “Of course, my father would have filled them with lead, to make practice that much harder.”

  “I never got much practice,” Aurora said. She stood up and placed the doll beside her. “I would swing it around by myself, but I never really had anyone to play with.”

  “No one?”

  “You’re not allowed to make many friends when your father is afraid you might be attacked at any moment.”

  He handed her one of the swords. It felt lighter than she remembered, but calming, somehow, to hold. She swished it through the air, her fingers tight around the hilt. “That’s not quite—I mean, if you don’t mind, Princess . . .” Rodric walked closer and rested his hand over hers. “Like this.” He adjusted the placement of her fingers. “If you loosen your grip, it’ll be easier,” he said. “Think of it as part of your arm. You don’t have to cling to keep it there.”

  She attempted another swipe, and he smiled. “That’s good,” he said. “You’re better than you think. Not much force behind it, but you could be quick. Dangerously quick.”

  He stepped back, opening up the space between them.

  “Shall we practice?” Aurora said.

  Rodric shook his head. “We shouldn’t,” he said. “If I hurt you, I wouldn’t—we should not risk it.”

  “You said I wasn’t that bad.”

  “It’s not your lack of skill I’m worried about.”

  She turned away, letting the sword hang loose by her side. “I thought I’d be like one of the girls in the stories,” she said. “Swinging swords, fighting dragons, having adventures. But . . .” She stared down at the ragged old doll. “Nothing turned out as I thought.”

  “For me, either.” She looked up. Rodric was staring into the air again, his lips pressed tightly together.

  “What about you?” Aurora asked. She stepped toward him. “What did you want?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It always seemed that my future would be decided for me.”

  Aurora looked at the sword in her hand. The little girl who had run around this room, slashing at ghosts and shadows, had never felt that way. The present was fixed, but the future . . . anything had seemed possible then.

  “It must have been lonely,” Rodric said, still not looking at her. “Playing in this tower by yourself.”

  “Yes,” she said softly. “I suppose it was.”

  FOURTEEN

  THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, AURORA WAS summoned to the queen’s private rooms. Light poured in through large, high windows, making the space seem cheerful and airy. The queen sat at a round table, staring at papers laid before her. Aurora’s stomach clenched at the sight of her. Three older ladies waited behind the queen, their hair tied up in neat buns.

  “Ah, Aurora,” the queen said, smiling her thin-lipped smile as though they had not argued the last time they’d spoken. “How lovely to see you. We were just looking at the design for your wedding dress. Come. Take a look.”

  The dress was sketched out on a large piece of parchment, in charcoal first, then in pencil, and finally, a version washed over with delicate colored inks. It was an ethereal thing, layers of gossamer floating outward from a tight bodice and reflecting every color of the light, like something from a dream. Old-fashioned yet fantastical, impossible to touch.

  “It’s lovely,” Aurora said. She ran her finger over the page, tracing each pencil stroke and splash of color.

  “I am glad it pleases you, Princess,” said one of the women. She bowed as she spoke, a stiff jerk of her neck.

  “These,” the queen said, standing up with a flourish, “are the best seamstresses in Alyssinia. They have come here especially for you and will be taking your measurements today.”

  The women all bowed again, and one murmured, “Your Majesty is too kind.”

  They wrapped tapes across every inch of Aurora, squeezing so tightly around her waist that she had to hitch in her breath. Once they had scribbled down every measureme
nt on a long piece of parchment, they began to fuss with her hair, piling it on top of her head, twisting it around, inspecting her earlobes and wrists while the queen looked on.

  “We will leave her hair loose,” the queen said. “For purity. But perhaps some garlands . . .”

  “A line of flowers,” one of the women—the tallest one—said. She ran a finger from the middle of Aurora’s forehead to the back of her ear. “Here.”

  “No, no,” said the austere one who seemed to be their leader. “A single lily, tucked behind her right ear. Beauty, purity, grace.”

  The queen nodded. Aurora forced herself to stand still, her face carefully blank. No one asked her opinion. Finally, the prodding and poking ended. The seamstresses collected their piles of papers, covered in measurements and notes and little sketches of thoughts, thanked the queen profusely for her patronage, and promised, with a severity that prevented any sliver of doubt, that they would start work immediately and meet with the queen to discuss further details on the morrow. The queen dismissed them with a delicate smile. With a few more bows and curtsies, they departed, leaving Aurora and the queen alone.

  “Now that went well,” the queen said, and her smile was broader than usual, as though she felt genuine relief at the proceedings. “These ladies made my coronation gown ten years ago, and they have only grown more talented with age. You will have a wedding dress that all the world will remember.”

  “Yes,” Aurora said. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “I have told you to call me Iris,” the queen said. “We will soon be family, after all. Now, come.” She held out her hand. “Sit with me a moment, my dear. I wish to speak with you privately.” Aurora sat down carefully in a high-backed wooden chair. “I have been thinking of our last conversation,” the queen said. “I hope you have taken my words to heart.”

  Aurora nodded. Her hair itched the back of her neck, and she longed to brush it away, but she did not dare move, in case she attracted more of the queen’s attention. If she stayed still, and silent, perhaps the conversation would end quickly, and she could escape from the queen’s piercing gaze.

  “Good,” the queen said. She settled in a chair opposite Aurora. “I do not do this to hurt you, Aurora. I hope you know that. It is the only way.”

  “I know,” Aurora said.

  “I am glad. But if there is some problem, it would be better to resolve it now, before it becomes too troublesome. So please tell me, my dear. How have things been?”

  Aurora stared at her for a long moment. She could not imagine that the queen wanted an honest answer, or that she intended to help if she received one. “It is hard to sleep,” she said eventually.

  “I imagine so,” the queen said, “when you do not even try.”

  “I try,” Aurora said, the injustice forcing defiance out of her. “But it is difficult. I have lost everything.”

  “What have you lost, my dear?” the queen said. Her expression remained neutral, but she raised her eyebrows almost imperceptibly as she spoke. “You have a home and a kingdom. And you have your true love.” Her tone made clear that she would accept no arguments on that point.

  “I have lost my family,” Aurora said.

  “Everyone loses their family in the end. And really, dear. Were they that good to you before?”

  Of course, Aurora wanted to say. She could not get the words out.

  “But that is no longer relevant,” Iris said. “We cannot change the past, and we cannot have it disrupting your beauty sleep. We don’t want you to look too haggard during your engagement ceremony.”

  No, Aurora thought. We would not want that. No one would want to see her as she really was, confused and exhausted and grieving for a life lost. How terribly unfestive that would be.

  Iris stood. “I will have more books sent to you, and I will suggest that my son lengthen your daytime walks together.” It sounded like a dismissal. Aurora stood as well, forcing her chin to remain high.

  “Thank you, Iris.”

  The queen smiled. “Don’t you worry, Aurora. We’ll tire you so that you’ll want to do nothing but sleep until the wedding. You’ll get your rest.”

  Aurora bobbed into a curtsy. The drawing of her wedding dress lay unfurled on the table, the parchment curling at the ends. So delicate, so perfect, like a dream captured on the page. In her imagination, the walls lurched inward once again.

  She was almost out of the room when the queen spoke. “Remember, Aurora. My guards are watching.”

  As Aurora wove her way back through the corridors, shadowed by a guard on either side, anger pounded in her chest.

  Someone darted into the corridor, a blur of silk at chest height, and Aurora was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she almost crashed into her. Isabelle jumped backward. “Sorry!” she squeaked.

  “No,” Aurora said. “Don’t be sorry. It was my fault.”

  Isabelle was still scrambling away, tumbling over her own feet. She stared up at Aurora, and then paused, her cheeks pink. “What’s wrong?” she said.

  “I’m fine,” Aurora said. Her voice was a little quieter and less sure than she would have liked. “Thank you.”

  Isabelle frowned. “You don’t look fine.” She glanced behind Aurora, as though checking for any ghosts or goblins that might be looming behind her. “Were you talking to my mother?” she asked. Aurora nodded. “Sometimes,” Isabelle added, in a matter-of-fact sort of voice, “I get sad after talking to her too.”

  The contrast between Isabelle’s words and her practical tone made Aurora pause. “Why does she make you feel sad?” she asked.

  Isabelle looked at her feet. They just poked out underneath her skirts. The dress was too long on purpose, Aurora thought. She remembered that trick well. It forced you to walk slowly, take tiny steps, like a well-bred young lady should. When no one was looking, she had picked up her skirts and run too.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” Aurora said. “Sometimes I didn’t get along so well with my mother either.”

  Isabelle looked up at her. “Why not?”

  She had tried. She really had. But her mother had always watched her with careful eyes, picking out every little wrinkle in her dress and flaw in her stance. She had never been cold, not exactly, but a little bit distant, as though scared to get too close. Her mother always spoke precisely, dressed precisely, lived precisely, and although Aurora missed her with an ache that squeezed her insides into nothing, her mother had never quite seemed to approve of her. She had always been one step away. “She wanted me to be more of a princess,” Aurora said.

  “What did you do?”

  “I became more of a princess.”

  Isabelle bit her lip and nodded, as though Aurora had imparted some deep life lesson that she needed to absorb. What a horrid thing to tell her, Aurora thought. That she had to smile and curtsy and pretend. But it was the truth, as Aurora had lived it.

  “I suppose—” Isabelle said, “I suppose it worked. In the end. Because now you have Rodric.”

  “Yes,” Aurora said. “I have Rodric. But not because of that.” Not because of anything she had done.

  “Mother says I have to behave better, since Finnegan is here.” It seemed like a strange change in topic, until Isabelle added, “She wants me to marry him.”

  “Marry him?”

  “When I’m older. She says it’s the best thing for Alyssinia, and it would be my—my greatest achievement”—she spoke those words carefully, picking out each syllable—“if I got his support.”

  Aurora could not imagine this sweet girl married to that arrogant, scheming man. Even if Isabelle were older, it would not be a match she’d want to think about. Then again, things like compatibility and likeability would not matter to the queen, as long as it was best for the kingdom.

  “You could achieve much more than that,” Aurora said, “with or without Finnegan.” She was not entirely sure it was true, but it seemed the right thing to say. Maybe if Isabelle believed it, it could become true
.

  “Isabelle!” The little princess jumped. “What are you doing?” A woman appeared in the doorway, hands on her hips. She seemed slightly out of breath. “Running away from me like that. You shouldn’t be bothering the princess.”

  “She’s not bothering me,” Aurora said, but the woman ignored her. She stepped forward and grabbed Isabelle by the crook of her arm.

  “Get back in here this instant.”

  “Good-bye,” Aurora said softly. The woman hurried Isabelle away, and the corridor turned quiet again. Aurora stared at the closed door. It was like her past self had come to life, uncertain and hopeful and eager to do the right thing. Isabelle would learn, as she had learned. For some reason, the thought made her sad, and she quickly turned away.

  Perhaps her own mother had been like Iris, Aurora thought as she hurried back to her rooms. Aurora seemed to disappoint both of them in the same way.

  A memory bubbled up, long ignored and unwelcome. Her mother, the foreign queen, brushing through Aurora’s hair as she stood by the window, just tall enough to see over the ledge. Aurora had been chattering about something, about books and adventure and her impossible dreams. “I’m going to travel,” she said. “Like you, mother. See everything. Everywhere.”

  “No, dear,” her mother said. “It isn’t safe.”

  Aurora craned her neck, ducking free of the tug and pull of the brush. “Not now,” she said. “After.”

  Everything had always been before and after in her head. Cursed and free.

  “Not even then,” her mother said. “Why go far away, when you can be safe and loved with us?”

  Aurora stayed silent then, but she kept dreaming until the end. Planning, wishing, poring over maps and books, right up until her eighteenth birthday and the finger prick that ended it all. She had gotten her wish, she supposed. She was a story of her own now. But it was not as she had imagined. Still the rest of the world was locked away.

  FIFTEEN

  WHEN AURORA FINALLY SLEPT THAT NIGHT, SHE dreamed in fitful snatches. A crowd chasing her down the street, Tristan pulling her along before shoving her to the ground. Hands snatching at her hair, her clothes, as she struggled to regain her feet.