by Cynthia Hand
“Bess?” he murmured.
“I’m here.”
“I can’t climb down. There’s got to be another way.”
She didn’t answer.
He moved back to the door and leaned against it. He felt stronger now, but he was also so tired that he almost couldn’t stand.
“I gave you a draught in the apricots to counteract the poison, but it won’t last,” Bess whispered. “You have to get out, Edward. Then go north. To Gran at Helmsley. She can help you. I’ll join you if I can.”
“How did you know they were going to come for me tonight?” His knees wobbled, but he fought to stay upright.
“There’s no time to explain,” she said. “You need to go. Now.”
“I would love to,” he said. “There’s only one problem. I’m currently locked in a tower.”
She sighed. “You’ll have to climb . . .”
“I’m too weak,” he said. “It’s too high up.”
“. . . or you will have to change yourself. You have to find your animal form.”
He would have laughed, but he was too shocked at the idea. “My animal form. You’re saying I’m an E∂ian.”
“Your father was an E∂ian,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Yes. I remember.” His hand formed into a fist against the door. “I’m not my father.”
“Your mother was an E∂ian, too.”
His breath caught. “My mother?” He’d only ever seen a painting of her, fair and golden-haired and smiling a secret smile.
“I saw her change once,” Bess told him. “I was a child, but I never forgot. She could turn into a bird, Edward. A beautiful white bird.”
He held back a cough. “My mother.”
“It’s in your blood, brother. Both of your parents were E∂ians, and so are you.”
How he wished that were true. But it had never happened. No matter how much he’d wanted it. “How do you know?”
“There’s no time,” she hissed. “They’re coming. Just do it, Edward. Find it inside yourself. I have to go.”
There was that flicker again, at the crack in the bottom of the door.
“Bess?” Edward whispered.
No answer.
He heard heavy footsteps at the bottom of the stairs.
“Bollocks,” he muttered to himself.
He staggered again to the window. The sky was pink against the horizon, growing brighter with every passing moment. A puff of wind touched his face, lifted his hair, filled his aching lungs with coolness. He closed his eyes.
I could change, he thought.
He wasn’t a lion. Deep down, he knew that. He’d always known it.
The footsteps were drawing closer.
He had a sudden thought. He crossed quickly to the bedside table, took out a quill and ink, and scrawled a message on the back of Jane’s letter.
She would think he was dead.
Maybe he would be.
Behind him, a key scraped into the lock.
He turned to the window.
This time, they would kill him. They would make sure of it.
He had to go.
He let his fur robe slip from his shoulders and onto the floor. He stepped up onto the windowsill.
Find it inside yourself, Bess had said.
He closed his eyes again. He thought of all the times he and Jane had tried to change themselves, to find the animal inside, and how it had never worked.
He thought of his mother, a beautiful white bird. His mother, whom he had no memory of. But perhaps she’d left him a gift in his blood.
Perhaps he could be a bird.
The door crashed open, but he didn’t hear it. He didn’t see Dudley burst into the room. He didn’t hear the duke’s shout.
Because he was falling.
And then he was flying.
And then the wind lifted him, filling his wings, and he left the palace behind.
ELEVEN
Jane
Jane was alone. At least, as she awakened the morning after her rather eventful night with Gifford, she didn’t hear the sounds of his breathing. Horse breathing or otherwise.
She checked over the side of the bed to find his blanket nest empty. He must have crept out just before dawn.
She leaned back on the pillows and closed her eyes, thinking about the adventure they’d shared, the gratitude they’d witnessed, and the laughter that had come from both of them. He’d made her laugh. She’d made him laugh. And the cutting little remarks that had defined their relationship thus far had possessed an almost friendly quality.
A thrum of pounding hooves sounded outside. Her heart thundered in response, anxious. Last night had been so— She searched for just the right word. Not magical. Not pleasant.
Satisfying. They’d done something. They’d helped those people. But now it was light out and Gifford was a horse once again. The magic (maybe it had been a little bit magical) of last night was over, burned away with the sun’s heat.
Jane rolled out of bed and found her trunks had been unpacked. Her dresses hung in wardrobes, all perfectly arranged. For a moment, she considered calling in a maid to help put her together, but she changed her mind and chose a simple dress to wear today. When she was presentable, she took a book—The Formation of Mountains and the Balance Achieved in Valleys: a Theory of E∂ian Magic in the Mundane World—and a small sack of breakfast foods outside.
Gifford was running in the meadow, head tossed back and mane streaming in the wind. His tail was flagged, dark and glossy in the early summer day. In motion, he was a creature of complete beauty: his legs stretching out before and behind him, lifting him, carrying him across the grassy land.
As Jane approached a broad-trunked apple tree, Gifford switched directions and trotted toward her, snorting. She bent to place her book and breakfast on a large, protruding root, and when she straightened, Gifford stood a few feet away, watching her with those dark horse eyes.
“Good morning.” She held out a hand and approached him.
He sniffed, soft whiskers brushing her palm, and allowed her to pet his smooth, flat cheek. It was easier to touch him when he was a horse. As a horse, he, one, couldn’t talk back, and two, seemed less human and therefore was less intimidating. Which made her preferring him like this more awkward, considering they were married, but having a preference at all seemed like a step in the right direction.
“There’s something I wanted to tell you.”
He adjusted so that she rubbed between his ears, then gave a little shake as if instructing her to scratch.
She obliged. “I was thinking about the E∂ian attack last night, and your actions. Or, rather, what I perceived as your inactions.”
Gifford angled his head so she’d scratch at the base of one ear. Was he even listening? Could he really listen, in this form?
That made it easier to keep going.
“When I saw those people in trouble, I wanted to help them. I had no idea what I’d do, though. I couldn’t have fought off the Pack. I couldn’t have saved their cow. And if I’d gone in all highborn, as you put it, they might have been offended. I hadn’t even considered that, but you did.
“I thought you were trying to prevent me from taking action, but the truth was that you were protecting me from myself. You prevented me from climbing down rocks I had no business trying to climb, and prevented me from confronting E∂ians I had no power to stop.”
Gifford didn’t appear to be listening. Finished with the ear scratching, he’d wandered toward her breakfast and was nosing through the bag.
Jane sighed. “What I’m trying to say is that I appreciate what you did, but don’t expect me to ever say it again. I hope you’re paying attention.”
The stallion snorted in triumph as he pulled an apple from the bag, the red fruit pinned between his teeth. He tossed it into the air, caught it, and gobbled the whole thing down within seconds.
“I was going to eat that,” she said, not that Gifford even bothered to look
ashamed. She shooed him away—“Go run”—and sat down on the tree root to read and eat her breakfast, but instead, Gifford lowered himself to lie next to her, his front legs tucked to one side. He watched while she propped the book on her knees and started to read, carefully keeping crumbs away.
She was halfway through The Formation of Mountains and the Balance Achieved in Valleys: a Theory of E∂ian Magic in the Mundane World when Gifford nipped at the corner of the page she was turning.
“No chewing the books,” she reminded him, and offered him another apple, which he inhaled immediately. But when she dropped her face to read again, he nudged the book with his nose and stared at her. She glanced up. “What? Use your words.”
He blinked and nudged the book again.
“You want me to . . . read to you?”
He nudged the book.
Warmth bloomed in her chest. “All right. But pay attention. I won’t reread something if you miss it.”
His ears flicked back at a squawking bird on the far side of the meadow, but faced her again when she began reading aloud. After a while, he rested his chin on the root next to her, and while she held the pages open with one hand, she placed her other hand on his nose, stroking the soft fur every so often.
A few days passed in this manner, with Jane reading to Gifford while the sun was up, and the two of them spiriting food and medicine to nearby villages at night. If the house staff noticed that the lord and lady appeared to be going through the food stores unusually quickly, they never complained.
In the parlor, Jane finished reading the last pages of The Jewels of the World: Man-made Marvels and How They Were Built just as the sun touched the horizon. She watched the orange and red burn across the sky, shining through the large windows. Outside, Gifford-the-horse stopped running as his own light overtook him, and the silhouette of a horse became the silhouette of a man. As soon as he regained a sense of his humanity, he’d come inside for dinner/breakfast. Anticipation stirred deep in her stomach.
She placed her book on the shelf and buzzed around the parlor lighting candles for a few minutes, trying to appear busy.
Twilight had deepened when at last the door opened and Gifford stepped inside, clad in the clothes she’d laid out for him. His hair was combed and tied in a tail again, and there was the usual bounce to his step, as though running for half the day didn’t affect him whatsoever. “Good evening, my lady. How many books did you read today? Anything about horses?”
“You have hay in your hair.”
He smoothed his hand over his hair before he caught her smile. “No horse jokes.”
“Never! But I wanted to ask: are you catching a chill? You sound hoarse.”
Gifford snorted and shut the parlor door behind him. “And you look flushed. I hope you’re not burning from the sun.”
“If I didn’t spend every day reading to a horse whose only thoughts were for the apples I provide—”
“I never asked you to climb the tree to fetch more apples. And while we’re on the subject, I am a horse, not a stool.”
“Will you add that to the rules?”
“And risk another rule regarding your books? I think not.” He came toward her, subtly checking his ponytail for hay. “My lady, there’s something I wish to discuss.”
His tone had changed, the ever-present playfulness shifting into something more serious. It was the same tone he’d used when he’d described his feelings on being an E∂ian and how he believed the scales needed “to be righted in the direction of equality” for E∂ians and Verities alike.
“All right.” Truly, he’d been more handsome than ever during his speech that night. It had been the first time she’d ever thought there might be more to his mind than women, ale, and the wind in his mane.
“I wasn’t sure whether to tell you.” He closed his eyes and turned his face away from the candle she’d just lit. “It seemed like it might be easier for you to assume I hadn’t the wits to comprehend what you were saying, but I’ve given this a lot of careful thought and I’ve decided I wanted you to know.”
Jane gazed up at him.
“The other day when you came out to the meadow and told me that you appreciate what I did during the E∂ian attack, I heard. I understood.”
So he’d gone off in his horsey-like behavior simply to put her at ease. How unexpectedly kind of him.
“But I also wanted you to know that what you tried to do—that was very honorable, if ill-advised. I’d been so busy studying the Pack I’d hardly thought to do something, having already decided there was nothing I could do. And while I will never regret preventing you from being foolishly brave, I do regret that I had not been willing to even try.”
Jane said nothing. The words were nice, but this was a man accustomed to wooing women. He was adept at appealing to whatever side of them would move him closer to the bed. Married or not, Jane refused to be so easily swayed. She needed proof.
Gifford’s eyes were still closed, his face still in shadow. She touched his jaw and turned him until he looked at her. He was earnest and serious.
“As much as it pains me for you to know yet another of my flaws,” he said, “I wanted you to know that I heard every word you said that day, and I’ve heard every word since. Sitting under the tree with you, listening to you read, has become one of the best parts of my day.”
“Second only to apples?”
The tension in his shoulders relaxed. “I know there is more to you than your apples.”
Jane blushed and said, “Sharing my books with you has been one of the best parts of my days here, as well.”
His gaze was steady on her, and though they stood very close together, neither of them moved.
Would he kiss her? Part of her hoped he would. A big part, maybe. Multiple parts: her butterfly-filled stomach, her thudding heart, and her lips, which remembered the gentle breath of a kiss during their wedding. Not meant to be sweet then, just swift, but now proof that he was capable of such tenderness.
She shifted toward him. “G . . .”
“My lady?” He touched her arm, and if he was surprised about her use of his preferred address, he didn’t show it. There was a hopeful note in the way he said, “Jane?”
A knock sounded, and a maid entered without waiting for permission. Jane and G jumped apart as if they’d been caught in a compromising position. Which they had, almost, but they were married so it was allowed.
Jane’s heart pounded and she couldn’t seem to catch her breath, though G’s recovery appeared much smoother. Perhaps he was more used to being discovered like this—or worse.
“Yes?” Gifford’s voice was rough; maybe he wasn’t as recovered as he appeared. “What is the meaning of this?”
The maid stepped aside to admit two burly men in royal guard uniforms. “Lady Jane must return to London immediately.” It was Unibrow Guard, the same man who’d prevented her from seeing Edward the day she left London.
Jane went cold. No good news came in the middle of the night. “What is wrong?”
“We’re not at liberty to say, my lady, but you must come with us. Your belongings will follow. A carriage is waiting.”
“Perhaps you should tell her what it is you want from her first,” said G, stepping closer to Jane. “There’s no need to keep her in suspense.”
“I’m afraid we’re under orders to do nothing but deliver Lady Jane straight to the Tower of London.”
“By whose orders?” G pressed.
“Your father’s.” The guard turned to the maid. “Pack their belongings and send along everything later tonight. Ensure the lord and lady have something to eat for the journey. . . .”
Jane’s mind whirred as the guards continued giving orders and she was taken from the house. Why would she be needed at the Tower? Was Edward there? Had he sent for her? Had his illness grown worse?
Before she realized, she’d been packed into the carriage, with a book shoved into her hands. G sat beside her murmuring something that migh
t have been comforting, but all she could think of was Edward: how pale he’d looked at the wedding, the hollows under his eyes, and even the way he’d stopped wearing the daily attire befitting a king.
Unibrow Guard sat in the carriage with Jane, the only one who seemed to know how to speak, though nothing he said was particularly useful for assuaging her anxiety. It was only as the carriage burst into motion that Jane noticed the rest of the guards: almost a score of men on horseback riding alongside her and Gifford as they bounced along the road. They were armed with swords, and all wore the Dudley crest.
“Please,” she tried again. “What is the reason for this?”
“You’ll find out as soon as we arrive.”
This man was a fortress.
She looked over at G from the corner of her eye. His jaw was set, and he fidgeted with his hands in his lap.
Guilt or worry?
Gifford couldn’t have anticipated this, could he? Unless he’d planned something with his father ahead of time, but to what end? While Lord Dudley didn’t seem to like Jane very much, there could be no benefit to cutting short the honeymoon.
Perhaps she was suspicious of him simply because she didn’t like his nose.
And suspicious of G because she did like his nose.
Perhaps Edward had recovered and he wanted to speak to her directly about her letter. Perhaps he was summoning her in order to apologize. Just because no one had ever recovered from “the Affliction” didn’t mean he couldn’t be the first.
Jane lowered her eyes to the book in her hands. Famous Steeds of England in the Fourteenth Century.
“You looked like you needed a book,” G said. “It was on top of the pile.”
“Thank you.” But the words were automatic, and Jane spent most of the ride staring out the window as a knot of worry tightened in her stomach.
It was late when they arrived in the outskirts of London, so a certain stillness of sleeping was to be expected. But tonight, either because of her mysterious summons or because there was truly something off about the city, there was a subtle almost-paralysis in the streets. As if everything were a painting. Even the wind had died.
Their carriage clattered unnaturally loudly down the road. A few people appeared in doorways, staring.
