She rides ahead of me into the yard to complete laps to cool down
her horse. I return to the stables and dismount the mare.
“Thank you for the ride, Berceuse,” I say, patting her side. “I hope I never see you again. Believe me when I say that would be for the best.”
I turn the mare over to the spriggan stable hand and stride outside.
Jamison is standing by the fence around the training yard, watching
the queen ride.
He passes me a large orange. “You missed breakfast.”
“I appreciate it.” I drop my gaze to the fruit in my hands, not at
all hungry.
He jams his hands in his pockets and hazards a smile. “Would you
like to go for a walk?”
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“Yes.” I slide my arm through his, and we take a pathway into the
garden.
Jamison stares up at the crooked branches of the trees, the little
green leaves dancing in the breeze. “This place is out of a storybook.”
“I think the elves’ secret to their long lives may be in their soil and sunshine.”
“Maybe so. My knee doesn’t hurt, and the food and water taste
better. The call of life has a fullness unlike in any other world.” Jamison directs me to a bench under a tree with a view of the vineyard and river, and we sit together. “I have news from home.”
I set aside the orange and try to guess whether the news is good or
bad. His tone gives nothing away.
“Osric visited Elderwood Manor before coming here,” he says.
“Secretary Winters sent me a letter, and the Fox and the Cat opened it.”
“The secretary found proof of our marriage,” I say, more a state-
ment than a question. A statement I hope isn’t true.
“He did. The captain’s logbook did indeed include mention of our
nuptials. Upon my return, I will be stripped of my title.”
That is not all. His estates and wealth will be absorbed by the
Progressive Ministry—the queen’s preferred recipient of charitable
donations—and he will never again be permitted to serve in the navy.
Every part of this feels like a kick to the chest, yet he does not sound upset. “Did you know this yesterday?”
“Osric visited me while I was in the oubliette. I asked him not
to say anything to you until we spoke. I want you to know that this
changes nothing. Everything I said about our wedding vows before still stands. Let them have my title and wealth. I lost them once before and survived. I can do it again.”
“Jamison, this is your entire life they’re taking. Tell Winters I blackmailed you or put you under an enchantment.”
He shakes his head. “I won’t put the blame on you.”
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“I’ve lost my home and my family’s legacy. I know what you’re giv-
ing up. I cannot let you lose what you have left of your family.” I rein in my anger, for I’m not upset at him. I’m angry with myself for thinking we could ever start over and build a life. “The queen and council already think I’m heinous. Tell them I enchanted you to marry me and you had no choice. The secretary will believe you. He’s on your side.”
Jamison sets his jaw. “I won’t lie, Evie.”
“Then you will lose everything!”
“I’m not losing anything I cannot live without. I thought I’d lost
the most important things in my life when my father disowned me.
I can survive without my fortune and manors, but I’ve seen my life
without you, and that void was bigger and emptier than any title or
wealth could fill.” He takes his hands in mine, his grip firm, warm.
“You’re my wife, Everley Donovan. I thought I lost you once. I won’t lose you again.”
“But you love your homes. They’re the places of your childhood.
Your mother’s heirlooms, your grandmother’s library. Your father
wanted you to have those things and pass them on to your children.”
“I won’t be happy with all those things if I can’t share them with
you.” Jamison lifts the back of my hand to his lips and kisses it.
“Embracing my duties to Elderwood Manor wasn’t for myself. I wanted
to give you a real home, a safe place.”
“You did.”
His expression turns pained. “I’m sorry I’m asking you to give up
your home again.”
“Jamison Callahan,” I say in all seriousness, “I don’t love you for
your land or your title. You wanted to create a home, and you have. My home is with you.” He pulls me in close against him. A tenseness runs through his body that soaks into mine. “About your contract with the sea hag . . . were you planning on telling me?”
“Muriel advised me not to, but now that you know, I will explain
everything after the trial.” His blue eyes bore into mine. “Let’s get 175
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through today, and then I promise I will answer all your questions. I don’t wish to hide anything from you, Evie.”
I’ve waited two days already. Another few hours won’t hurt.
Osric appears down the pathway. “There you are. Commander
Asmer wants to prep you both for the trial.”
“We’ll be right there.” Jamison rises and offers me his hand, pulling me to my feet. “My mother used to say that life is a blank storybook.
You and I are only partially through our story, Evie. We have pages and pages yet to fill. Today is just one day in the many to come.”
As we set off for the chateau, I think of the final image I saw on my timeline of the Everwoods burning. I wonder if we are indeed author-ing our own story and how much of what’s to come has already been
decided.
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Chapter Nineteen
Our cavalcade leaves the chateau at high noon. Jamison and I ride
with Osric in our own carriage, staring out the windows at tidy rows of grapevines.
Markham was moved to the prison wagon as we were leaving.
The door was shut before he spotted me, but I saw him shackled and
unadorned. I also saw the field-workers kneel to him. Countless elves sank to their knees and removed their grass sun hats and laid them over their hearts.
I’m still sickened by the sight.
Queen Imelda warned me that the prince has supporters. I didn’t
think too much of her claim—until they kneeled. Now I think of noth-
ing else.
A wind curls in through the window, carrying the perfume of the
lavender meadows. The clean lines of intense purple stretch into the distance. Past the lavender are lemon and orange groves, and even blue-berry fields.
“Osric, what can’t elves grow on their land?” I ask. He sits across from Jamison and me, staring outside. “Osric?”
“Hmm?” His attention jumps to me. It’s another moment before
he realizes I’m waiting for an answer. “Sorry, Evie. I didn’t hear you.”
I leave my first question alone and ask another. “How long has it
been since you’ve seen your parents?”
Emily R. King
“Almost four hundred years. Do you think they’ve changed?”
He’s certainly changing. Even since last night, Osric has aged. The
slight lines around his eyes and mouth reflect an inner wisdom that was hidden before. He looks more distinguished, less perfect and untouch-able. “A lot has happened since you left. Give them a chance to welcome you. They’re still your parents.”
“That’s my concern.” Osric pops a small white tablet into his
mouth, the herbal remedy Asmer gave him to take as his bo
dy weens
off of the charm apples. He’s been eating them all morning. Osric mutters under his breath. “I cannot wait for this trial to end.”
Nor can I.
The carriage takes us through blossoming poppy fields, then the
land drops away to cliffs. We travel by the river, alongside a dramatic, craggy riverbed and past perpendicular limestone ravines. Commander
Asmer and the elven guard ride on horseback between the carriages in single file down the narrow road. The cavalcade plods away from the
snaking water, and the noise of the rushing river is replaced by music.
“Do I hear an orchestra?” Jamison asks.
“An opera,” Osric corrects. “The music celebrates the creation of
the worlds. Before we hold trials, this opera is performed to remind us of our sacred heritage and duties. After the opera is finished, attendees stay for the trial.”
Jamison and I trade looks of astonishment.
“You think that’s peculiar?” Osric asks. “Before an execution, the
royal choir performs the creation-day song.”
“Ironic,” Jamison remarks. “And morbid.”
I would listen to the elven choir sing a schoolhouse alphabet song if it ended in Markham’s comeuppance. “What do you think will happen
to the prince if he’s found guilty?”
“I can think of only one suitable punishment for him.” Osric’s
gaze chills. “His limbs should be severed from his body one by one to symbolize his excommunication from Avelyn.”
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“But his body will heal.”
“Then he will be dismembered again and again as necessary.”
I should be eager for Markham to be punished, even hungry for
it, but a brutal sentencing feels excessive. We mustn’t make a martyr out of him.
Our carriage rolls up to the rear of the outdoor theater. The flag
of the Land of Promise, a crown of ivy wreathing a red apple, flut-
ters above. We climb out of our carriage just as Queen Imelda alights from hers. She straightens her skirt and adjusts the sleeves of her all-black dress. The worshipful music from the opera swells in triumphant resolve, an elf warbling the lyrics to an aria in their native language.
Commander Asmer rides her horse over to her ruler.
“Your Majesty, the opera company should conclude shortly.”
“We’ll wait here,” Imelda replies.
The prison wagon rolls to a halt. Two guards open the back door
and haul Markham out. He ducks his chin to shield his eyes from the
sunshine. The elf prince has been stripped of his glamour charm. His pointy ears and nose give his wolfish appearance an even more feral
look.
“My dearest queen, you look tired,” he says, feigning concern.
“Were you up late pacing the floor? I do hope I’ve caused you at least one sleepless night.”
“Little Brother,” she answers tightly, “I’d been told you haven’t aged a day.”
“Envious?”
“Oh, my, no.” Imelda strides up to him, her eyes hard. “You revolt
me for cheating time.”
“We both know I didn’t cheat time—I outsmarted it.”
Imelda yanks up his sleeves one at a time and checks his skin. She
twists his forearm to show me a scar. “Is this the one you asked about?”
“Yes,” I say. “Weeks ago, I cut him and he bled.”
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Markham’s expression turns murderous. My sword left a mark on
him, but how? Why did this wound leave a scar when so many others
haven’t?
Imelda leans in close to his ear as though to whisper, then speaks at a normal volume so everyone can hear. “I will figure out how to make you bleed again, Brother. I intend to spend the rest of my life using your immortality against you.”
He stares right past her at me. “Did Imelda tell you how our parents died?”
I draw back in surprise at his out-of-place question.
“How dare you mention Mother and Father,” Imelda says. “You
shame our family name.”
“I’ve a long way to go before I’m as shameful as you,” replies the
prince.
“Show respect for your queen!” Asmer hits him over the head with
her stave, and he stumbles to his knees. “Gag him.”
The guards drag Markham back to the prison wagon and gag him.
“Please forgive this unpleasantness, and for Creator’s sake, ignore
his lies,” Imelda says on a tired sigh. “Deflection is one of Killian’s greatest weapons.”
The opera within the theater crescendos to an epic finale. All the
instruments blast the last few notes, building and building in volume and intensity, then sustaining the enormity of the sound to the last breath.
Applause follows, a groundswell of thunder. A guard opens the door
to the backstage area, and the opera company files out. Queen Imelda boosts her chin, and with the applause still roaring, she glides onto the stage followed by her guard.
Osric motions for Jamison and me go to the door. We peer out
at the enormous theater packed with elves, every seat full. Even the musicians have stayed in the orchestra pit, as though expecting their conductor to lead them in an encore. In a balcony overlooking the front 180
Everafter Song
of the house, the elven council is seated. Ancient looking, with their thin skin and white hair, the justices will officiate from above in their matching green robes.
The queen signals for us to step out onto the stage. The weight
of thousands of stares lands on Jamison and me. I stand tall, my gait unwavering, and continue following Osric. Members of the audience whisper while others lift their noses and glare in contempt at us humans. Osric leads us to the far left stage, a couple dozen paces away from the queen and the justices who are high above in an elevated box overlooking the stage and theater.
Runes from the tree alphabet have been carved into the floor in
a circle. A guard tells Jamison and me to stand in the middle. As I
step inside, the heartwood of my clock heart warms. The power of the runes—symbols of oak trees—is believed to offer protection to those
who stand within the circle.
A lute player hits a high note, silencing the audience. The sun
beats down, squeezing perspiration from my back. The queen looks to
the council. An elderly justice seated in the middle of her colleagues, slightly forward from the rest, nods, and the proceedings begin.
“Prince Killian has returned home,” announces Imelda. The acous-
tics in the theater carry her voice far and wide, unnaturally so. Either the structure or stage has been enchanted to amplify voices. “This is not a joyful homecoming. Our prince must answer for egregious accusations
against him. Guards, bring the prisoner forward.”
Commander Asmer and another guard appear at the rear door with
the prince. The audience bows their heads as Markham, bound and
gagged, is led to the center of the stage. My nerves pop and rattle. I have dreamed of this moment for years, but I never imagined anyone
attending his trial would treat him with awe and respect.
“The prince has been accused of violating and exploiting creation
power for gain,” Imelda continues. “As elves, we sanctify the longevity of life. Every creation has worth. The corruption or abuse of creation 181
Emily R. King
power is a dire offense. The charges against Prince Killian are as follows: manslaughter, assuming a false identity, blackmail, the obliteration of one of the seven worlds, and treason by way of plotting to usurp the Land of the Living, our protected territo
ry. What say you to these charges, Your Majesty?”
Markham gazes into the crowd, his expression proud but trem-
bling, displaying a sliver of vulnerability. “I’m innocent, Your Honors.”
His plea is absurd. He has so much blood on his hands they should
be dripping.
“The prince’s plea has been noted,” Imelda says. “In preparation
for this trial, the council has listened to testimonies of creatures from all over the worlds who have witnessed the prince’s various attacks and corruptions against Avelyn. The two main witnesses here today will
conclude these testimonies.”
“The justices will vote after the end of the trial,” Osric whispers.
“Should they tie six to six, Imelda will act as the deciding vote.”
The austere justices reveal nothing about their opinion of the prince or us thus far. My insides roil, my anxiety rising to a simmer.
“First,” says the queen, “we will hear from Everley Donovan of
the Land of the Living. Please come forward to the witness box, Miss Donovan.”
I wipe my sweaty palms against my trousers. The surreality of this
moment seems to drag time to a halt. This is the day I have been waiting for. I cannot fail my family.
Jamison squeezes my elbow. “You can do this.”
I’m not sure if I can, but I will try. Because, someday, when stories about the wicked prince of the elves are chronicled, I want it written that I did not shirk my duty to put him away.
Osric escorts me to the middle of the stage. Another circle of sym-
bols—birch trees—is etched into the floor. I cannot recall their meaning. As I step into the center, the runes pulse with a soft glow that pushes into every cog of my heart.
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“The witness circle coerces honest testimonies,” says the main jus-
tice. “While standing in its bounds, you are held by truth. Do you
accept these parameters, human?”
“I accept,” I say.
“Then we shall commence. Queen Imelda will moderate these pro-
ceedings. You may start, Your Majesty.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Imelda replies, and launches into her
first question. “Everley Donovan, were you present when Prince Killian trespassed into the Everwoods and infiltrated the Land of Youth?”
“Yes, I was in his expedition party.”
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