A Wicked Thing

by Rhiannon Thomas

  Aurora ran her fingers through Isabelle’s hair. “No,” she said softly. “That’s not true.”

  “It’s all right for you,” Isabelle said. “You have Rodric. Everything’s already worked out.”

  “That’s not entirely true either,” Aurora said. “My mother told me the same things too, you know. I didn’t have to meet princes, but she always told me—she said, it was my duty to be good and admired. If I did as I ought, happiness would come to me.” The words had been so promising at the time. If she did her duty, if she waited in her tower until she turned eighteen, happiness would come after.

  “I think she had suitors in mind for me too,” she said. “I remember, on the day I—on my last day at home, she was preparing me for a big ball. For my birthday. And she kept telling me about all the princes who would attend. I think she intended me to marry one of them.”

  “But you’re going to marry Rodric, aren’t you?”

  Aurora nodded. “Those princes—they are long dead now.”

  “And you—you love him. Don’t you?” Isabelle peered over her shoulder with wide, meek eyes, as though desperate for the answer. Desperate, and a little afraid. “Because the princesses always love the princes in the stories, but Mother says that’s silly. She says we have to marry whoever’s best for the realm and we’ll be happy later. But—but you love Rodric, don’t you? Like in the book.”

  Isabelle trembled at the end of her speech. She continued to stare at Aurora, all hope and fear, and Aurora’s reply stuck in her throat. How could she tell her the truth? How could she tell her that she had felt more for a rebel in an inn than for Isabelle’s kindhearted older brother? Rodric deserved her affection, and Tristan did not, yet Tristan’s betrayal still ached, while Rodric’s kindness felt like nothing more than friendship. “Your brother is a good man,” she said eventually, each word slow and careful. “But I barely know him yet. Perhaps, in the future . . . if the story is true . . .”

  Isabelle did not flinch or look away, but the corners of her mouth turned down a fraction of an inch. She nodded. “It has to be,” she said.

  No, Aurora thought, staring down at the strands of Isabelle’s hair caught between her fingers. The story was not true. She had awoken, out of need, or coincidence, or Celestine deciding it was time, or simply magic too weak to hold her any longer. Not because of fated love.

  It did not matter, though. Others believed in it, and that, it seemed, was reason enough.

  Aurora stayed up reading by the light of a candle. Her feet were tucked inside her nightgown, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The castle had been silent for hours. Even the servants were asleep, but Aurora’s mind was still too full of her conversation with Isabelle to rest. She stared at the pages, but she could not process the words.

  She was about to give up and try to sleep when she heard movement outside her room. Footsteps, and a few whispered words. She stared at the door.

  The handle shook.

  Aurora stood up. She had nothing that even vaguely looked like a weapon, so she tightened her grip on the book, feeling its weight. If Celestine had come for her again, she did not know how she would defend herself.

  But when the door inched open, it wasn’t the witch who entered.

  It was Finnegan.

  “Good,” he said. “You’re awake.”

  She stepped back, suddenly very aware of the way her nightgown brushed below her knees. “Finnegan,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  “I have something to show you.”

  She shook her head. Her fingers tightened around the book. “My guards—”

  “They let me in.”

  “They let you in?”

  “It’s surprising what people will do if you give them enough coins. I’m doing you a favor, coming here.”

  “You’re doing me a favor?” she echoed. “By breaking into my room at night?”

  “Something is happening,” he said. “Down in the dungeons. Something you need to see.”

  Aurora shivered. She wrapped her free arm across her stomach, clutching her elbow. Explosions in the square, innocent people arrested, rebels who wanted the king dead. Dread crawled up her spine.

  “Show me,” she said.

  Apart from her guards, her corridor was deserted, but she could hear voices and people running, the sounds echoing up from lower floors.

  Finnegan took her hand. His palm was warm, his fingers sliding between hers. “This way,” he said.

  He led her down the corridor until they reached a battered tapestry at the top of the stairs. He lifted it with his free hand, revealing a narrow passageway. The torchlight illuminated the first few feet, showing rough stone coated with dust, but the darkness beyond was impenetrable. Anything could lurk within.

  Aurora hesitated.

  “Only way to get around unnoticed,” Finnegan said. “Come on.” She stepped under his arm into the tunnel. He followed her, dropping the tapestry as he went, so the material slapped against their backs, plunging them into darkness. Aurora tightened her hold on his hand. He squeezed back.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t let the monsters get you.”

  “I wasn’t worried,” she said. “I don’t want to lose you in the dark.”

  “Of course not. I wouldn’t want to lose me either.”

  He walked on. Aurora’s toes curled as she stepped in dust, the occasional cobweb sticking to her skin. She could barely make out the shape of Finnegan’s shoulder ahead of her, the arm stretching back to hold her hand. Apart from their movements, the hiss of their breath, the passage was still.

  “There are stairs down here,” Finnegan said. “Be careful.”

  The stairs twisted beneath them. She tested each movement with her toes, turning her feet so they fit on the worn steps. Finnegan walked without hesitation, as though he had taken this path many times before.

  A light glowed ahead. She could hear voices again, faint ones, but the echo made it impossible to understand the words. They paused a few steps from the bottom, listening.

  She recognized one of the speakers. Tristan.

  Aurora hurried past Finnegan, her feet slipping in her haste. The stairs opened onto a small alcove. Beyond, Aurora could only see an unlit stone wall, the light of nearby sconces spilling across the uneven floor. Aurora clung to the wall with her fingertips, peering around the corner.

  Tristan stood toward the end of the corridor, dressed in the garb of the castle servants. A guard held his arms behind his back, while another leaned into his face. “It’s like I told you,” Tristan said. “I was passing through on my way to bed, and I heard a commotion. I rushed to see what was happening.”

  “Strange that I haven’t seen your face before, dutiful servant as you are,” the guard said.

  “Ask the king,” Tristan said. “He’ll vouch for me. He gave me the job himself. I’ve worked for him for years.”

  Aurora’s fingers tightened around the stone. Her first instinct was to help him. To provide a distraction, to run up to the guards and order them to release him, to do something. If he did not escape, he would surely be killed. But doubt made her pause. She could not think of a single innocent reason why he might be here, dressed as a servant in the middle of the night.

  Finnegan rested a hand on her shoulder, pulling her back. She shrugged him off.

  “It’s your lucky day, then, isn’t it?” the guard said. “The king’ll be here any moment, to deal with the lot of yeh. I don’t think he’ll be too pleased. Springing prisoners from the dungeon and all.”

  Aurora bit her lip. She remembered the old woman who had been arrested on her first day in court, the healing woman accused of poisoning her village and locked down here to rot. If Tristan had been rescuing people like her, helping them escape . . .

  Sounds of fighting burst down the corridor. Grunts. Yells. Metal crashing against stone.

  The guard who had been interrogating Tristan turned at the noise and reached for his sword. As s
oon as he looked away, Tristan moved. His arms slipped free of the second guard, almost as if he had been released, and his foot snaked around the distracted man’s ankle, knocking him off-balance. As the guard stumbled, still reaching for his sword, Tristan yanked a knife out of his boot. He plunged it into the guard’s side. The guard yelled, twisting toward the wound, and Tristan ran, toward the fighting, toward Aurora and Finnegan. He did not even glance at them as he passed. He skidded around the corner, swerving left, and then he was gone.

  Aurora stepped after him as though she could catch him and demand to know what was happening, but Finnegan’s hand tightened on her shoulder, yanking her back into the shadows.

  “Careful,” he whispered. “Don’t let them see you.”

  “But—” She did not know how to process what she had seen. “The guard.”

  “He will live,” Finnegan said. “That was a wound to slow him, not to kill him.”

  “And you know the difference?”

  He jerked his head in a nod. More footsteps were coming down the corridor. The bleeding guard lurched to his feet and ran after Tristan, his partner trailing behind. But with the guard’s injury, Tristan had gained a decent head start. He might escape, if he did not join the other fight.

  Aurora leaned toward the noise, but she couldn’t see anything. “We should get closer,” she whispered to Finnegan.

  He shook his head. “Any closer and they might see us.”

  Then another voice she recognized drifted down the corridor. “Have all the traitors been apprehended?”

  The king.

  “The fighting is continuing in the north wing of the dungeons,” his attendant said. They marched into view. Aurora shrank back, pressing closer to Finnegan, trying to melt into the shadows. “But they’re outnumbered. We will overpower them quickly. A weak attempt, in all.”

  “Any casualties in our ranks?”

  “Not as far as I have heard. Except for the cost of the traitors among us, of course.”

  “Indeed.”

  The pair strode past Aurora and Finnegan’s hiding place. Aurora held her breath, wishing that she could vanish into the stone itself.

  “We cannot let word of this get out,” the king continued. “We must deal with this tonight.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  They turned right, heading in the direction where swords had clashed only moments before, but Aurora could still hear every word.

  “You have killed all of the intruders? And everyone who tried to escape?”

  “All the ones who fought back, Your Majesty. We have a couple of others in custody. We thought we might interrogate them.”

  The king scoffed. “All you’ll get from them is lies,” he said. “Kill them and be done with it.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Aurora flinched again. Tristan had run the other way, away from where the king now stood. Away from the ongoing fight. She turned to Finnegan for confirmation. “The way that boy took,” she whispered. “Would it lead out of the dungeons?”

  Finnegan nodded. “It wouldn’t lead to the north wing, at least. He probably got out.”

  The footsteps stopped. Aurora strained to hear the words. “And the other prisoners?” the king said. “How many remain?”

  “Most of them. We haven’t done a full check, but it seems only those recently arrested for seditious activity were freed.”

  So Tristan had not been here to free all the innocents in the dungeons after all. He had only been trying to rescue his allies, his friends.

  “We can’t have this happen again,” the king said. “Tell the guards to slit the prisoners’ throats.”

  Aurora jerked forward, but Finnegan wrapped an arm around her chest, pulling her back.

  The attendant hesitated. “A-all of them, Your Majesty?”

  “All of them. Then bring the guards who were on duty tonight to me. I want to deal with them myself.”

  Aurora pulled away from Finnegan again, but he did not let go. “He can’t do that,” she said. She saw that old woman again, bent double in court, so certain that her king would protect her. The terror on her face as she was dragged away. “He can’t kill them.”

  “He can, and he will. What do you think he’ll do to you if he sees you here too?”

  “He won’t hurt me,” she said. “He needs me.”

  “So much that he wouldn’t take the chance to get rid of you? Don’t be stupid, Aurora. Think.”

  “I am not stupid.” She wrenched her arm away and spun to face him. “He’s going to kill them, Finnegan. Innocent people.”

  “He was going to kill them anyway, if they’re locked down here.” Finnegan’s voice was low and steady. “You know he was.” He shook his head. “Let’s get out of here, before it gets any worse. If they see us . . .”

  “We can’t just leave.”

  “We have to. There is nothing you can do.” He pulled her arm, dragging her farther into the shadows, until they stumbled against the stairs.

  She shoved him backward, letting her anger, her disgust, snap through her arms. “Why did you bring me here?” she said. “Why, if there was nothing we could do?”

  “Because I wanted you to know,” Finnegan said. “I wanted you to see for yourself.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, making the black waves stand on end. The movement made him look suddenly vulnerable. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize that was going to happen.”

  He sounded so genuine that Aurora paused. “It would have happened whether we saw it or not,” she said. “But leaving without helping—”

  Finnegan brushed a hand across her shoulder. “You can’t help,” he said. “Not now. We need to go before they find you missing, or things will get a lot worse.”

  As they climbed the stairs, Aurora imagined she could still hear swords ringing in the distance. Hear the shouts of helpless prisoners as metal slashed across their throats.

  Finnegan walked her back to her room. “Are you all right?” he asked as she reached for the doorknob. His hand lingered on her shoulder.

  “No,” she said. The word scratched her throat. “I don’t think I should be.”

  Finnegan nodded. “I’m here for you,” he said.

  “You’re here for my throne.”

  “No.” His grip tightened. “I’m here for you.” He leaned closer, and Aurora froze. He was going to kiss her. His lips brushed against her cheekbone. Her skin burned where he had touched. Aurora fought the urge to tilt her head, to slip her lips closer to his. She had already had one ill-advised kiss in the past few weeks, and she hated Finnegan. She hated him. Yet the hatred was a rush of warmth against the horror of what she had seen, and she did not want to move away.

  Finnegan’s nose trailed along hers, and then he stepped back, no trace of a smile on his face. “Remember what I said.”

  Aurora pushed the door open and stepped back into the room. He was too close, but suddenly, she did not want him to go. She did not want to be left alone.

  “I’ll lock the door behind you,” Finnegan said. She nodded. The door closed, and she was alone.

  Several floors below her, people were dying. They were dying, murdered in their cells, while she stood in her bedroom, safe, cold, a world away from it all. She could almost see the blood, red on stone, splattered on skin. But there was nothing she could do.

  She strode across the room and poured herself a glass of water. Her wrist shook, water splashing over the edge of the glass. She stared at her hand. It seemed to belong to somebody else, too pale, moving of its own accord. And she remembered the queen, sitting in this room, her hand shaking around the same glass, because Aurora had disobeyed her, because she had put everything at risk.

  Aurora slammed the glass down on the table. Her hand still shook.

  Had Tristan made it out alive? He and his men had fled, leaving the slow and the innocent to face the king’s fury. He had chosen this risk, not them. Maybe he deserved to face that failure with them
too.

  She could do nothing for those people now. But soon . . . soon she would be crown princess, next to be queen. Her place would be secure. Then they would see who she had the potential to be.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “ARE YOU FEELING ALL RIGHT, PRINCESS?” BETSY ASKED the following morning as she pinned up Aurora’s hair. “You are looking pale.”

  “Yes,” Aurora said. She had slept little, her mind too full of the king’s orders, of people dying within the castle while she huddled in her room. Surely Betsy would know something about what had happened, even if it was distorted by lies. But Aurora could not tell her what she had seen. “I just—I heard some things, late last night. People running and shouting. I wasn’t sure what was happening.”

  “Nothing happened last night, Princess, as far as I know. Maybe you were dreaming.”

  “Maybe.” She glanced at Betsy’s reflection. The maid’s expression was steady, her hands sure. She did not look like she was hiding anything. “It sounded real.”

  “Everything was fine, Princess,” Betsy said firmly. “And if it wasn’t, you are safe here, with your guards.”

  Aurora nodded. Yet she had put Betsy at risk again, by leaving her room at night, ignoring all locks and warnings and running straight toward trouble. She felt a tug of guilt. “I am sorry, you know,” she said softly. “For what happened before.”

  Betsy’s hands stilled. “It’s not your place to apologize to me, Princess.”

  “But it is.” She stepped away, sliding her hair out of Betsy’s reach and turning to look at the younger girl. “I ignored your warnings, and you got in trouble because of me. And I really am sorry.”

  Betsy nodded. She smiled. “There’s no need to worry about the past, Princess,” she said. “We’ve got your wedding to think on.” She stepped up on tiptoe and pinned another curl away from Aurora’s face. “And the banquet tomorrow. The queen’s got a dress all picked out for you, but I was thinking about your hair. Perhaps some twists from the front, sweeping to a bunch of rosettes on the back of your head, and then loose curls . . . if that pleases you, of course.”