by Jim C. Hines
Talia had always found northern burial traditions strange. Hiding the body, sealing it in earth and stone beneath the very ground where the living trod, felt disrespectful. Yet for more than two hundred years, the Whiteshore family had buried its dead here in this lowceilinged room. The first Whiteshore king lay entombed with his wife in the center of the room, their coffins carved from the bleached stone that gave the family their name. Later kings and queens were laid to rest in the walls to either side.
Talia strode toward the back of the mausoleum, where the newest stone tablet gleamed white. Beatrice’s marker was modest compared to some of the others, marked only with her name and a carved swan.
How long she stood there, staring at Beatrice’s marker, she didn’t know. Eventually, she heard the creak of the door, followed by light, careful footsteps.
“Hello, Danielle.” Who else would it be?
Danielle didn’t say a word. She simply joined Talia in front of Bea’s grave.
“We should have been here for her burial,” said Talia. It had been close to three weeks since Beatrice’s death. There was no way King Theodore could have delayed the funeral for so long, and yet . . .
“I know.”
Talia swallowed. “Hephyra invited me to leave Lorindar, to sail with her. She told me I would never have Snow, that Beatrice would soon be gone, that you had your own family to look after.”
“You’re a part of that family,” Danielle said firmly. “No matter what you choose.” Her unspoken question filled the mausoleum.
“I don’t know if I can stay here. If Hephyra still lived . . .” Memories of Snow and Beatrice saturated every room, every hallway.
Danielle put a hand on Talia’s shoulder. “Trittibar has asked that the Phillipa’s mainmast be brought to the palace, to be planted in the courtyard.”
For the first time since reaching Lorindar, Talia looked Danielle in the eyes. “Planted?”
Danielle smiled. “She’s a dryad. Hephyra’s tree—the ship—survives. Trittibar says it could take years for her to recover, to heal the part of herself that was lost. But she will heal.”
“That’s good.” Talia meant the words, even if she couldn’t feel them. She turned back to Bea’s marker. “And Armand?”
“He is himself. Isaac and Tymalous have removed the glass from all those who were infected. Armand spent the entire trip from the harbor apologizing for the things he said and did. There seem to be no lasting effects of the demon’s touch.”
“Good,” she said again.
“If there’s anything you need, anything you want, you know you have only to ask it.”
Talia took a slow, even breath. “Right now . . . all I want is to be left in peace.”
“I understand.” Danielle took Talia’s hand, squeezed almost hard enough to hurt. “You’re not alone, Talia.”
Talia nodded, but didn’t answer.
For the next two weeks, Talia performed her duties as though in a trance. She moved through the palace from one task to the next, barely speaking to anyone. Danielle tried to engage her in conversation, but Talia had no heart for it. Even Jakob had done his childish best to make her smile, but their efforts only made Talia feel guilty when she was unable to respond. She spent more and more time away from the others.
Talia still expected to find Snow flirting with the blacksmith, or hear her teasing Danielle. Her chest clenched every time she passed a woman with black hair, every time she heard laughter ringing through the halls.
She was locked in her room, paging through a century-old book of Arathean poetry, when someone pounded on her door hard enough to rattle it in the frame. “It’s Gerta. Open up.”
Talia almost smiled at the impatience in her voice, so similar to Snow’s. Since returning to Lorindar, Gerta had been doing her best to fit into palace life. Danielle had given her permission to go through Snow’s library and try to make sense of Snow’s rather eccentric notions of organization.
Gerta knocked again. “Last chance, Talia. I know you’re in there.”
Talia glanced over to make sure the door was latched. “Go away.”
Silence. There were no footsteps, so Gerta hadn’t left. Talia tucked the book beneath her pillow. As she stood, she smelled smoke rising from the door. Orange flames licked about the latch. The fire confined itself to a small ring, burning the wood to ash until the latch fell free and hit the floor with a clang. The door swung inward.
Gerta tossed a bottle. Talia snatched it from the air without thinking. Arathean wine from the cellars.
“Come with me,” ordered Gerta.
Talia’s attention went to the embroidered green patch that covered Gerta’s lost eye. Another reminder of that day. Gerta said she was working on crafting a glass eye, one with a mirrored pupil, but perfecting the magic of that eye would take months. “What’s going on?”
Gerta held two more bottles by the necks in her right hand. “Princess Whiteshore commands it.”
“Did she command this, too?” Talia asked, lifting the wine.
Gerta spun away. Considering Gerta had burned through the door to find her, Talia figured it best to see what Danielle wanted. She grabbed her zaraq whip and followed Gerta out into the hallway.
Gerta led her to the northern drawing room, a smaller chamber often used for entertaining royal guests. The walls were a garish green, covered in a textured paper imported from Morova. A fire burned in the hearth, countering the chill from the windows. Danielle sat with Trittibar and Ambassador Febblekeck at the tile-topped table in the center of the room.
Danielle rose, but before she could speak, Gerta set both of her bottles on the table and jabbed a hand at the fairies. “Out. Both of you.”
Trittibar’s brows shot up. Febblekeck flew from his chair, shedding glowing dust onto the carpet. “You forget your place, human.”
Danielle watched Gerta as though trying to read her intention. “Can this wait, Gerta?”
“No.” Gerta folded her arms and waited.
“Very well,” said Danielle. “Trittibar, Febblekeck, if you wouldn’t mind?”
“Of course, Your Highness.” Trittibar rose and bowed.
Febblekeck reached out to pluck a grape from the platter of bread and fruit at the center of the table. “I mind. This girl is—”
“She is a member of my household,” Danielle said softly. “And a friend.”
“She’s not even real,” Febblekeck protested. “Any fairy can smell the magic on her. She’s but a changeling, cobbled together by human magic, her soul a torn and crudely-stitched quilt of clumsiness and haste.”
Gerta flinched. Talia twirled the wine bottle in her hand. Given the pixie’s size, the bottle should be heavy enough to smash him from the air.
Danielle stood, smiling a too-sweet smile. “You should leave now,” she said softly.
“I am here as a representative of the king of Fairytown,” Febblekeck countered.
Danielle’s smile vanished. “And I would be most grieved to have to tell your king that his ambassador was snatched and devoured by a hungry owl.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I ask the animals to leave our guests alone, but I can’t be blamed if one refuses to listen.” Danielle stepped around the table. “Owls are so quiet in flight. The prey hears nothing, no warning at all before the talons pierce the body.”
Febblekeck brightened. “You can’t—”
“We can continue our conversation later, Princess Whiteshore.” Trittibar snatched Febblekeck’s arm, tugging him away before he could say anything further.
Danielle pursed her lips and sat back in her chair. “I sometimes suspect Febblekeck was appointed to this position because his king wanted an excuse to kick him out of Fairytown.” She rubbed her temples with both hands. “He and Trittibar have been helping me to understand the Duchess’ bargain. She agreed to raise him as her son, and to protect him from harm, but fairies view ‘harm’ differently than—”
“Your bargai
n called on you to give Jakob to the Duchess six months after your return to Lorindar,” Gerta interrupted.
Danielle frowned, looking more confused than annoyed. “That’s correct, and therein lies the problem.”
“It’s a problem that will still be waiting in the morning. You’ve more than five months to find a solution.” Gerta wrapped a hand around one of the wine bottles and whispered a spell. The wax seal softened, and she plucked it neatly from the neck. The cork followed, jumping into her palm.
“You interrupted my meeting for wine?” Danielle asked. Talia could hear the warning in her words, similar to the tone she used with Jakob.
“Yes.” Gerta glanced at Talia. “Sit down.”
Talia shook her head. “You told me Danielle ordered me here.”
“I lied.” Gerta gestured at a chair, which swiveled on one leg as if to invite Talia to sit. Gerta nibbled her lower lip, her confidence vanishing. “I have the memories Snow gave me, but they’re a puzzle with only half of the pieces. Mostly I remember a childhood that never happened. I . . . I was hoping you could tell me about her.”
She took a drink, then offered the bottle to Talia. When Talia didn’t move, Gerta sighed and slid it to Danielle.
“Snow giggled too much,” Gerta said. “She always thought me too dour, and sought to cheer me up. When we studied magic, Snow would read the incantations in the voices of various Lords. It made our mother so angry . . . There was one noble, I forget her name, who spoke with a horrible lisp. Snow was mimicking her while casting a spell which was supposed to purify a goblet of poisoned wine. Snow slurred the words so badly the wine exploded from the cup. Everyone it splashed developed the most awful rash.”
“I see.” Danielle held up the bottle. “Should I be worried about this?”
Gerta grabbed the second bottle, using magic to open this one as well. “Not about poison or magic, no. The taste, on the other hand . . . Arathean wine is far too sour for my liking. Much like some Aratheans I know.”
Talia ignored the barb. She set her own bottle on the table and backed away. “I have duties to attend to. If you need anything—”
“One of your duties is to guard the princess.” Danielle took a drink from the bottle. “With this much wine, I’ll likely need your protection by the time this night is done. Join us, Talia.”
Talia didn’t move. “Is that an order?”
“Does it have to be?”
Reluctantly, Talia took the chair beside Gerta. Gerta slid her a bottle hard enough to make it tip. Talia caught it instinctively.
“What would you like to know, Gerta?” asked Danielle.
“Everything.” Gerta drank several swallows of wine, then made a face. “I have my memories, and the things I’ve learned going through her library, but I want to know her. Who she was in your eyes.”
Danielle pursed her lips. “With the exception of Armand and his parents, Snow was the first person to make me feel truly welcome here.” Danielle stared at one of the windows. “I first learned who she was in the library, shortly after Armand was kidnapped.”
Talia forced herself to listen as Danielle described their first journey together into Fairytown, to rescue Armand from the Duchess and Danielle’s stepsisters.
Gerta spoke next, describing a time she and Snow had snuck through the palace to visit their father. Snow had rarely spoken of him, save to describe him as crippled by her mother’s magic, little more than a puppet of skin and bone. Gerta and Snow had brought him wildflowers, which they wove into his hair as he slept. “He looked so pale, almost colorless.”
“Like Beatrice,” Talia said, the words slipping out.
Gerta glanced up, then nodded. “Snow gave me very few memories of Beatrice, but yes.”
Talia raised her bottle, drinking deeply and concentrating only on the smooth, smoky taste of the wine. She returned the bottle to the table and used her thumbnail to pick at a bit of wax that clung to the side of the mouth. She had spent far more time with Snow than either of them, but a part of her wanted to keep those memories, to protect them and lock them away.
Talia glanced at Gerta’s eye patch. Talia had lost so much, but Gerta . . . she had never even known her sister. Not really.
Talia stared at her reflection in the glass. “Snow once made it rain urine in Prince Armand’s bedroom.”
Both Danielle and Gerta gaped. Gerta’s eye was wide, and Danielle’s mouth opened and shut several times before she finally asked, “How did this come about?”
Talia shrugged one shoulder. “It was two months after I arrived in Lorindar. I don’t know what Armand said, but Snow took it personally. Beatrice realized something was wrong when Snow kept sneaking off to get more to drink.”
“More to . . . ah,” Gerta said, nodding. “Sympathetic magic. She would have needed to cast that spell from a privy. How long did she manage to keep it going?”
“More than an hour.” Talia took another drink, remembering Beatrice’s expression as she ordered Snow to clean up the mess, all the while fighting to keep from laughing. “The smell lingered for a month.”
“I’ll talk to Armand tonight,” Danielle said, smiling. “I have to know what he said to earn such retribution.”
“The best part came later.” Talia pushed her chair back, staring at the window. “Beatrice demanded to know what good could come of such pranks. Snow looked her in the eye and said, ‘I wanted the prince to know what it felt like to be a peon.’ ”
There was a pause, and then the groans came in unison. Danielle grabbed a piece of bread from the platter and threw it at Talia. “That’s terrible!”
Talia caught the bread and took a bite. “I told Beatrice that whatever punishment she assigned, it should be doubled for that pun.”
Her throat was tight. Even that single bite of bread hurt to swallow. She washed it down with more wine as Danielle started talking about a time Snow had flirted her way onto a ship suspected to be carrying smuggled silks. Talia had been along for that mission, and remembered Snow’s unabashed enjoyment.
That was who Snow had been. That was who Talia wanted to remember. Even now, memories of Snow bleeding onto the ice threatened to suffocate her. She pushed them back, clinging to the laughter. The joy in Snow’s eyes.
Danielle was watching her as she talked. Talia scowled. “This was your idea, wasn’t it?”
Danielle shrugged. “Gerta suggested the wine. I merely gave her my blessing to drag you here by whatever means necessary. After two hours with Trittibar and Febblekeck, I needed the break.”
Talia wadded a bit of bread into a ball and flicked it across the table, bouncing it off the center of Danielle’s forehead. Danielle stuck out her tongue. Gerta simply laughed.
Danielle grabbed an apple from the platter. “Tell her how Snow and Beatrice found you.”
Talia groaned. “It’s embarrassing.”
Danielle grinned. “I know.”
Talia threw more bread, but she told Gerta how she had hidden away in a ship, hoping to slip unnoticed into Lorindar. How Beatrice and Snow had discovered her . . . and how Snow had used magic to knock her senseless.
At some point during the evening, servants quietly carried in a dinner of roast pork and mushrooms, and a pot of chilled strawberry soup. Talia hadn’t had much of an appetite since returning to Lorindar, but tonight she found herself devouring the meal.
Many of the stories she shared made her smile, remembering arguments and antics she hadn’t thought about for years. Others brought tears. It was hours after sunset when Danielle finally stood to excuse herself. Her face was red, her hair loose and disheveled. She hugged Talia from behind. “Make sure Gerta doesn’t drink too much.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Talia.
“Thank you.” Danielle kissed her on the cheek, then moved to embrace Gerta as well.
Once she had gone, Talia turned to Gerta. “You owe me a door.”
“Your door is fine. Mostly.” Gerta stifled a yawn.
Tal
ia stood. “I can clean up here, if you need to sleep.”
“Sit down.” Gerta smiled. “We’ve almost an entire bottle left, and I haven’t even told you about the time Snow snuck out to hunt a unicorn.”
“A unicorn?” Talia raised her eyebrows. “How did she plan to hold one?”
“I don’t know that you could call it a ‘plan,’ really . . .”
Talia sank back into her chair to watch Gerta talk. In her mind, she heard Snow teasing her, asking again why she hadn’t yet kissed Gerta.
Hush, Talia said silently. There would be time to sort such things out later. For now, this was what she needed. A friend who could help Talia to remember and celebrate Snow’s life. It didn’t change the pain in Talia’s chest whenever she thought of her death, but it provided a buffer, something to help her through that pain.
The sun had risen when Talia finally escorted Gerta back to her room, one hand on her elbow to keep her steady. Gerta stopped in the doorway, scowling at Talia with mock anger. “Have you made your choice yet?”
Talia blinked. “My choice?”
“Whether or not you’re going to leave.” Gerta kept her voice steady, but Talia could see the way her face tightened as she braced herself.
Oh. Talia stepped back. “Someone has to keep an eye on you and Danielle. Snow would never forgive me if I let something happen to you.”
Relief suffused Gerta’s face. She jumped forward, throwing her arms around Talia’s neck and kissing her cheek. “Good.”
She slipped into her room and shut her door, leaving Talia alone in the hallway. Talia touched her cheek with her fingertips. With her other hand, she reached into her pocket and pulled a single sharpened steel snowflake from its flat leather sheath. She turned it until she could see her reflection.
“Yes,” she said softly, remembering her final exchange with Snow. “I’ve made my choice.”
CHAPTER 25
SIX MONTHS FROM THE DAY DANIELLE brought Jakob home, she strode through the courtyard toward the chapel. Talia and Gerta were already waiting outside the door. Talia was armed, a curved sword on one hip, her zaraq whip on the other. Heaven knew what else was tucked away beneath her red cape.
