“Sir Erwan and me had a bit o’ time in this room alone, awaitin’ rescue. When the knight was in his thrall, I bade him into handin’ me some letters.” She shrugged. “This one I found most interestin’, more so now.”
Lyra ran her fingertips along the golden script. The ink leapt up in response, as though it was magnetized and her fingers were metal. It lit her skin, warming it with needlepoint stings—an encroaching sensation that filled her from head to toes. She broke loose and the ink fell back onto the paper, reshaping the words:
My Dear Princess Lyra,
I hope this finds you well. I was encouraged to hear of Prime Minister Albous’s work with you on your signing. I understand what it’s like to be hindered in communications with others. Since the moment of my curse, I’ve lost the ability to speak mentally, mind-to-mind, with my people. Perchance one day I may learn to use your ancient signings myself—for my subjects, and for you and me, so we might communicate easily. You asked in your last note how I came to be cursed two years ago; it was an arrogant impulse. The day my lord father died, I swallowed sunlight to become powerful enough to heal my people on my own; instead, I almost followed my king’s eternal passage to the stars. Nerezeth’s sorceress saved me. I had a dream while under her spell, that something hovered above me with wings of shadow and fire, but then it slipped from my view before my ensorcelled mind could reason it out. When I awoke, I felt incomplete. The only thing that gave me peace was your song; upon hearing it, I knew that finding you would make me whole again. So, in return for this great gift, I hope to make you stronger and able to face the sun. These letters are written in my blood, rich with sunshine. We’ve found that it has the ability to desensitize Nerezethites to daylight. And as you are so alike them in that way, I’m hoping touching these letters will enable us to share a dance upon my arrival to Eldoria. To not only join lives, but to join hands as an example to our kingdoms.
Yours in both night and day,
Prince Vesper
Lyra froze as bits and pieces of the prince’s explanations in the moon-bog made sense: The part of me I thought I’d lost was here all along, with you, having silent conversations. Vesper had said he didn’t kill Scorch; he’d been so sure of it: I am him . . . your beastly brawn. I’ve been him all along.
Gasping, Lyra looked up at her guardian.
“Aye, there indeed be magic at play, wee one. But it started five years afore, when his spirit split in twain.”
Lyra folded the letter, overcome. It was too much . . . too much all at once.
Crony picked up a wilted rose and sniffed it. “Our arrogant Pegasus seem to have a carin’ side after all. It remained in Nerezeth with the prince. A boy who learnt to speak in sign for a girl he’d yet to meet, and drained his blood letter after letter, just so he might touch her.”
Lyra couldn’t respond. She’d suspected the prince was a good man after eavesdropping earlier. Still, she left him when he was hurting and confused . . . she ran because she couldn’t face the pain of her truest friend being locked within him, and torn from her forever.
Regret, deep and winding, strangled her heartbeat. She clutched the note tighter and dropped to her knees. One corner of the parchment curled down, exposing the script again. Ink touched her skin, tinting it gold like the prince’s. She moved her hands to the withered roses piled beside her, draining the sunlight out of herself until the blooms burst with new life. Her shoulders slumped, body weak and aching from the effort.
Crony clucked her forked tongue. “Methinks ye had time to read one of these letters, afore ye were put in a coffin and left for dead. The prince shared his blood to help ye. But may-let the fates had another purpose in mind—to help him.”
Crony’s words struck Lyra’s conscience. She asked herself again, just as she had in the moon-bog: Could she drain the sunlight from the prince and release it elsewhere, act as a conduit to cure him?
Fear skittered through her spine upon considering how weary she felt already. Would she survive such a monumental transaction? But knowing he was Scorch—the one she’d laughed, quarreled, and ran with over the past five years—made the question moot. She loved him enough to try.
I should’ve saved him already, she told Crony. She dragged a velvety rose into her lap, its perfume taunting and accusatory. I just left him there. I didn’t think it possible. How could it have been possible? How can any of it be?
“Magic be boundless. Consider how the prophecy found a way to unite its prince and princess, in spite of others’ meddlin’ hands. How it give ye time to know one another . . . to become helpmates, friends—”
Equals. Lyra’s fingers finished Crony’s thought. What if Vesper marries the imposter before I make it there? He doesn’t know I’m Lyra. He thinks she is, that she’ll heal him. What if I’ve lost him already?
Her guardian took her hands in hers. “As a foundling girl, ye loved a horse who all along was a boy. And now that ye know, yer afeard of that love bein’ one-sided enough he’d marry another over ye? That horse still live within him. He’ll crash through walls, shatter bones, and defy his destiny to be with his quiet, orphan girl. Ye had the courage to save him as a Pegasus. Tell me, what lengths will ye go to, to save him as the man?”
I’ll do anything. Lyra’s latent ferocity reappeared. She rubbed her nose, feeling as inept as Vesper about how the two of them could possibly fix the disjointed skies. I’ve moonlight in my blood, and the prince has sunlight in his. Is this how the sky will be united? When I save him?
“The pieces’ll fall into place as they will. All ye need do is concentrate on helpin’ the prince.” Crony smiled then—that turn of wormy lips and pointed teeth that brought soldiers to their knees.
Yet it was that smile that gave Lyra strength to stand, her legs no longer shaky. It was that smile that had built her up from a nameless orphan to a member of the forest . . . one who served a purpose and had a family. And today it would give her strength to be the princess Vesper and their two kingdoms needed.
She hugged Crony again, long enough to feel their heartbeats hammering between them. Forcing herself to break the embrace, she signed: Thank you for saving me; for giving me a home. Such a great sacrifice for a free-spirited harrower witch and a sylphin fox.
“Nay, it be a great honor, wee one.” Her rough fingers tilted Lyra’s chin high. “Hold yerself up as the princess ye be. If ye believe it, so will they.” She motioned to the pile of letters. “Now learn the prince’s side of yer beast’s heart. Then clean yerself and prepare. When Luce returns, ye two will leave for Nerezeth.”
You mean when Luce returns, we all leave, right? Lyra gesticulated.
“I’ve me own role to play, here in this realm.” With that, she stepped over to the shelves on the wall and took down several jars. Placing them in a box on the ground, she returned her attention to Lyra. “It will work out best this way, ye’ll see.”
Lyra sensed something ominous in the response. As the witch started toward the door, she turned one last time to look at Lyra.
Lyra moved her fingers: I’ll see you soon . . .
Crony tipped her horns to one side then limped out.
I love you, breathed Lyra before the door closed. Knowing Crony hadn’t heard, Lyra commanded her crickets to squeeze under the threshold and follow the harrower witch. She had bargained them for Crony, so they belonged to her; they would stay with her, sing to her, and keep her company until Lyra and Luce returned.
That gave Lyra some small comfort.
Clean up . . . prepare. She stripped down and washed off with the water supply in her saddlebag, rubbing herself dry with rose petals. The clumps of discarded clothing and gowns, frayed and moth-eaten, awaited. After looking for some fresh undergarments, she sought the dress her mother had worn in the portrait as a young newlywed queen. Nose tickling from the mustiness, Lyra stepped into the gauzy, torn silk, the same pink shade as pebbles at the Crystal Lake. She tucked the talisman of Crony’s hair beneath the neckline, then covered the gown with its velvet tunic, as emerald green as the grass she’d walked on today. Embroidery and tattered lace bedecked the neckline and hems—like sprawling vines and withered petals. At one time there were beads and gems, but they’d been plucked away, leaving frayed threads.