A Wicked Thing

by Rhiannon Thomas

  But then the girl he attacked might well be dead, and no one would have punished him for that.

  “It is wrong,” Aurora said. “You cannot kill him.”

  “I can,” the queen said, “and I will. Thank you, Stefan. That will be all.”

  The messenger bowed.

  “Did you catch who was responsible?” Aurora said quickly. “For the disturbance?”

  The messenger glanced at the queen. “We will, Princess,” he said. “Do not worry.”

  So they had not yet. Aurora felt a spike of relief. Tristan was not the person she had thought he was. But she could not wish him dead.

  If she told anyone what she knew, she would be slipping the noose around his neck.

  The sun had set before Aurora was allowed back to her room. She walked with two guards on either side, their footsteps echoing along the empty corridors. One floor above Aurora’s own, one of the guards paused.

  “Why are you stopping?” a second guard said. “This isn’t her room.”

  “No, I know.” The guard frowned, as though he wasn’t sure why he had stopped either. “I—I heard something.” He glanced behind him.

  “I didn’t hear anything.” The other guards looked back too. At first, Aurora could hear nothing but the dim sounds of the castle, the whistle of wind through the stone and the sound of faraway footsteps. Then she heard a whisper mingling with the wind, half singing, half laughter. The song crept along the inside of her skin, a memory of a memory.

  When the guards glanced back, their faces were blank, like they were focused on something much farther away than the end of the hall.

  “What’s wrong?” Aurora asked. They did not respond. She grabbed the arm of the nearest one and tugged, shaking it. The guard was still breathing, but he did not react. His mind seemed to have been sucked away.

  Aurora stumbled backward. She turned, preparing to shout.

  A light glowed at the end of the corridor. Green, indistinct, shifting like water.

  The song, the light . . . she knew them.

  Celestine.

  The memory tugged at Aurora, light bobbing out of reach, the urge, deep in her stomach, to see where it led. Her finger slipping against something sharp.

  It was impossible. The witch could not be here, not after a hundred years had passed. But the light slid closer, so familiar, so certain. If Celestine could make Aurora sleep a century away without aging a day, her own survival could not be beyond her power.

  Aurora followed the light. Torches on either side of the passageway dimmed as she passed. With every step, the green orb floated another step away, guiding her down the corridor, around the corner, farther from the guards.

  She knew she should stop. She knew she should turn back. But what could Celestine do to her? There was nothing left for the witch to take away. And if she was here, Aurora needed to know what she had to say. She needed to see her.

  The light paused in front of a blank expanse of wall. Aurora walked closer, her arm outstretched, until her fingers were inches away. Then the light melted into the wall itself, making the stone glow for a heartbeat before fading back into darkness.

  Still Aurora followed. Her fingers met a hint of resistance as they brushed the stone, more a memory of a barrier than a barrier itself, and then she was stepping through the wall, the corridor slipping away.

  The room beyond was round and bare, without windows, without doors, without anything but dust and stone. The green light hovered in the center, just above Aurora’s head, casting shadows across the walls.

  A woman stood beside it, her fingertips dancing across the light as though caressing the feathers of a bird. Her blonde hair curled around her elbows, and the light emphasized the cheekbones in her heart-shaped face. Everything about her was either sharp or soft, from her tiny, pointed nose to the long nails at the end of her delicate fingers. All so familiar, but it took Aurora a moment to place her. She was the woman from the square, the one who had watched her with hunger in her eyes.

  “Aurora,” she said, stretching her red lips into a smile. “How good of you to join me.”

  “Celestine,” Aurora said. The witch nodded. “You’re alive.”

  “Of course,” she said. “You didn’t think something as fleeting as time would stop me, did you? I have been watching you since you awoke.”

  Aurora screwed her hands into fists, digging her fingernails into the soft skin of her palms. The pain helped to keep her focused. She could not be afraid. “Watching, but not speaking to me?” she said. “You should have introduced yourself.”

  “I did not think you would welcome my presence,” Celestine said. “And I admit, I wanted to see what you would do alone. It was rather unimpressive, I must say.”

  “And yet you’re talking to me now.”

  Celestine tilted her head. Her blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, seeming to flow in the green light. “Well, you finally showed some potential. I wanted to congratulate you. You put on quite a show today. It made my skin buzz to see it.” Her smile felt like it was nestled under Aurora’s skin. “It was good to feel that way again, after so many years.”

  Aurora’s fists tightened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “That little explosion,” she said. “Attacking your true love . . . not the sweetest of things to do on your engagement day. It is lucky you are not more powerful, or you might have set the boy on fire.”

  “Those explosions weren’t me.”

  “Not at first,” she said. “But the last one. Oh, your anger was something to behold. I knew you had the strength of it in you. You hated him in that moment, didn’t you, Aurora?” She spoke lightly, as though it were all theoretical, a mild curiosity she had observed. “Hated him and his family and all this ridiculous show? And you could not stop it. You did not mean to, but it burst out of you.”

  “I do not hate him,” Aurora said. And it was true. But, she realized, only partly true. She could not hate Rodric, the sweet, awkward prince, but she could hate Rodric, the prince who awoke her, who spoke of true love and happily ever after and forced her into this fate. She could hate everything he represented, and in that moment, with the chaos of the crowd, her panic and anger at the guard, her fear for the girl, it had come out. She had, for the briefest of moments, hated him.

  And the ground exploded around him.

  But that was a coincidence.

  “I did not want to come to you before you had proved yourself,” Celestine said. “I cannot abide useless people, Aurora, and I did not want to do everything for you myself. But now you have done this, now you’ve shown the fire in you . . . I think it is time we came to an arrangement.”

  Aurora stepped back, moving slowly, keeping her weight on the balls of her feet. “An arrangement?”

  “Each of us has things that the other needs. You have magic, Aurora, burning inside you. And there is so very little of that left, even for me. But I know how to use it. I know how to make it count.”

  Aurora could not look away. Celestine was lying, she had to be lying. But a tightness had formed in Aurora’s chest, compelling her to listen. “What are you offering me?”

  Celestine slid closer, her footsteps so light that she seemed to float on the stone. “A choice,” she said. “If you wished to use this power, to make these people suffer for every indignity they’ve given you . . . I could give that to you. And if you don’t want it, I can make all of this go away. I could send you back to your family, let you be with them again.”

  Aurora’s heartbeat pounded through her, counting out the seconds. The witch was trying to ensnare her, she knew it. She knew, but she could not look away. “What would I have to do?”

  “Come with me,” Celestine said. She was so close now that Aurora could see every dip in her smooth, porcelain skin. She ran her fingers through Aurora’s hair, tangling the strands around her knuckles. “Let me teach you. Allow your power to strengthen me, return me to the woman I was before. I am a mere shad
ow of myself, Aurora. But you are the key. They are not lying when they say you can bring magic back. And once you have learned all I have to tell you, once you have done as I wish, you can make your own choice. You can stay with me, or you can return to your family, and never have to worry about me again.”

  “But others would,” Aurora said. “If I help you, you’ll hurt others.”

  “Perhaps,” Celestine said. “But only those who deserve it.”

  Aurora still did not move. “You’re a liar,” she said. “Do you think I don’t know what you’ve done, how many broken deals you’ve made? Why would I ever trust you?”

  “I never once broke an agreement,” Celestine said. She freed her fingers from Aurora’s hair and brushed one sharp fingernail along the sweep of Aurora’s jaw. “It is not my fault if people chose their bargains badly, or if they broke them once they were made. But you are clever, are you not, Aurora? You were meant for this. You will not have to marry the prince. You will not have to continue here, pretending that you can be happy, when we both know you cannot. I can offer you everything, Aurora. You could be with your family again.”

  Aurora stepped back, jerking away from the witch’s touch.

  “My family is dead,” she said. “I should be dead too, if not for your curse. I would help you, and you would kill me, and call it a fair bargain. Isn’t that right?”

  “Perhaps,” Celestine said. “If you did not join me. But you will want to join me. With me, you’ll be who you were meant to be. You have so much potential inside you, and I would help you.”

  Aurora’s throat was dry. “I will not help you,” she said. “Not ever. Do you understand?”

  “Poor, naïve girl.” Celestine reached for Aurora, her fingers sliding through her hair, and Aurora jerked away. Her back thudded against the wall. “I am all there is for you now.” Her voice was still soft, almost ethereal, like nothing she said mattered much to her at all, but then she moved, snatching both of Aurora’s wrists. She squeezed so tightly that Aurora felt like her bones would snap. “Come with me, and you can avoid a lot of death and heartache. Wait, and this world will grind you up until you are begging for me to help you. You do not want that, now, do you? I am offering you an easier path, Aurora. An easier life.”

  “I don’t want anything you have to offer me.” Aurora pulled her arms away, but she could not loosen Celestine’s grip. The witch’s fingernails dug into her wrists, prying between the bones.

  “A pity,” Celestine said. “You will look back on this moment and regret it, I promise you.”

  “I will not.” She yanked her wrists away again, but Celestine did not let go. “If you want me to go with you, you’ll have to force me. And I will fight you every moment if you do. You cursed me. If you’re looking for an ally, you won’t ever find one in me.”

  Celestine sighed. The breath brushed against Aurora’s cheek. “I am not the monster you think me to be,” she said. “I have rules, Aurora, and there is no satisfaction in forcing anyone to do anything. I always give people the choice to refuse me. Even on the rare occasions, like today, when they would be fools to say no.”

  “You did not give me a choice when you cursed me.”

  “Did I not?” Celestine tilted her head again, a mockery of puzzlement. “I remember it differently.” She released Aurora’s wrists and glided back. Her eyes glinted in the darkness, blue and unforgiving. “Go then, if you must,” she said. “When you change your mind, remember I will be close. You will come to me. Together, we will be wonderful.” The green light sputtered behind her, and the wall behind Aurora’s back seemed less solid, her shoulder slipping into the stone. “You will see, my dear,” Celestine said, and her voice echoed in Aurora’s head. “You will see.”

  Aurora closed her eyes for a fraction of a moment, sucking in a breath. When she opened them again, she stood in the corridor. Celestine was gone.

  EIGHTEEN

  THE GUARDS DID NOT SEEM TO HAVE NOTICED Aurora’s absence. As soon as she stepped into their midst, they began walking again, the alert expressions back on their faces.

  Aurora sat awake all night, her eyes fixed on the locked door. She could still feel the witch’s nails digging into her arm; little half-moon crescents remained, red and fierce against her pale skin.

  Celestine was alive. Everyone Aurora had ever known was dead, but Celestine was alive, lurking in the shadows, talking in riddles about powers that Aurora could not possibly possess. Aurora wrapped her arms around her knees, every muscle tense. She would not be afraid of her. But she could not let herself rest.

  Betsy appeared the following morning, as she always did, but she did not say a word beyond the required pleasantries. She brought breakfast and helped Aurora into a simple dress, and then she left, the lock clicking behind her.

  Aurora sank into a chair, slightly feverish from lack of sleep. Her eyes fell closed, and then snapped open again. She did not move for what felt like hours.

  Then she heard the buzz and chatter of a crowd outside her window. Drums resounded through the castle. The guard’s execution, she thought. After the shock of seeing Celestine, she had forgotten it.

  She hurried across the room and banged on the door. She could not pick the lock with Iris’s men on the other side, but if she made it down to the square, then surely they would have to listen to her. The king and queen would not want to seem in disagreement with her. But her guards ignored her, and the door held firm.

  The drums rolled, the crowd gasped, and Aurora’s opportunity was over.

  She wavered in front of the door. Her bookshelf caught her eye, and she hurried over to it, pulling books out almost at random. Hunting for something, anything, to distract herself.

  Her hand grasped the story of Alysse, founder of the kingdom, Aurora’s favorite book for as long as she could remember. The book said Alysse had been so good, so noble, beloved by all. Someone who had always done the right thing. Yet the books suggested the same things about Aurora, and not a word of it was true. It was all smiles and curtsies and promises, and Aurora chafing behind them, suffocating with expectations. Was that all Alysse had been too? Some girl, useless and confused, forced into an image by everyone else’s hopes?

  Aurora grabbed a page at random and tore it away, crumpling all its promises inside her fist. She ripped out another, and another, until they littered the floor. Every dream, every lie she had believed as a child, crushed in her hands.

  “Princess?”

  Rodric stood in the doorway. His mouth hung open as he took in the scene. “Are—are you all right?”

  Blood rushed into her cheeks. Her display suddenly seemed foolish, now that she had an audience. “Yes,” she said. She bent over, ignoring the twinge in her side, and gathered the crushed pages.

  “Disappointing story?”

  “You could say that.” She tossed the fragments into the fire. Each one curled up instantly, the edges blackening, shrinking as though hiding from the heat, before the entire piece vanished in the flames.

  “Do—do you mind if I come in?”

  She shrugged, keeping close to the fire. The blaze warmed her skin. “It’s not like I can go anywhere.”

  His footsteps crossed the floor. “I brought a game.” His voice rose like it was a question. “I thought you might like company, but if you’d rather be left alone . . .”

  “No,” she said. She turned back to look at him. “I’d love to play.”

  The game involved multicolored squares and round pieces that leapt across the board. Aurora barely grasped the rules, but she won the first game, and the second. Either Rodric was an appalling player, or he was letting her win. Apart from explanations of the rules, and his corrections whenever she made a mistake, they played without speaking. No mention of the day before. No mention of the wedding. He didn’t make any demands on her attention, and she no longer felt like she had to chatter aimlessly to please him. Yet the walls of her room loomed around them, and every time he shot her a nervous smile, sh
e was reminded that they still did not fit together. Neither of them had chosen this.

  She picked up a piece, and then put it back where she found it. “Why are you marrying me?”

  He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t—you don’t know me. And . . . I just don’t understand.”

  Every tick of the clock jolted in her chest as she waited for him to speak. He stared down at the game board. “I guess—when I was little, I always wanted to do something. I don’t know. When my father was arrested, and I was locked up in that tower, and the king was killed . . . I wanted to help. But . . . well, look at me.” He shot the game board a self-deprecating smile. “Not exactly the noble prince. People always said the realm was broken, and the only thing that could fix things was—you. You, and now I guess me.” He looked up. “If we have a chance to bring goodness and magic back, just by getting married—I want to do it. I want that chance. And if the promises are true, and if we will have true love, then that would be wonderful, but I would choose to do it either way, because I think you are good, and the people think you are good, and we have a real chance to make things the way they were before everything fell to pieces.” He sounded so open, so honest, that Aurora blushed again. “Do you—do you not want that?”

  She clutched her hands in her lap, twisting them tight. She could not be like him, so accepting and optimistic. “I guess—I guess I just want to be myself while I do it,” she said.

  “You can be yourself.”

  She moved a piece on the board without looking at it. “Your move,” she said.

  This time, Rodric won.

  “I’d better go,” Rodric said, once the game was over. “My father said he wished to speak to me before it got too late.” Aurora nodded. He swept the pieces back into their box.

  “Thank you,” she said, the words tumbling over one another in her hurry to get them out. “For coming here. Playing with me. It’s been—it’s lonely, sitting and waiting for things to happen.”

  He nodded. “I know how that feels.” He raised a hand, as though reaching for hers, but stopped midgesture and turned away.