A Wicked Thing

by Rhiannon Thomas

  He was almost at the door when he paused. He did not look back. “Why did you do it?” he said.

  She frowned. “Do what?”

  “Prick your finger. If you knew the spinning wheel was cursed, why did you use it?”

  She had never wondered that, not once. Fate decreed, and she had acted, like so much else in her life. “I didn’t have a choice,” she said. “Celestine enchanted me.”

  “There’s always a choice, Princess.”

  He hurried out of the room before she could reply.

  That night was particularly cold, mocking any dreams of the approaching spring. Aurora tightened the blankets around her, but the chill crept in through every gap, and she shivered. Her eyes refused to close. Whenever she blinked, the world filled with blood and needles stabbing into her skin, princes leaning down to kiss her and ice-cold bars everywhere she turned. She was so tired. She stared up at the ceiling, watching dark, imagined shapes flit across it. Rodric’s words echoed in her head as she followed the shadows. There’s always a choice. He sounded so convinced, but he was, in the end, like her, his life dictated by expectations and something they all called fate. Aurora wasn’t sure she’d ever had a choice. It had all been laid out before her, by Celestine, by her parents’ fear, by locked doors and fairy tales. Even now, as her wedding approached, she did not have space to choose. She was their savior, they said, and she had to obey them.

  But Rodric’s assertion would not leave her thoughts. She could choose to disobey the king and queen, to leave and accept everything that came with it . . . the loneliness, and the destruction that might follow. Or she could stay.

  Yet what was the point, when she had no power of her own?

  She sat up suddenly. Celestine had told her she had caused an explosion in the square in her anger. It was a terrifying thought. Impossible. But she had felt something in that moment that was not quite like herself. Anger that felt like madness, fury vanishing in a snap like the kick of a horse, and something that might be called magic, at least by a lying, manipulative tongue. And Celestine had seemed so convinced.

  A spark lingered inside her.

  If she had magic, and she could use it, she could help people. She could prevent Celestine from ever controlling her again.

  The possibility took hold of her. Even if it was dangerous, even if the very thought of it made her feel sick . . . she had to know. She slid from her bed in one fluid motion and clutched at her dresser. A brush. Papers. A quill. Then the unmistakable smoothness of a candle. She tugged it free from its stand, cupping the base in her palms and wrapping her fingers around the stem.

  Staring at the shape in the darkness, she willed it to light. Burn, she thought, and then she said it, whispering the word over and over like an incantation. “Burn, burn, burn.”

  Nothing. She squeezed the wax so tightly that she was sure it would snap, and pictured fire. Flames licking upward, tantalizing, hypnotic, sinful. The smell of smoke. Warmth on her face. She could almost hear the crackle and burn of it in the cool night air.

  Nothing happened.

  Frustration surged through her. Useless, she thought. She was a useless, stupid, sleeping princess, back then and now as well, playing at freedom while the bars crushed into her skin. Weak and willing to be manipulated by everyone around her. Sadness and curiosity and duty and fear had all at once seized her, but for a heartbeat, they were battered away, gone, lost under this hopeless fury. Hate stole her breath and scraped against her teeth, hate for the castle, hate for the darkness, hate for Tristan for deceiving her, hate for the queen and her stern, unbending expectations, hate for Celestine, for destroying her life and putting terrifying hopes in her head, and hate for herself, her weakness, her meekness, a life spent doing nothing. For one bubbling, burning heartbeat, she allowed it to consume her.

  The burn danced across her skin, chasing up her fingers. The smell of fire brushed her nose.

  She gasped. The whole candle blazed.

  NINETEEN

  “PRINCESS, WHAT DID YOU DO TO YOUR HANDS?” BETSY turned Aurora’s burned palms over, examining the raw flesh and barely formed scabs in the early morning light.

  “I knocked over a candle,” Aurora said. Betsy tutted and fetched a salve to soothe the pain, but she accepted the explanation without question. Aurora could not forget the incident so easily.

  She flicked through books, trying to lose herself in the words, but every time she turned a page, her fingers ached, and she wondered whether these tales, too, were lies. A servant brought in a harp, and she plucked at it with stiff fingers, but the strings hurt her burns so much that she had to stop.

  Although Rodric came every day to play, they did not talk about anything more compelling than the weather and the delicious food Rodric heard the servants were preparing for their engagement banquet. Once, Aurora dared to ask if anyone had caught the instigators of the violence at their ceremony. Rodric shook his head.

  She ran her thumb along the healing burns, over and over, tracing the raw smoothness and the fierce blisters. The candle had left a spark of something in her. Not boldness, not resolve, and not a part of her old self—meek and adventurous, loving and resentful, hiding and smiling and curtsying and reading—but something secret and dangerous and entirely her own.

  Or entirely its own. Although Aurora tried, again and again, to set something else on fire, shatter the vase on her table, knock a book off her shelf, she could not create even the slightest shift in the air. The hope of it flickered inside her, that spark that promised she was not as weak as she seemed, but it was unwilling to bow to her demands. If not for the red blisters that still covered her skin, she might have called it a dream, another moment of madness and flame.

  She ran her fingers through her own story, The Tale of Sleeping Beauty, once again. She had spent a hundred years under a spell. Perhaps that magic had seeped into her, giving her power that she could not entirely control. Power that the witch now wanted back.

  “Good morning, Princess,” Rodric said when he arrived at her door a few days later. He hovered at the threshold, his cheeks pink. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “No,” she said. She pushed her breakfast tray away and stood. “Of course you aren’t.”

  “I have a surprise for you,” he said.

  “A surprise?”

  “I thought it must be getting a little tiring,” he said. “Being stuck in here all the time. So I thought we might go into the gardens.”

  Aurora smiled. The gardens were not exactly her idea of an adventure, but even embroidery with the queen would have been preferable to staying locked up in her room for another day. The fresh air would clear her head.

  “That would be lovely,” she said.

  “I know it might be a bit cold,” Rodric continued. “The sun won’t be fully over the castle walls for another couple of hours, but . . . well, my mother is otherwise engaged this morning. She won’t be wanting us for hours.”

  “And she wouldn’t approve of what you’ve got planned?”

  “I don’t think she would not approve,” Rodric said carefully. “But it may be better if she doesn’t know until after it’s done.”

  Rodric, being mysterious? Aurora had not imagined it possible. “What exactly are you planning?” she asked.

  Rodric only smiled. “You’ll see. Shall we go?”

  As they walked through the corridors, followed by guards, Aurora tried to puzzle out what Rodric intended. It was too cold for a picnic, and they could play most games inside easily enough. Perhaps they would be taking Isabelle for an outing, but surely he could have told her that before.

  When she finally glimpsed the garden, she paused, a smile spreading across her face.

  Two horses stood on the path, held in place by a groom. The one farthest from Aurora was pure black with a lush mane and tail. The horse tossed its head, as though it were fully aware of its beauty and eager for everyone to appreciate it. The one nearer to Aurora was smaller and a litt
le stockier, with a creamy gold coat and a white mane and tail that fell in rough waves. It had a pale splotch on its nose, and it was nuzzling the back of the groom’s hand with its upper lip.

  “You said before that you’d always wanted to ride a horse,” Rodric said. “So I thought—I mean, it isn’t exactly riding through the forest, that wouldn’t be safe, but—we could try it. For a little bit. If you’d like.”

  “Yes,” she said, and the word came out more like a breath. “Yes, it’s wonderful. Thank you.” Gratitude rushed through her. She spun on her toes and threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tight. He touched her gingerly on the back in return. “Really,” she said. “Thank you.” She let go and turned back to the horses. “Which one is for me?”

  “The smaller one. Her name’s Polly. The black one is my horse, Shadow. Best horse in the kingdom. But she’s a bit big for you.”

  Aurora crept closer, her arm outstretched. Polly stopped chewing on the groom’s knuckles and turned to look at her. Aurora brushed her fingertips down the horse’s nose, feeling the softness of her fur.

  “She likes it if you scratch under her chin,” the groom said. Aurora tried it, slightly scared that the horse would nip at her fingers. Instead, Polly’s lower lip shook, and she tilted her head to butt Aurora lightly with her nose.

  “How did you get them here?” she asked. The garden was entirely enclosed, solid castle walls on all sides.

  “Well, to be honest,” Rodric said, “I just led them through the corridors and hoped no one would tell me not to.”

  “And they didn’t?”

  “No,” Rodric said. “One of the advantages of being a prince, I suppose.”

  “Ready to ride her, Princess?” the groom said, and Aurora felt a jolt of panic. The idea of riding had always excited her, but now that the opportunity was before her, with a horse whose back was higher than her head, she realized she hadn’t the first clue how to go about it.

  “All right,” she said. “If you’ll help me.”

  The groom held the horse’s head while Rodric helped guide Aurora’s left foot into the stirrup. Aurora jumped up, putting all her weight in the metal loop, and felt the saddle shift slightly as she scrambled with her right leg, trying to find her balance. Then she was sitting on the horse, reins loose in her hands, her skirt tangled around her.

  “Now swing your right leg back this way,” the groom said, “and put it between these two pommels here.” She did what he asked, wobbling as her foot brushed across the horse’s neck. Her leg slipped between the grips, and she sat back. It was a lot more comfortable than it had looked. As the groom adjusted the saddle straps on either side of her and fetched her a whip, he explained the basics to her: pull back to stop, kick to go, steer with your feet on one side and the crop on the other.

  Polly turned her head and nibbled Aurora’s toe.

  For all his talk about being afraid of horses, Rodric hopped into his own saddle without any apparent problems. He adjusted the straps from where he sat, and then turned to Aurora with an expectant look on his face.

  “After you,” he said.

  The groom still held the front of Aurora’s bridle, but Aurora dug her heels into Polly’s side anyway, and Polly plodded forward. Her footsteps clopped on the cobblestones, her whole body tilting from side to side as she walked. Aurora grabbed the front of the saddle.

  “Are you all right?” Rodric asked. He was smiling, but he at least tried to sound concerned.

  “Yes,” Aurora said. “She just surprised me.”

  “Hold your reins a little tighter,” Rodric said. “So that you can feel tension in her mouth, just a little bit. And then relax your hands in front of you. Yes, like that, that’s good.”

  The reins rubbed against Aurora’s burns, but Aurora found she did not mind. She could feel the horse’s body heat beneath her, the sway of her steps, the way she nodded her head slightly as she walked. She felt connected, and even though they were moving slowly, even though they were still locked within the castle walls, she felt lighter, freer. She dared to lower her reins slightly and run her fingers through the fur at the nape of Polly’s neck.

  Rodric urged his horse alongside her.

  She had clearly been given the gentlest, slowest horse in the stables. Polly followed Aurora’s every tentative instruction without complaint, and her simple lack of majesty was almost comforting. Occasionally, she would yank her head to the side to chew on flower buds or tree branches, almost pulling Aurora’s arms out of their sockets in the process, but the groom would pull her firmly in the other direction. “If she eats any of those flowers,” he mumbled, “the queen’ll have my head.”

  After a couple of loops of the gardens, Rodric suggested, with slight trepidation in his voice, that Aurora might like to try a canter. “You only have to sit back,” he said. “Put all your weight in your saddle. Kick her on, one big kick, and then pull back when you want to stop. Polly’s a good mount. She’ll take care of you.”

  “All right,” Aurora said. “Yes. I’ll try it.”

  The groom frowned. “I can’t run with you, Princess, if you do. It’ll be too fast for my old legs.”

  “I’ll be all right,” Aurora said, although she did not feel as sure as she sounded. “Polly and I seem to be getting along well, don’t we, Polly?” Polly blew air through her nose, as though in agreement.

  On Rodric’s shout, she sat down firmly in the saddle and kicked Polly forward. The horse leapt into a steady canter, her movements suddenly smooth, a flowing rise and fall. They came to a low-hanging branch. Aurora ducked. Twigs scraped the top of her head, and Aurora laughed. As though urged on by Aurora’s glee, Polly picked up speed, her feet thrumming on the ground.

  They reached a corner. Polly turned, leaning to the side to maintain speed. Aurora’s foot slipped out of her stirrup. The metal clanged against her ankle a couple of times, and then Aurora was slipping too, her weight falling more and more to the left. She snatched for Polly’s mane, but by the time she had realized what was happening, it was too late to stop it. The sky blurred before her eyes, and then she hit the flowerbeds with a thump.

  “Princess! Princess, are you all right?”

  Aurora took a moment to stare at the clouds. Her back was slightly sore, but otherwise, she felt unhurt. She pushed herself into a sitting position.

  Rodric had dismounted Shadow and was hurrying toward her, the horse’s reins in his hands. The groom was running to grab Polly, but that seemed unnecessary. The cream horse was standing a few paces from Aurora, looking at her as though wondering what she was doing on the ground.

  “Princess,” Rodric said again. “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m all right,” she said, and she stood up to prove her point, brushing the dust from her skirts. “It was only a little fall.”

  But Rodric still looked pale. “Maybe we should stop for now.”

  “I promise I’m fine,” Aurora said, but Rodric was chewing his lip, and she could tell that every possible riding-related disaster was now filling his head. “Another day?” she said. “With Polly? I just got ahead of myself. I’ll be more careful next time.”

  “Of course,” Rodric said. “I promise. After—after the wedding, we’ll give you real lessons. And then you can ride out beyond the walls.”

  After the wedding. Her happiness ebbed at the thought. There would be many good things to marrying Rodric, she knew that. The freedom to finally leave the castle and ride a horse would be one of them. Rodric’s extreme kindness and consideration would be another. But despite all that, he still only felt like a friend, and the looming wedding seemed like the day when all her possibilities would finally be taken away.

  “Shall I help you back to your rooms?” Rodric asked.

  “No,” she said softly. “No, you help deal with the horses. I am sure the guards will walk me.”

  “I’m happy to—”

  “No, it’s all right,” she said firmly. “I would like some time to think.”
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  Rodric nodded, but she could not help noticing his disappointed expression as she walked away.

  TWENTY

  AURORA WAS READYING HERSELF FOR BED THAT NIGHT when she heard a quiet voice in the doorway.

  “Hello.”

  Aurora looked up. Isabelle was peering around the door. Aurora placed her brush on the table and stared at her. “Hello, Isabelle,” she said.

  The girl slipped into the room. “Rod said you were hurt. He said that’s why you aren’t around anymore.”

  “I’m okay,” Aurora said. “It’s—it’s just safer if I stay here.”

  Isabelle moved closer, eyes fixed on the ground. “Can I stay here?” she said. “For a little while?”

  “Won’t someone be looking for you?”

  “The guards know I’m here.” Isabelle shifted again. “My mother wants to see me tomorrow. She wants me to see Finnegan.”

  “It will be all right,” Aurora said. “He’s not too awful.”

  Isabelle giggled. “He’s okay usually. He’s kind of nice. Smiles and tells jokes. But when my mother is there, it’s like it’s not really him anymore. All his smiles are too big.”

  Aurora sat down on a stool, and waved Isabelle over to her. “I think your mother has that effect on a lot of people.”

  Isabelle offered a small smile. She sat down by Aurora’s feet, her chin resting on her knees. “I don’t think he wants to marry me very much.”

  “It sounds like he likes you,” Aurora said. “But you are a lot younger than he is. And I don’t think Finnegan’s the sort of person who would let anyone tell him what to do. No one would mind if he refused.”

  Isabelle was quiet for a long moment. “Mother would mind,” she said. “She would say I failed.”

  “It wouldn’t be your fault.”

  “But it would, wouldn’t it?” Isabelle craned her neck to look at Aurora. “Mother says it would be the greatest thing I could do, and if it’s the right thing, then shouldn’t I do it? And if I didn’t do it, doesn’t that mean I wasn’t good enough for him? So I failed.”