“And then a kind witch appeared from the air to help her?”
“No,” Aurora said. “There was no witch in the story. One day, the girl thought she saw something moving in the water, right on the horizon. A creature or a vessel or something, she didn’t know, but she could not look away from it, so she dragged her feet out of the sand and stepped closer. Perhaps one step more, and she’d be able to see what it was. She stepped, and she stepped, until the water came up to her knees, and then to her waist, her skirts whirling around her as the tide lapped in and out. And still she kept walking, because something was out there, and she had spent so long standing and waiting, rooted to the ground, and she had to know. Soon the girl was floating, and the land she knew so well was far behind, a line on the horizon too, but she still could not make out what was across the water.”
“She swam to the other land?”
“No,” Aurora said. “She drowned, trapped between the two. The current tugged at her legs, and she couldn’t keep her head above water. There was nothing left of her but her footprints, sunk into the sand on the shore.”
Finnegan was watching her closely. “And that’s your favorite story, Rora?”
“Not my favorite,” she said slowly. But she had always loved it, morbid child that she had been. Something about it had stirred her heart. “Don’t go into the unknown. That’s what I think it’s meant to say. But it never felt that way to me. It seemed more . . . don’t go unprepared. That girl spent years standing and watching. Maybe she should have spent those years learning to swim. And either way, she died where she wanted to be.”
“She died on the way.”
“She wanted to see what was out there, to be swallowed by the ocean. And she was. I think I’d rather be her than the girl waiting on the beach forever.” She bit her lip. She had said too much. Finnegan would surely mock her for her romantic naïveté. But instead, he smoothed her hair off her shoulder. His fingers grazed her neck.
“You’re not her,” he said. “You’re here, aren’t you? And you were wise enough to take a boat.”
She twisted around slightly to look at him. He was very tall, she suddenly realized. Almost a foot taller than she was.
“Shall we move on?” he said. “You haven’t even seen any of the paintings of dragons yet.”
The dragon art was all movement too, rushing flames and fiery eyes. Aurora stared at the creatures, hypnotized by the colors, the power, until she noticed the shadowed figures cowering in the corners of the canvas.
She dragged herself away.
They were walking back to the palace when Aurora saw him. Messy brown hair, a familiar walk, hurrying through the crowd. The brief glance sent a shock of recognition through her.
Tristan.
She stopped so suddenly that Finnegan half walked into her. She twisted in the direction she thought he had gone, but the boy had already vanished. And it couldn’t have been Tristan. He was across the ocean, fighting his revolution. There were many boys with brown hair, and his face had hardly been distinctive. It couldn’t have been him.
“Rora?” Finnegan said. He turned too. “What did you see? One of John’s men?”
She could not tell him. How would he react, if he thought one of the rebels was in his city? “No,” Aurora said. “No. I thought—I thought I saw Nettle. But it wasn’t her.”
Finnegan did not look like he believed her.
ELEVEN
NETTLE WAS IN HER ROOM, BRAIDING HER LONG BLACK hair in a crown around her head. She glanced up as Aurora knocked and pushed the door open.
“Aurora,” she said. “What is wrong?”
“Can I trust you to keep a secret? If I ask you something . . . can you promise not to tell Finnegan?”
“It depends on what it is.” Nettle’s hands were bent at a painful-looking angle as she pulled the strands at the nape of her neck into the braid. “If you are planning to turn against him, you probably should not inform me. If you wish to tell me that you think he is terribly rude, then your secret is safe.”
“What if I need you to find something out for me? Something that’s not about Finnegan. Just something that I don’t want him to know about. Yet.”
Nettle paused in her braiding. “What has happened?”
“I think I saw Tristan.” It felt ridiculous to say it aloud. “In Vanhelm. Today. I mean, I can’t be certain, but . . . it looked like him. But he’s in Petrichor. Isn’t he?”
“I have heard nothing different,” Nettle said. “But Petrichor is not a safe place for a rebel now. With the king crushing the rebellion . . . perhaps he left.”
“But he wouldn’t leave,” Aurora said. “He wanted revolution. He wanted violence. He wouldn’t have left.”
“Perhaps he found that imagined rebellion and actual rebellion are two very different things. Or perhaps he wishes to find help here.”
Aurora paced the space near the door. It was possible. But it did not quite make sense. “If he planned to do that, wouldn’t you have heard something? You would have heard of a rebel looking for support.”
“Perhaps. But I do not hear everything.” She pulled more of her hair into the braid. “You wish me to find him?”
“I want to know if he’s really here. Why he’s here, if he is. Do you think you could find that out? Without Finnegan knowing?”
Nettle was silent for a moment as she twisted up the last of her hair. “Pass me that pin?” she said, nodding at her dresser. Aurora fetched it for her. “Thank you. I can only say that it would be possible. There are many people in this city, and if he keeps quiet, it may be very hard to find him. Especially since we do not even know that he is here. But I will try, Aurora. I will tell you if I hear anything.”
It was all Aurora could hope for, given the circumstances. She did not even know what she wanted the answer to be. Tristan had caused her such problems in Alyssinia, but he might have information. He might have news. She could not pass up the opportunity to see him. “Thank you,” she said. “I just . . . I need to know.”
“I can promise nothing, Aurora,” Nettle said. “But I will try.”
The magic was reluctant again that night. Aurora could barely summon a single spark, and she went to bed exhausted and irritated. No roses waited for her when she awoke the next day, but their absence wasn’t comforting. Celestine must still be watching her.
Aurora was already in the library, shuffling through the diplomatic papers, when Finnegan appeared.
“I’ve received the most curious thing,” he said, in lieu of a greeting. She turned in time to see him walking down the stairs from his antechamber, holding a roll of parchment. “Dear Queen Iris wrote me a letter. Don’t you think that’s odd?”
“You were her guest,” Aurora said. “She’s nothing if not polite.”
He approached the table. “You’d think she’d have other things to worry about, with the death of her daughter and the kingdom practically breaking into civil war. Yet she wrote me the politest, most pointless note I’ve ever received. Lots of pleasantries, thanks for attending the wedding, apologies for the turmoil, all the usual things you would expect, and then this: I hope that I will be able to visit Vanhelm soon and see its legendary fire for myself. My daughter was always fascinated with the idea, but my husband has never been fond of traveling overseas. He would certainly not consider it safe without a heavy guard, and with so many of our guards searching for the imposter princess, it would not be possible. Strange, isn’t it, that Iris is yearning for a holiday, at such a time?”
“It could just be pleasantries,” Aurora said. “An empty offer to return the favor.”
“Perhaps,” Finnegan said. “But listen to the rest of it. It feels we are all in danger here, after the death of my daughter, Isabelle. Trouble can strike so unexpectedly, precisely when we think we are safe. Please write back to assure me of your safe return to Vanhelm, and do be careful of the dangers across the sea. The threat now seems greater than ever.” Finnegan looked at Aurora o
ver the paper. “The dragons aren’t across the sea from here, but King John and his men certainly are.”
“You think he’s going to threaten Vanhelm?”
“I think that Iris knows you’re here. She can be clever, despite how insufferable she is. And if she knows, John may know too. So she’s warning you.”
“He isn’t as clever as she is,” Aurora said. She reached out and took the piece of paper, reading through it herself. “So unless she told him . . .”
“He is always suspecting Vanhelm of some betrayal,” Finnegan said. “The possibility of you coming here must have been one of the first thoughts in John’s head. And Iris is not entirely horrid. She may want to protect you.”
Iris had always seemed far more concerned about protecting her son and her throne than about Aurora’s well-being. But she had tried to speak out in Aurora’s defense in those final days, when the king threatened her. She had done what she thought was right.
And she would want to protect Rodric, whatever that would mean.
“Can you get a message back to Alyssinia?” Aurora said. “Without anyone knowing of it?”
“You want to write to Iris?”
“No,” she said. “To Rodric. He doesn’t know what happened to me. And I don’t know what happened to him. If there was a way to let him know I’m all right, and for me to know that he’s all right, without anyone else knowing I’d contacted him . . . well, I would appreciate it.”
“I’ll send a message,” he said. “It’ll get the job done.”
“Thank you.” Aurora read through the letter again. “They’re calling me an imposter now.”
“Well, the real promised princess would never defy them.”
“Does that mean they claim to have the real Aurora hidden somewhere?”
“I haven’t heard it said yet,” Finnegan said. “But I don’t doubt they’ll try it, if it turns out to be useful. Get someone else to be you.”
They could find another girl, someone willing to be their silent figurehead in return for a comfortable life in the palace. The king would regain control, his reign would continue, and the real Aurora would be hunted as the pretender who used her position to burn half the kingdom away.
“He won’t just stand down, will he?” she said. “He’s going to fight.”
“Of course he’s going to fight, Aurora. You knew that.”
“I know,” Aurora said. “I just—I hoped—” The words would not come. “I don’t want to fight,” she said. “The bloodshed at the wedding, the fire in that village . . . I never want to do anything like that again. I never want to see anything like that again. But he’s going to force me. He’s going to make sure it happens.”
“Unless you back down,” Finnegan said. “Unless you let him have what he wants.”
The idea was almost appealing. She could run far, far away, never worry about responsibility again. But the way that baker had looked at her, the hope people had for her . . . “I can’t do that,” she said. “I don’t want that either. I just wish my magic was strong enough to convince him not to fight. If I could intimidate him, or look so powerful that he backed down out of self-preservation . . . but I don’t see how I could do that without killing a lot of people along the way.”
Finnegan was quiet for a long moment, watching her. He had that glint in his eyes again, the excitement that meant he was about to suggest something dangerous.
“What is it?” she said.
“What about the dragons?”
She frowned. “What about them?”
“You have a connection with them,” he said. “What if you can use them? What if you could add their power to yours? If you appeared in Alyssinia with dragons behind you, no one would dare challenge you.”
“Because they’d be terrified of me.”
“But you wouldn’t have to hurt them.”
She shook her head. “Perhaps I have some connection with the dragons, but that doesn’t mean I can bring them across an ocean and use them to threaten Alyssinia without destroying it. We both know what Vanhelm looks like, Finnegan. We both know the river is the only thing protecting the city.”
“If you could control them enough to make them cross the water, you could control them enough to stop them from attacking anyone. Or to direct their attacks. Think about it, Aurora. No one would dare to challenge you then.”
“I am thinking about it,” Aurora said. “It’s impossible.”
But it would be power. She could not turn away from that, not when Celestine was watching her, not when the need to do something grew every minute she was away.
And she had to admit, something about the idea was appealing. The heat of the dragons, the rush of their magic behind her. No one would challenge her or dismiss her then. No one would think her less than she was.
“Someone must have been able to control them, once,” Finnegan said. “People lived in Vanhelm for thousands of years. There must have been some way they coexisted with dragons. And we don’t know much about Vanhelmian magic, before it faded away. What if it was like yours?”
“How would I have Vanhelmian magic?” Aurora said.
“Your ancestors were from Vanhelm, weren’t they? You’re a descendent of the princess Alysse. And they said she had magic like no one had ever seen.”
“Not a descendent,” Aurora said. “Related, maybe. I don’t know. But if she was the source of my magic, someone else in my family would have had it too. And if it’s Vanhelmian magic, someone here would have that power. It doesn’t add up, Finnegan.” She leaned forward, her hands pressed flat on the desk. “Even Alysse didn’t have magic like mine, did she?” she said. “That’s what the stories say. She didn’t know she could use magic until she went to Alyssinia and felt all the power there.”
“But it’s a legend,” Finnegan said. “And you’ve proved they’re not always true.”
The end of Alysse’s story was misleading, wasn’t it? Aurora had learned that she was beloved, but the books here suggested that she had been murdered for her power, that people had not loved her after all. Who could say whether the other parts of the story were true?
“She might have showed hints of her magic in Vanhelm,” Finnegan said. “And that’s why she left.”
“To find a place she could use it properly?”
“Or to escape. Perhaps that’s why they ran across the sea. People in Vanhelm didn’t need magic. Everyone else would have followed the settlers if we did. They must have had a good reason to risk traveling so far and starting anew.”
Aurora tapped the pen on the desk, feeling the reverberations in her hand. No one in her family had had magic for generations, as far as she knew, but it was possible that she was related to Alysse. Aurora had never heard any suggestion that Alysse had any children, but some stories claimed that her cousin took the throne after her death. The scanty records made it difficult to be certain.
A distant family connection from hundreds of years ago was not enough to explain her powers. But Celestine’s bargain with Aurora’s mother might. Celestine had told Aurora she was made of magic. And if Celestine’s power combined with that dormant connection to dragons . . . could Aurora’s fire be the result?
Yet something stopped her from sharing this theory with Finnegan. The secret of her mother’s bargain, the thought of what Aurora’s true nature might be . . . they felt too personal, like speaking them aloud would allow Finnegan to see beneath her skin.
“I need to know more about Alysse,” she said. “Do you have records of when her people left Vanhelm? Reports from that time?”
“Perhaps,” Finnegan said, “but they’d be much harder to get hold of than these ones, especially if they have any secrets. And people have been studying that story for hundreds of years. Someone would have spotted something like that in the records, especially considering how much Alyssinia wants magic now.” He stood. “I have a better idea,” he said, “risky as it might be.”
“Tell me.”
“
Alysse’s family lived in a small town in Vanhelm,” he said, “downriver from here. Her house was turned into a museum. It’s in the waste now, almost certainly destroyed, but—”
“But you think there might be answers there,” Aurora finished. “Answers not in books?”
“You have magic,” Finnegan said. “And you have that connection to Alysse. Maybe you’ll be able to uncover secrets that other people missed.”
There were threats to consider. The dragons, for one. The need to travel there unseen. The possibility that it was just a ruined museum, with no answers at all. But the idea was thrilling nonetheless. A chance to travel across the river again, to see where Alysse had grown up, to glimpse the dragon fire up close. . . .
“When can we go?” she said. “Today?”
Finnegan grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. “I’ll make the arrangements,” he said.
TWELVE
THE MUSEUM WAS NOT AT ALL WHAT AURORA HAD expected. She had known, from the stories, that Alysse’s family had been insignificant nobility at best, and even the “noble” part might have been wishful thinking on the part of her biographers. But despite this, Aurora had pictured her growing up in a grand house, a building with turrets and hidden passageways and a forest looming over its walls. Instead, Alysse’s home was a small stone building on the edge of a half-ruined town. The remnants of a signpost still stood outside, welcoming visitors to the house of Alysse.
The house’s front door had burned away, and the stone around it had distorted, leaving a narrow space. Aurora ducked through ahead of Finnegan, and found herself in a larger-than-expected entrance hall. There was a stone desk in the center, and a few rotting scraps of paper lay atop it, advertising the museum. Aurora tried to pick one up, and it fell apart in her hands.
The room beyond must have once been a “step into history” experience, preserved as it would have been during Alysse’s time. Fake food on the dining table, iron tongs by the hearth, even the remnants of soft furnishing on the chairs. A desk against one wall was almost perfectly preserved, its display under a sheet of glass. Notes believed to have been written in Alysse’s own hand, according to the sign. Her childish handwriting overemphasized the spikes of the letters as she recorded her day.
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