The Girl Who Fell (The Chess Raven Chronicles)

by Violet Grace

  My words are met with collective gasps. Appalled looks are exchanged across the table, as if I’m the foul-mouthed mongrel who was let in by mistake. But I’m not quite done yet. I don’t know where my boldness is coming from but I ride its wave, the way I have so often done with my fear.

  ‘My people, the people you claim to be fighting for, are suffering. And what do you give them? Pretty banners and distractions. Well, not in my name.’

  I wait to be put in my place, but no one says anything. There’s nothing except an awkward cough and the shuffling of feet.

  All eyes turn to the Supreme Executor for her response. It would seem she’s been making most of the important decisions around here since my mother’s death. And my little speech isn’t going to break that habit.

  ‘You have until midnight tonight to summon your uncle,’ she says finally. Then she orders General Sewell to use every available resource to locate the pyct army. ‘If Princess Francesca fails, then you are authorised to eradicate the enemy.’

  Chairs scrape as the people around the table stand; others bow in my direction and then disperse. I watch as Loxley slinks out, looking contemptuous.

  Tom moves towards me but Gladys blocks his path.

  ‘You are no longer required, young man,’ she says, and the full meaning of her words is perfectly clear.

  Anger flashes across Tom’s face but he doesn’t object. He gives Gladys a curt nod and turns towards the door. Without even a glance in my direction, he’s gone.

  Feeling numb, I make my way towards the door, trailed by Gladys and Jules. The remaining crowd parts around me, a sea of pity and concern, perhaps even amusement.

  What was I thinking, making a deal like that with the Supreme Executor?

  How can I possibly find the key to the Luck of Edenhall in one day? Where do I even start looking? It’s surely not an ordinary key, because there’s no lock on the cup for it to fit into. I don’t even know what I’m looking for.

  I wanted to save the pycts, but I’ve just made it worse for them by forcing the Supreme Executor to set a deadline for their ‘eradication’. All because of my stupid, audacious, impossible plan.

  Callie’s face appears in my mind. She put her trust in this lot and lost her family because they were loyal to mine. And now that she’s a pyct, she’ll die unless I can work out how to stop the retaliation.

  When we’re a safe distance from the Council, Gladys hooks her arm through mine. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, dear,’ she whispers. I see doubt in her face for the first time, almost like she’s unsure of who I am, who I’ve become. And it kills me.

  Reaching my chamber, I rack my brain for something to say to reassure her, to reassure myself. But I’ve got nothing.

  ‘I need to be alone right now.’ I shut the door on her and scrub my eyes with the heels of my hands.

  I need time to think. To plan.

  ‘That was quite a speech,’ a voice says behind me.

  I whirl around to find Abby standing with hands on her hips. She must have been behind the door.

  ‘The Great Princess Francesca of House Raven. “She will return”,’ Abby scoffs, presumably quoting the ridiculous banners hanging all around the ruined city. ‘Bet they’re all having second thoughts about you now. Did you see the looks on their faces? Priceless! They’re livid.’

  ‘At least I’m trying something different,’ I say, annoyed. ‘It’s not like any of the military geniuses out there are making things better.’

  ‘Calm down. I agree with you.’ She walks over to the window, and her gown, covered in red and yellow poppies, fans out behind her. ‘Finally someone’s talking about taking the fight to Damius. What’s the plan?’

  I say nothing.

  ‘You do have a plan, don’t you?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘You don’t have a plan? I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. You know they’re going to be calling for your head – especially when they join the dots and realise that the pyct virus is your fault too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That RNA virus could only have been created with fairy DNA with the trace element chromium.’

  I’m not following.

  ‘Blood!’ Abby says, with exaggerated exasperation. ‘Do I have to spell this out for you? Fairy blood doesn’t contain chromium. That virus could only have been made from fairy blood that also contains chromium. And there’s only one fairy with blood like that.’

  Her words are like a punch to the gut. ‘But how could Damius get my blood? I only met him last night.’

  ‘I don’t know. When you were a baby, perhaps? What I do know for sure is that if it weren’t for you, pycts would still be extinct and all those Fae would be unharmed.’

  ‘You’re enjoying this,’ I say, as my shock and guilt ferments into rage. ‘Just like when you abandoned me in the Tube station. I bet that was your plan all along.’

  ‘Chill, Princess,’ she says. ‘What did you expect me to do? I’m an apothecary, not a warrior. And anyway, I helped you.’

  ‘Helped me? How?’

  ‘By forcing you to stop being such a bloody coward.’ She sits down on the window seat, her dress covering most of the velvet. ‘You should be thanking me,’ she adds, suddenly sounding bored with this conversation.

  ‘Get out, Abby.’

  ‘As you wish, Your Highness.’ She stands and swishes over to the door. ‘I guess you don’t want the message Tom asked me to give you.’

  I all but run after her.

  She hands me a small envelope sealed with wax imprinted with a unicorn crest. When she’s gone, I rip it open and read the note.

  They’re lying to you. Meet me at the butterfly house. Alone.

  chapter 27

  ‘Were you followed?’ Tom says without looking up.

  ‘I snuck out my window,’ I say, closing the glass doors of the butterfly house behind me. ‘Not very princess-y, I know.’

  The air is humid and thick with the scent of blooming flowers. I don’t know why it’s called a house; it’s the size of a football stadium, packed with butterflies of every colour and size surrounding a large pool of crystalline water speckled with huge lily pads.

  Being surrounded by such beauty feels abhorrent when I think of the devastation just outside these walls – and the bloodshed that’s hours away if I can’t find the key.

  Tom skims a stone along the surface of the bubbling stream. The stone hops along the water before coming to rest in the lush greenery, and butterflies burst out in an explosion of fluttering colour.

  Tom picks up another stone, smooth and grey, and turns it over in his hand.

  The same hand that held me this morning.

  My cheeks flush with colour.

  He picks this moment to look at me.

  One corner of his mouth tugs upwards. I’m embarrassed and furious all at once and I wonder if unicorns can read minds.

  I instantly regret coming. I almost didn’t. I didn’t want to give him a private audience to my humiliation. But my curiosity was stronger than my pride.

  I can’t look at him. Instead, I study every intricate swirl on the sandstone tiles beneath my boots as if my life depends on it. I’m afraid that if Tom looks into my eyes he will see the desire in me that I’m so desperate to hide, even from myself. I will not make myself vulnerable.

  ‘Will talking about it help?’ he says casually.

  ‘There’s nothing to say.’

  I can feel his eyes on me but I refuse to look at him.

  ‘We shared ourselves with each other. And now you can barely look at me. I think there’s plenty to say.’

  I cringe as his words form images in my mind. I try to lift my gaze to prove him wrong and restore some dignity, but my eyes are weighed down with a toxic mix of emotions.

  ‘This morning was a mistake,’ I blurt.

  Out of my peripheral vision I can see a thin smile forming on his lovely face.

  ‘You forget you’re talking to a un
icorn. I can sense your desire as clearly as I can smell your fear of it.’

  Not a mind reader, then, but the next best thing.

  He tosses the stone into the stream. ‘You don’t have to pretend with me, Chess. Intimacy doesn’t have to be about power. There doesn’t have to be a winner and a loser.’

  As if by instruction, a butterfly flutters over and lands on my shoulder.

  ‘Besides,’ Tom continues, ‘if anyone has lost their power in this situation, it’s me.’

  I force myself to look him in the eyes, trying to make sense of what he just said. I didn’t expect him to look as emotionally exposed as I feel.

  ‘You must know what you do to me. What you’ve always done to me.’ Sadness creeps into his beautiful features. ‘Not that it matters, anyway. I still have to honour the bargain and leave you. I stayed for the Council meeting because the Supreme Executor commanded me to report on our encounter with Damius. And the only reason I’m still here is because there’s something you need to know – something the Order is keeping from you.’

  He sits down on a mossy log next to the steam, and motions towards the wrought iron chair opposite.

  ‘You’re going to need to sit down for this.’

  My stomach is a raw knot as I fan the butterflies off the chair and sit. I’m not sure how many more surprises I can take right now.

  Sighing, Tom rubs his hand through his fringe and clears his throat. But he doesn’t speak. His hesitation is agonising. Whatever he has to say surely can’t be as bad as this suspense.

  ‘Just say it,’ I snap.

  He nods briefly. ‘Your mother,’ he says. ‘She’s not dead.’

  My eyes widen. I stare at him, trying to decide if he’s telling the truth or if he means something else.

  ‘She’s not dead,’ he repeats.

  ‘But the Chancellor said Damius killed my mother,’ I say forcefully. ‘He told me that the first time I met him. It’s not a conversation I’m likely to forget.’

  ‘Did he actually say Damius killed her?’

  ‘I … I can’t remember if those were his exact words. He probably softened it a bit, but he left me in no doubt.’

  ‘Words are important. They don’t always mean what you think. Your uncle took your mother’s life but he didn’t kill her. Damius stole Queen Cordelia’s life force and has imprisoned it. Where, I don’t know. The Order has searched for it and hasn’t found it. But her body lies here in Windsor, very much not dead.’

  I so desperately want to believe what he’s telling me. But false hope is too painful.

  ‘How do you know about all of this if it’s a secret?’

  ‘I didn’t have a lot to do when I was hiding in Iridesca as a kid. I was out looking for trouble one night and discovered her catacomb. Over time I pieced the truth together.’

  ‘You know where her body is?’

  ‘I can take you there.’ Tom stands and walks to the back of the butterfly house. He strides across a small rockery carpeted in moss. Behind it, there’s a stone wall thick with ferns. A waterfall bubbles down the wall, feeding the pool of water at the centre of the butterfly house.

  ‘Careful,’ he says as I take a tentative step onto the mossy rocks, then he crouches down and disappears behind a fern.

  I bend down to follow, but I’m met with solid sandstone. Tom seems to have slipped directly into the stone. He must have used the Art to transfer, but I didn’t detect any dust residue.

  Then he appears again. For a moment, I think he’s somehow part of the rock. And then I understand: there’s no magic here. It’s a small opening, but the inside wall blends seamlessly to the wall outside, creating the illusion that it’s a continuous flat surface.

  ‘Clever, isn’t it?’ says Tom.

  I crouch down and squeeze through the hole in the wall. We’re in a little alcove at the top of stone steps. The air is cold and the air moist. Tom lights the way with magic gleaming from his watchband. I follow him down three flights of steps and turn into a cavernous room with a domed roof. My heart pounds in my chest and a lump forms in my throat.

  The walls are covered with ivy interwoven so thickly it seems to be part of the structure. Tall white lilies stand to attention around the room. I look up to see refracted light streaming through the pond in the butterfly house that’s directly above us. Reflections of water and lily pads bounce around the walls.

  My eyes track along the path of smooth stepping stones nestled in the lush moss, forming a path to a glass case in the centre of the cavern. A woman’s body lies inside.

  I reach out for Tom, steadying myself. Being told I’m a fairy princess is nothing compared to the shock of hearing that my mother isn’t dead.

  I know she’s not fully alive but that’s so much better than being dead.

  I take another step forward and a bubble of anxiety explodes in my gut. I feel ill, I feel clammy. I’ve been alone so long I can’t get my head around being anything else.

  ‘Will she know I’m here?’ I ask Tom.

  ‘I don’t know for sure. She may be able to sense our presence. She may even be able to hear us. But she may not. My guess is that it’s a bit like being in a coma. As far as I can tell, no one really knows how Damius’s dark magic works.’

  I can’t even recall how many times I’ve fantasised about meeting my mother. But I never dreamed it would be quite like this. I push through the sickly mix of trepidation and excitement, and approach the glass case. Ivy sprouts around its legs and a bunch of fresh violets rests on top. My mother’s hands are clasped together on top of her emerald gown.

  A tear creeps from the corner of my eye as I see the shallow rise and fall of her chest.

  She really is alive.

  I’m not sure what I thought my mother would look like in the flesh, but I’m certain it wasn’t this. For starters, she is so clean, almost translucent. The parents of the kids I grew up with wore the harshness of their lives like stains. Since meeting Marshall and working at the V&A, I’ve seen what privilege looks like: unblemished complexions, silky hair, white teeth, manicured hands. But those people seemed like a different species from me.

  As I stare down at my mother I see parts of myself. I have her bone structure – high cheekbones and a pointy little chin. Her hands are daintier than mine. Looking at them summons a memory of her stroking my hair, so vivid I swear I can feel it. I probe for more memories of her but am unable to recall anything else. The desire to know her pierces me so deeply that I shudder. I run my finger along the edge of the glass case.

  ‘Why didn’t Damius just kill her?’

  ‘Some say that even Damius would not be so bold as to shed blood in the Royal House.’

  I sense uncertainty in his voice. ‘What do you say?’

  ‘Damius has unprecedented magical abilities for a male Fae. One explanation is that he has violated your mother’s life energy, drawing on it to fortify his own power. That’s why he kept her body alive. To use her.’

  ‘I’ll kill him,’ I say, my tone so harsh that I barely recognise my voice. ‘I want him to suffer for what he’s done. To pay. To know what it’s like to lose everything.’

  Tom stares at me, clearly surprised by the venom in my words.

  ‘When I agreed to take the throne, I only did it to save you. When I made the deal to bait Damius with the Supreme Executor just now, it was to save the pycts. Now I want revenge.’

  ‘I understand,’ Tom says, his voice soft.

  ‘Why hasn’t anyone told me the truth about my mother? Why are they keeping this from me?’

  ‘Politics.’ He rubs his hand through his fringe again and lets out a sigh. ‘Damius can only exploit your mother’s power while her body is alive. The Order would be able to weaken Damius’s power if they killed your mother.’

  My blood runs cold. ‘Never. I’d never allow it.’

  ‘Precisely,’ he says, ‘which is why it’s easier for them if you think your mother is already dead.’

  ‘And my f
ather?’ I ask. ‘Is he really dead?’

  Tom squeezes my hand. ‘His body was never recovered after the rebel attack. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I suppose it was too much to hope that I’d discover I had two “not dead” parents in one day.’

  ‘Your father was a brilliant physicist,’ Tom says. ‘He’s the only human to have worked out how to pass between the veil of our worlds without assistance. Certain factions of the Order considered him a threat to Fae security and wanted him executed. Your mother spared him. She wanted to discover how Samuel Maxwell had simulated the Art. And then, fortunately for me,’ he says with a smile, ‘you happened.’

  He pulls me into a hug and I sink into his arms. All the awkwardness from before has gone. He feels so good.

  So right.

  After a moment I look up and ask the question I keep wondering about.

  ‘Why did you perform that cataclysmic spell for me?’

  ‘Because I love you, Chess,’ he says simply. ‘I always have.’

  No one has ever said those words to me. I’d always expected them to feel abrasive, to mistrust them, to fear them. As if the person uttering them would be manipulating me, asking too much from me.

  Instead, I hook my arms around his neck, look into his beautiful eyes and kiss him. It’s a thank you, an apology and an invitation.

  But as he holds onto me and kisses me back, as if savouring every sensation, committing it to memory, I know it’s also a goodbye.

  chapter 28

  The air shifts around me.

  Goosebumps prickle my skin.

  There’s a presence, malevolent and cold.

  I step back from Tom.

  The light in the catacomb has changed; the sunlight streaming through the pool is gone.

  It feels like death is descending.

  Tom swears as colour drains from his face. ‘It’s happening.’

  ‘What is?’ I manage to say before a bolt of pain through my spine has me crumpling onto one knee.