by Molly Ringle
Don’t worry, he repeated to himself.
But that advice was hard to follow. He had done something monstrously forbidden, and would go to jail if authorities found out. That Larkin had never wanted to be in the enchanted sleep might excuse Merrick somewhat, but he couldn’t count on the law seeing it that way.
Dizzy with shock, Merrick turned and shambled toward his room to look for clothes that would fit the prince.
Larkin would not panic. His dignity was all he had left and he was determined not to lose it. He kept this resolution through the strange quest of washing in this bathroom, welcoming the distraction of the electric lights, the water whose temperature could be changed upon the turn of knobs, and the oddly evocative perfumes of the toiletries. The concept of the pipes was not as unfamiliar to him as Merrick seemed to think. The palace had only installed a few by 1799, to bring clean water into the kitchens and to allow fouled water to flow out from the water closets, but his father and mother had been planning to have the plumbing extended further.
His father and mother, whom he would never see again.
Larkin blinked fiercely, rubbed his face with handfuls of cold water as he knelt in the tub, then pulled the plug to let out the water.
Standing on the bath rug with a flower-patterned towel wrapped around himself, he stared at the pile of clothes on the floor, his once-fine ceremonial wear, ravaged by time.
He had been preparing to flee, leave witches and fae and grief behind, when Rosamund had captured him. Perhaps he could yet leave, but where was he to go? He had visited Hawaii, New Spain, and Japan, had considered starting a new life in any of those. But in this century he hadn’t the faintest idea what had become of those lands, nor any other countries. He did not even truly know what Eidolonia had become. At the same time, he disliked the idea of throwing himself on the mercy of the palace, especially now that all his loved ones were gone and the palace was filled with strangers.
A knock sounded. Larkin called, “Enter.”
Merrick stepped in and shut the door behind him, holding folded garments. “My sibling and niece somehow still aren’t awake. Let’s count our blessings on that. We’ll have to decide what to tell them in the morning about who you are. First, here.” He handed over what were presumably undergarments, dark blue and of a fabric that stretched and bounced back most remarkably.
Larkin identified the front by its placket, then discarded the towel, handing it to Merrick. He stepped into the undergarments, which fit well enough and were more comfortable than expected, though so short that they stopped at the tops of his thighs. He gave the waistband a snap, then looked up expectantly for the next item of clothing.
Merrick had turned his face away as if not daring to view Larkin’s unclothed form. He smiled in apology and handed him a pair of gray-green trousers in what felt like cotton—a rare imported material in Larkin’s day. “Good. We’re around the same height. Hopefully these’ll fit too.”
Larkin accepted the trousers and put them on. The man clearly had no experience as a valet. When helping someone to dress, one ought to remain indifferent to the person’s nakedness, not become shy about it. Merrick’s slipshod manners marked him unlikely to be of noble class either, despite living in Rosamund’s fine country house and bearing her surname.
Larkin cast a glance over Merrick Highvalley, now that they were in brighter light and Larkin had his wits about him. Merrick had skin of a bronze hue like many Eidolonians, and black curls falling almost to his shoulders. He wore shapeless cotton clothing that left his arms and feet bare. He looked like any common merchant or perhaps one of those useless court hangers-on: slender and soft, as if he had never lifted a sword or saddle in his life.
Not to mention that whatever else he was, Merrick was certainly a reckless witch and a Highvalley—two weighty points against him.
Larkin transferred his attention to learning the fastenings of the trousers. “Do you receive news magically via that item you carry?”
“Not magically. Electronically. It’s another invention.” Merrick took out the rectangular item. “It’s a phone—telephone. For long-distance communication as well as news and … and entertainment, I suppose.”
Having fastened the trousers, which hung a bit loosely about his waist but otherwise fit well enough, Larkin accepted the soft, buttonless cotton shirt Merrick handed him and pulled it over his head. It stretched about his shoulders, but at least it had long sleeves to warm him after his bath. “Then we might hear news at any time, should the palace discover I’ve vanished? Or if Ula Kana is awake?”
Merrick studied the item again—the phone, which he had lit up once more. “Presumably, but I don’t see anything yet. I did send a message to a faery friend of mine who lives in Dasdemir, to see if she can find out news from the other side of the verge.”
“You can be certain the government will be sending their fae ambassadors within hours to discover the same. Do you or your family work in the palace or government, as Rosamund did?”
“No.” Merrick touched the side of the phone, causing it to go dark. “None of us have for years. It’s after midnight, but I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep yet. You can if you want. Or should we talk?”
“I’ve had rather enough of sleep. Let us talk.”
CHAPTER 9
IN THE LIBRARY, MERRICK SWITCHED ON A scarlet-shaded table lamp and offered a rolling chair to the prince. Larkin eased into it, light as a ballet dancer and with perfect posture. Even with his hair hanging damp over his shoulders, and in one of Merrick’s shirts with a bear and the word “Alaska” on it, he carried himself like a gentleman in a Jane Austen film.
Merrick pulled out another chair, turned it to face Larkin’s, and plunked into it, undoubtedly with less grace. “So in a few hours the palace guards are going to look into the bower and realize you’re not there. We need to decide what to do.”
Larkin raised a palm as if beseeching silence. “Naturally we shall discuss that. But first I must know: what became of my family?” His voice shook the smallest amount.
A shock passed through Merrick, cold and then hot. He pulled up to a straighter posture. “Of course. I … should have thought of that right away. Well, they … I’ll find you a book because I don’t remember exactly. I think they all lived a long time, though.” He leaped up to cross toward the shelves, then paused. “Oh, but I remember your sister married that hunter who keeps Ula Kana in his realm. Arlanuk.”
Larkin swiveled his chair to stare at him, brows lowered. “My sister? Lanying was already married. Do you mean Lucrecia?”
“That’s it. Lucrecia. Lanying became queen, after … your parents. Here, hang on.” Merrick’s hands were trembling. How could you casually give someone a set of records that told them how their entire family had died? But what choice did he have?
The history textbook where he’d found Rosamund’s portrait would serve. He brought it to Larkin, who opened it on the table. “Arlanuk,” Larkin murmured, running his finger down the table of contents. “Fancy that. The fae always did take a special interest in us.”
“They chose the royals, we were told.” Merrick stood by the table, uncertain whether to sit again or to leave Larkin alone while he absorbed the distressing information.
“They did. A small contingent did, in any case. Those who were curious about humans and allowed the first ships ashore.” Larkin paged through the book. “When they agreed humans could stay, and learned we were going to set up a government for ourselves and also wished to have royalty, the fae insisted upon picking the first king and queen.”
“Orhan and Fadime Dasdemir.”
“Yes, my maternal great-grandparents. A mere merchant couple, Turks aboard a Spanish ship. They were the ones the fae liked best because they sang the best songs, told the loveliest stories, wove the most beautiful … rugs and tapestries.” Larkin’s voice trailed off as he found the chapter entitled “Civil War: The Rise of Ula Kana.”
Merrick swallowed and took
a step back. No, he didn’t want to be here when Larkin read about this. “I could get some tea and food and bring it up. How about that?”
Larkin turned several pages with abrupt force. “Marrying a faery. What in the Spirit’s unknowable name was Lucrecia thinking? Fae-human coupling rarely comes to any good. I’d have advised against it, had they allowed me to be conscious for the question.”
A portion of Merrick’s sympathy dried up.
True, Larkin didn’t know who Merrick’s mother was; not to mention Larkin was upset at the moment and had reason to be irritated with everything. Still, the words burned.
“I’ll get us something to eat,” Merrick repeated.
Larkin rippled his fingers without looking up—another royal dismissal.
Merrick wheeled around and left the library.
In the kitchen, Merrick filled the kettle with water and pulled food out of the fridge and cupboards. He found a box of tea and a couple of mugs and thumped them onto a tray.
He wanted to avoid jail, and Larkin didn’t want to be put back into the sleep, so they just had to trust each other. Even though it might turn out they didn’t like each other, upon closer acquaintance.
The kettle began whistling. Merrick snapped off the heat and poured the water over the teabags.
“Merrick?”
He whirled, splashing boiling water onto his bare foot. Hissing in pain while shaking his foot, he tried to smile.
Cassidy stood in the doorway squinting at him, wearing maroon silk pajamas. “You okay?”
“Yeah, you just startled me.” He grabbed a dishtowel, wiped off his foot, and finished pouring the tea. “I’m fine. Couldn’t sleep.”
“Thought I heard you whumping around. And taking a bath or something. Are you sick?”
“No, just—um. Thinking about things.” He got out a plate, his mind scrambling for a cover story. Cassidy knew his half-fae genetics made lying difficult, since they had the same trait. He had planned to come up with something to tell them by morning; he just hadn’t decided what yet.
“What did you do?” Cassidy asked, suspicious already.
Merrick put mandarin oranges, chocolate biscuits, seaweed crackers, and a dish of cashews on the plate. His hands were shaking again. He turned to his sibling. “I need your help. And I need you to not kill me.”
“Gods, Merrick. Now what?”
“First, remember that I would never intentionally do anything I knew was dangerous to others, or a bad idea.”
“I also remember that what you consider a good idea is not always what the rest of us would consider a good idea.”
“And I don’t expect to change your mind about that anytime soon.”
“What did you do, and why does it involve making a tray of snacks at one o’clock in the morning?”
“Come upstairs. I’ll explain, but I doubt you’ll believe me until you see for yourself.”
Larkin kept his eyes fixed upon the silk-smooth pages of the book with their bizarrely realistic illustrations, listening as Merrick’s footsteps left the library. Only when he knew himself to be alone did he turn to the pages detailing his own era.
I will not weep, Larkin vowed. But I must know.
First, feeling vindictive, he looked up the fate of Rosamund Highvalley.
After Larkin and Ula Kana had been put into the sleep, the book reported, and the verge was fixed in place to preserve fae territory forevermore, public debates began regarding putting legal restrictions upon witches’ magical actions. With the citizenry disconsolate from having lost so many citizens during Ula Kana’s attacks, which were viewed as having been exacerbated by Rosamund’s provocations, Rosamund soon fell out of favor, the symbol of over-ambitious witches.
“Rightly so,” Larkin murmured.
She lost her position as court sorcerer, retreated with her wife, Philomena Quintal, to her country home—Highvalley House—and spent a few years in secretive magical research. In 1804, she vanished forever, having entered the fae realm alone on some mission to seek cooperation with the fae. It can be assumed she did not find that cooperation, the book’s author said, somewhat wryly.
A just end for her, Larkin thought, though he felt bitter rather than smug.
He also felt unnerved, for he had already known this information, in a sense. Long ago, it seemed, he had dreamed of Rosamund journeying across the verge, and Philomena waiting in vain for her to return. Had his enchanted sleep granted him a window at times to the reality progressing around him?
He turned back to the beginning of the chapter, fatalistically curious, and next reviewed his own biographical details.
Prince Larkin, Duke of Ormaney (born 27 July 1773; put into enchanted sleep 22 December 1799; officially counted as still living).
“Yes, he blasted well is still living,” Larkin muttered.
He ran his eye down the rest of the information: Larkin was the second of Guiren and Teresa’s three children, was vocally opposed to the brash magic use of witches such as Rosamund Highvalley, fought alongside his people during the Upheaval of Dasdemir, and had planned to leave the island after a truce had been achieved with the fae. However, instead he had volunteered as the sleeping royal required to put the truce into effect.
Larkin unclenched his jaw and turned the page.
He did not know what the public reaction would be when he set the record to rights, nor if he should care. Those were questions for another day. What he must and would discover tonight was the fate of his family.
He drew back his shoulders and read.
His mother, Queen Teresa, died at sixty-three from a broken neck in a horse-jumping accident, an injury too swift and severe for court healers to mend.
His father, King Guiren, died in his sleep at ninety-one.
His older sister Lanying, who reigned as queen for many years, died from a stroke at seventy-nine, a risk unforeseen by her court healers, who had kept her in excellent health until then.
His younger sister, Lucrecia, married the mighty earth faery Arlanuk when she was twenty-two, brought their twin children back to Dasdemir as they were both counted human, and thenceforth alternated her time between the realms. She estimated her own age as sixty the year she died, of enchantment-related ill health, though by then her own grandchildren were in their forties, thanks to the unpredictable time variance between the realms.
Larkin’s nephews and niece—Lanying’s children, who had all been under five years old when he last saw them—grew up and met various fates: accident, illness, old age.
All of them rested in Barish Temple in Dasdemir.
Nauseated, Larkin rose and walked upon weak legs to the window, where his grief-dazed eyes sought the stars or any visible item of beauty, anything that would counter this oppressive feeling of death. He could page farther, seek the records of others he had known—nobles, friends, public figures—find out how and when they had died.
But likely he already knew. For in every instance regarding his family members, he had dreamt of exactly those fates for them, witnessed them as he slept. In the dreams, he had grieved—dreams that even in his own mind felt long past. Yet seeing the cold facts printed upon paper, while he stood so alone in a strange world, broke the grief open again.
At least before being plunged into Rosamund’s spell he had already known of Boris’s death, and could no longer be shocked by anything regarding him.
Larkin closed his eyes. The ground fracturing beneath the palace, lightning striking in ear-splitting blasts, fires raging, walls collapsing …
He had been racing down the stairs to the entrance hall, hoping to reach the plaza and assist in the defense, when the staircase swung beneath him, throwing him aside. He clung to a post. A crack tore open the marble floor. Lava fountained up. The scorching heat made him curl away, shielding his face. The tapestries caught fire, flames spreading quickly to the floors above, trapping him upon the stairs. His guards, his family, his people were screaming, while fae flitted about, indifferent
and diabolical, flinging fire, baring their teeth, shaking the earth.
He could not reach anyone below or above to help. He drew his iron sword and slashed at every faery who appeared, driving off some long enough to slow the onslaught, but not by much. As the flames rose, he finally had to escape by throwing himself through a stained-glass window alongside the stairs, and tumbled upon the flagstones outside in a shower of glass shards. As he lay bleeding and broken, the sky above him darkened, and there hovered Ula Kana, a fiery shape in the smoke, her wicked smile fixed upon him, Boris wrapped in her lava-tendrils.
Larkin opened his eyes and spread one hand atop the other above his pounding heart, his fingers tracing the scar that crossed his knuckles.
He willed his breaths to slow, taking careful note of the dusty library smell and other mundane details: windowsill, cobwebs, books in foreign languages. He was adrift, but he was safe. For the time being.
Voices drifted up: Merrick and someone else, perhaps the sibling he had mentioned. Their conversation drew closer, up the stairs; a fiercely whispered debate, it seemed. Oh, dear. Larkin could only be the subject. He returned to the table and sat before the open history book, pulling together a semblance of grace before his hosts were upon him.
Soon they darkened the doorway: Merrick with a tray of tea and food, and beside him a person about Merrick’s height and with similar bone structure, but with silk pajamas and tidier hair.
“Um,” this person said. “Hello.”
Larkin rose from his chair. “Good evening. Please forgive my intrusion into your home. It was quite unplanned.”
“Is it okay if we come in?” Merrick said. “Do you need more time?”
Though uncertain of the meaning of this “okay,” Larkin responded, “Do come in.”
Merrick entered and set the tray on the table. “This is Cassidy, my older sibling.”
Cassidy crept nearer, taking in Larkin’s hair, face, hands, sock-clad feet. “Oh, my gods. You’re … ” They narrowed their eyes at Merrick. “This is a prank, right? You’re messing with me.”
