by Chanda Hahn
I gathered my skirts to one side and pressed against the far wall, refusing to make eye contact or even acknowledge his existence. The ride back was filled with silent tension. He had no qualms about staring at me the whole ride, while I pretended to not notice.
When I became nervous, I had a tendency to fidget, and I found that the only way to overcome my anxiety was to tuck my hands under my thighs. When the coach pulled down the familiar alley, I stood up and moved to the door before it had come to a full stop. The coach jerked, and I tumbled into Dorian’s lap, his hand going around my waist to steady me. The heat of his hand burned through my dress, and I could feel it as if it was on my own skin.
He held me cradled in his lap, and those gray-blue eyes met mine. I could feel his desire. A heat burned in my stomach, and when I struggled, his grip tightened around my waist.
“Not yet,” he whispered, his eyes dropping to my lips. His head lowered, and I closed my eyes, waiting for his lips to claim mine. Instead, his forehead touched mine and his breath brushed across my lips as tender and soft as a kiss. His mouth stopped an inch from mine. So close and yet miles apart, neither one of us going to take the leap. He groaned and thrust me from his lap and toward the door.
“Leave before you make me do something I regret,” he grumbled.
His threat had me fumbling with the latch in my hurry to escape him and the thoughts that were creeping up on me. I missed the last step out of the carriage and tripped. “You, dear sparrow, are a mess.”
“Yes, and someday someone will love the mess that I am.”
“No doubt,” Dorian said as he stepped out of the carriage after me. “I will wait for you to gather your items.”
“No need,” I said, nervous that he would follow me further. I gathered my skirt and rushed inside, passed a laughing Madam Pantalonne and her room full of patrons. I dashed passed a mysterious stranger, who followed me with his gaze, his hand resting on his belt and dagger. I pushed him out of my mind.
I hurried up to my room and locked the door behind me. I packed most of my items in my small case and put my drawstring purse on my nightstand, ready in a quarter of a mark. It would be nothing for me to go back out with my case, get back in the carriage, and return to the palace tonight to take my place among the chosen. But that would mean another awkward carriage ride with Dorian.
No, I couldn’t subject myself to that torture. I would stay the night. Let him wait in the carriage for me until morning. It would serve him right. I tucked my glass slippers in my drawstring purse, which was spelled to hold larger items in its small interior, and removed a piece of chalk. Very carefully, I drew a protection spell over the door to keep out intruders and Dorian—or at least I hoped it was a protection spell; with my luck, it was be a recipe for cookies.
Chapter Ten
I was standing alone in a cemetery. My feet sank into the wet grass as I moved through the darkness. A lone wailing came from further in, and I felt compelled to answer, the cry so desperate and forlorn. One wail became two; then there were more that rose up into a symphony of sorrow. Will-o’-the-wisps fluttered along the top of the tombstones, and where they alit, their fae glow would light up the names on the tombstone. Each of the names etched into the marble was a name of a young girl. My mouth felt dry, I couldn’t swallow as the date on the tombstones all happened within a few weeks of each other.
A plague. I concluded.
A weeping came again, and I followed the path until I saw a woman in black veils, sobbing over a newly dug grave—three feet deep and quite a few inches over five feet.
Not a man then.
A woman.
The woman continued to wail, her black veil dragging through the upheaved dirt.
“Why? Why couldn’t you have done as you were told?”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I tried to say to the woman, but the wind whisked my voice away.
“Why weren’t you strong like your sisters?” The woman moaned.
Perplexed and unsure how to help the woman in black, I stepped closer to the grave and the will-o’-the-wisp fluttered by the tombstone, making the name legible.
Eden Eville.
“No!” I gasped and looked down into the empty grave. Where seconds ago it was filled with nothing but packed dirt, now I could see myself. Dressed in a white dress with lace cuffs, my golden hair hung loosely over my shoulders, my eyes closed in death.
It wasn’t me. It couldn’t be me. If I was there, then the woman was my adoptive mother.
“Mother.” I leaned down to touch her shoulder. She spun, the veil falling from her face, and the face wasn’t my mother’s at all. It was the wicked and hideous Allemar.
His lips pulled back into a snarl, and he lunged for me, his hands going around my throat. I screamed and fell backward into the grave.
My grave.
I slammed onto the wood floor, the air knocked from my lungs, and I couldn’t gasp as Allemar’s fingers dug painfully into my throat.
Allemar’s face changed as I woke from my dream.
A stranger with a mask over his face was trying to strangle me. The door was still closed, but the window’s shutters were open.
He had come through the window and attacked me, and I had fallen to the floor.
He sat on my chest, making it impossible for me to take a breath and pull his fingers from around my throat.
I kicked my heels violently against the floorboards, hoping to alert someone, anyone of my plight, but what good would it do if they couldn’t get through my spelled door?
In desperation, I reached out and tried to claw at his eyes, and he released my throat long enough for me to take a breath and try to scramble away.
I lunged for my purse that had fallen to the floor, grabbing it as strong hands tangled in my hair and drug me back across the floor. This time I had enough air to scream.
Seconds later, someone was pounding on my door, but I couldn’t answer. My attacker flipped me back over and had his hands back around my throat.
“If you can’t speak, you can’t cast a spell on me, can you?” the killer hissed. His breath smelled of death and ale. Fresh blood dripped on my face from where I had scratched his eyes.
What he said was almost true. Except not all spells needed words to cast or conjure. But trying to do one and fight for my life was proving difficult. I kept one hand on his palm, trying to pull it away from my throat. My vision became blurry as my left hand dug through the purse, searching.
The pounding on the door became louder. A key turned in the lock, but the door wouldn’t budge. I heard Madam Pantalonne’s distressed voice outside. “I knew it would be bad if she returned. Why couldn’t you have kept her away?” she yelled at someone. She knew something bad was happening, and she was right.
My finger felt the heat the button gave off. Gripping it in my hand, I slammed it against my attacker’s cheek, and it activated. The charm began to sear into the man’s face and my palm.
Both of us screamed in unison from the pain, but I dare not let go. For if I did, I would surely die.
His fist connected with my jaw, and the charm slipped from my fingers. I cried out in despair. My vision swam as a dark figure covered the window, blocking out the moonlight.
Two shadows danced; one sailed through the air, and my nightstand broke. I tried to crawl my way across the floor, my burned hand held close to my breasts as I searched for the piece of chalk that had also escaped from my purse and rolled near me. Locating it, I tried to draw a symbol of protection, but I couldn’t remember the right emblem. My tears made my vision blurry, and I tried to wipe away the wrong spell, but I was spent, my hands shook and the chalk broke in my blood-coated fingers. I wasn’t even sure whose blood it was.
I had failed.
I heard the footsteps draw near my prone form. I closed my eyes and waited, waited for the end, for the assassin to finish what he had started.
The chalk was pulled from my grip, and I let out a sob of despair.
<
br /> “Shhh, sparrow,” a deep voice whispered. “I have you.” Dorian gathered me close and lifted me into the air. My face pressed into his warm chest.
I heard the scratching of chalk, the door opened, and light spilled forth from the hallway.
“Is she alive, Dorian?” I could hear the worry in Madam Pantalonne’s voice.
“Yes,” he whispered.
“And the other?”
“No.”
“Good. Now, go. I will take care of the mess.”
Chapter Eleven
I awoke in an unfamiliar room. Barren except for a stand with a pitcher of water, fireplace, small mirror on the wall, chair, and a trunk. Where was I? What happened? I rubbed my sore throat and knew that it was bruised. My palm had already been tended to. A clean bandage was wrapped around my burn.
A knock came at my door. Sitting up, I pulled the soft quilt up to my chin and waited, hesitantly. Dorian entered, followed by a house elf in a tattered green dress, carrying a silver tray filled with food and tea. The house elf set the tray on the stand next to the pitcher of water and tended the fire while Dorian pulled a chair over to sit next to me.
“Well, that was an exciting evening!” He flashed me a reassuring grin. He had a day’s growth of stubble on his cheek. When he reached for my neck, I flinched.
“It’s okay. I just want to see how it’s healing.” I released the blanket, and he leaned in close and frowned. “You’re going to have some nasty bruises, and your throat may be raw for a few days, but other than that, you’re fine.”
Dorian handed me a warm cup of tea, and I took a sip; the warm liquid felt like gold as it soothed my throat. As I continued to sip the tea, he looked at me quizzically before unwrapping my palm to reveal the burn imprint of a button.
“A fire charm. Interesting. Where did you learn that?”
“It’s my sisters,” I tried to say, but the pain had me hissing.
Dorian applied a burn ointment to my palm and wrapped it in a bandage that he had brought in. It wasn’t a big burn, barely noticeable compared to the one my attacker had received, but he was careful when he tied the knot so that it wasn’t too tight. “It’s a good thing you had it. I was almost too late because someone had barred the door with a spell.” My cheeks burned in embarrassment at being caught using magic, but Dorian didn’t seem to care. He just looked intrigued, not scared of my use of power.
“Did you do it?” I asked. “Send someone to try and murder me?”
Those icy blue eyes studied me carefully. “No, but I know who did.”
“And?” I waited for him to tell me, but he didn’t. I leaned back in disbelief. “You’re not going to tell me?”
He clenched his jaw and looked away, refusing to meet my gaze. “It’s not your problem. I have dealt with the situation, and he will no longer be able to harm you.”
“You mean you killed him.”
His eyes narrowed, and his voice was grim. “Yes.”
I saw the sun come in through a high window, and I began to panic. It was late midmorning. “Thank you for your hospitality.” I looked around at the sparse room and couldn’t hide the discontent on my face. “But I really must be leaving.”
His lips pressed into a thin line, and his knuckles turned white as he tried to rein in his anger. “Where are you going to go? I forbid you from going back to the tavern, where only a few marks ago, someone tried to kill you. They could still be after you. You aren’t safe. The only safe place for you is home.”
“Why would I go home? I came here for a reason, and after last night's events, I am more determined than ever to go back to the palace, and no one is going to stop me.”
“Not even if I asked you to?” he said, his hand gently grasping mine. “What if I said it was someone at the palace that tried to kill you? You’re not safe.” His fingers brushed across mine gently, and my breath caught. He was playing with my emotions, manipulating me to do his will.
I pulled my hand from his and spoke coldly, even doing my best to throw as much power into my voice as I could. “You’re right. The palace may not be a safe place, but I’m not worried about them. It is they who should be worried about me.”
“Please, don’t go.”
“You don’t know me,” I snapped. “You know absolutely nothing about me. You have no right to ask anything of me.”
Dorian stood up, his back stiff, anger radiating off him in waves. I had upset him. “So be it.” His voice dropped in tone. “You’re right. I know nothing about you, and be warned you also know nothing about me.”
I threw back the quilt and saw my bare feet that poked from my chemise and looked around. My clothes. “Where are my belongings?”
Dorian looked grim. “All of your things are back at the tavern. But you can wear any of the dresses from the trunk I brought for you.”
I gingerly stepped out of the bed and opened the trunk. Inside were simple day dresses. “Who do these belong to?” I asked.
“Sisa,” Dorian said.
“Who’s Sisa,” I asked curiously, remembering Madam Pantalonne’s comment.
“My fiancée,” Dorian said without any inflection.
All of a sudden, I felt hollow, despondent and very stupid. For a minute, I thought I was here because he cared about me. But that wasn’t so. He was to be married, and it was improper of me to be here.
“I would prefer my own clothes, please.”
He glared at me, and I felt it like a stab to the heart. “I’m sorry, sparrow.”
“What?” I asked, confused at the change in his tone.
“It’s for your own good.” He moved to the door and stepped outside, one hand on the door handle one on the key in the lock. “At least until Evander is married.”
“I don’t understand.” I moved to take a step toward the door. Dorian swung it closed. “No!” I rushed to the door, but the key turned in the lock.
Chapter Twelve
“Dorian! Let me out!” I grabbed the knob and twisted, then pressed my ear to the wood but only heard his retreating footsteps. I pounded and screamed in frustration when it didn’t budge. I was furious at being imprisoned.
How dare he! Did Dorian not understand that I was a daughter of Eville and should not be treated like this? I was a powerful sorceress. Okay, not all-powerful like Rosalie, and maybe more of a mediocre sorceress that messed up more often than not, but I couldn’t—wouldn’t let this stop me.
Backing up, I tried to remember the spell to unlock the door. It was a basic one. “Not Lochni,” I muttered as I tried to visualize the spell in my head, not wanting to blow the whole house up. “Lochen,” I uttered triumphantly and waited for the click as the door unlocked.
Nothing happened.
“What the…?” I grumbled and raised my hand and tried again. “Lochen!” I said as loud as my still raw voice would let me. I saw a glow around the lock, and then it faded.
A counterspell! The door had an anti-lockpicking counterspell!
Drat! Turning around, I took a closer stock of my surroundings. The room was small with a high window that was barred from the outside. It would be impossible to even get to the window. I wanted my revenge on the one who tried to assassinate me; how dare Dorian try to take my vengeance from me?
Not to be deterred, I pulled a corset and a simple blue dress out of the trunk and laid them across the bed.
It took a few moments of struggling to get into it by myself, and I tried to use my magic to lace up the corset. My first attempt had me gagging and gasping for air as the corset wound too tight. My second had the corset falling on the ground.
I cursed and stomped around at my lack of focus and control at the simplest skills, but I wouldn’t give up. Holding onto the bedpost, I closed my eyes, preparing myself for the pain, and tried again.
“Cinchio.”
The ribbon laced up. I felt the tug and opened my eyes to see that it had indeed laced correctly and ended with a bow. My sister Rosalie would not have approved of my w
aste of magic, but I was just relieved that I hadn’t strangled myself with the spell. I put on the blue dress; it was one for around the house, not for attending the king or queen.
In the trunk was a spare comb and pins, which I put to good use in doing my hair. I pulled up my dress and looked at my bare-stocking feet. There was nothing in the trunk for footwear, and why would there be when he didn’t expect me to leave?
Luckily, he had grabbed my spelled drawstring purse. I opened it, searched into the deep pocket, and was excited when I pulled them out one by one. They weren’t damaged, but still beautiful and very uncomfortable.
It was the king who sent the assassin for me. He wanted to stop me from coming, and I wanted to know why.
I slipped the shoes on and looked in the mirror, seeing a young woman a few years older than me with dark blonde hair and blue-green eyes. She looked familiar, but I wasn’t sure how it could be possible. I had unintendedly taken on the glamour of the previous shoe’s owner.
The mirror shimmered, and I stared back at myself—my eyes a watery blue, my hair golden and warm. I looked scared, unsure, and even now was biting my lip with trepidation. I was weak, powerless, and hid behind my glamour. But I used my magic to turn my simple blue day dress into a dress fit for a princess—an off-the-shoulder blue gown with layers of blue skirts that billowed out from a jeweled belt with matching gloves.
I laughed and almost began to cry. The only magic that came naturally to me was glamour—a magic for hiding, covering up, and deceiving others. Too bad I couldn’t deceive myself into thinking I was better at magic, because it was my sister’s delayed trap that saved my life, and then it was Dorian. I desperately didn’t want to mess up again.
With a wave of my hand, I was able to disguise my bruises on my throat, made them fade into the background, same with my burn. Glamour would hide all of my injuries.
No one would suspect the nightmare I survived only a few hours earlier.
