The ones she stole, Lyra mimed. Teeth clenched, she directed the shadows to stand down . . . to wait. They shrank back obediently. Luce swept outside, encircling both Selena’s and Lustacia’s forms like a gust of wind before returning.
“Your imposter yearns to walk through the wildflowers,” her invisible companion whispered, so close his breath pressed the nightsky to Lyra’s face. “Like you, she’s been hidden away so long, she’s missed being outdoors and visiting Eldoria’s royal garden. I’ll lure her over to pick a bouquet, and encourage the entourage to follow for her protection. However, I sense her desire to see the prince is greater than her need for fresh flowers, so I’m not sure how long it will hold. I’ll get you as much time as I can.”
With that, he left again. There was a flapping of hems, tunics, capes, and surcoats, then the entire party veered to the left where red, yellow, and blue wildflowers bobbed in the distance beneath a grove of elms. Once only their backs could be seen, Lyra leapt from behind the banner. She carefully cleared a path through the spiders and asked the shadows to keep watch. Pulse racing, she stepped forward—fearing the burn and singe that awaited her flesh and blood . . . more frightened than she’d ever been, even when she’d first lost her identity and stormed a bog to save a winged horse.
The dais came to her waist. She knelt, her hands trembling as she held her thumb in front of Vesper’s nose. As his faint breath warmed her skin, she sighed in relief. Her hand lowered to smooth the thick tangles spread around his head—only the ends remained dark and untouched by the brittle golden plague, and those were every bit as soft as Scorch’s mane.
Vesper . . . Can you hear me? she asked of his mind.
No answer.
She’d read several notes in the tunnel, and her respect for his human side had grown. How lovingly he described his family and his people; how much he hurt for the ill, especially the children; his affection for his world and all the creatures in it—from the lowliest cricket, to the brumal stags that were enchanted to share his thoughts and guard the hidden borders, to his horse, Lanthe, a precious gift from his father; his hopes for Eldoria and Nerezeth to thrive in peace once they came together under the same sky. All this, along with poetic dreams of a future with his bride . . . so many facets from a man with only half a heart. Now that he was whole, she could only imagine his capacity to love, to reason, to rule. He could teach her so much about being a sovereign. But first, he needed to live.
I know who you are. Lyra made another attempt at mind-speak. I’ve looked with my heart, and I see you. And I know who I am, but you do not. I’m the true Princess Lyra. Upon your awakening, all will be made clear. For now, just know I’m fighting for you, and you must fight to live no matter how much this may hurt. I don’t know what will happen . . . how we’re to unite the sun and moon, what it will take out of us. But I intend to survive, and you must as well. For your people, for your family. And for that little orphan girl who adores her Pegasus and misses squabbling with him. Will you do that?
His flaxen eyelashes twitched and his eyes rolled beneath their metallic lids. Though she wished to see those expressive eyebrows punctuate his thoughts, they were now as pale and stiff as his lashes and hair; this was all the answer she would get, and it would have to be enough.
Looking over her shoulder, she formulated a plan. She hadn’t considered she might save the prince in a place where sunlight and flowers already abounded. Where would she release the reserves, should she be able to drain him of his curse? If she tried to liberate it here in the arboretum, the sunlight would be magnified, which could hurt the Nerezethites.
Outside the iron door and walls awaited the snowy tundra, a world devoid of sunlight and flowers. A land thirsting for life and warmth. Though she’d never seen it, she’d heard tales. That was her destination. She glanced through the shrine’s latticework. The way out across the footbridge and through the iron door must be hundreds of footsteps at least. Could she make it that far while wrestling exhaustive pain?
No more time to debate; she sat on the dais edge, close enough she could bow her head to the prince’s without quite touching. Twigs and moonflowers poked her thighs through her clothes. She waited for the nightsky fabric to encompass them both, like it had her and Luce’s hands on the banks of the lake. In dark, velvety increments, the penumbra crept from her to Vesper, binding them until nothing stood between their skin but clothing, as if they were encapsulated by a bubble of black soot. Everything outside became distant and hazy.
Carefully, she pushed up his tunic’s furred cuffs to reveal his golden wrists and forearms. The place where she left her handprint in the moon-bog now blended with the rest of his metallic shell, as if they’d never connected. A lump rose within her throat, her regret for abandoning him in the bog unbearable now.
She pressed her fingertip to that healthy swatch of skin between his eyebrows, wanting just once to experience no sunlight between them. No barriers or pain. He felt warm, soft, and giving. The skin trembled beneath her fingertip, as if he sensed her and struggled to furrow his brow.
She leaned her forehead to his and touched noses. Upon contact with the golden shell, a slow-burning heat simmered beneath her flesh, starting at her head and spreading along her chest to her arms and feet. But it wasn’t enough . . . the plague clamped tighter around him, hardening his nose even as hers touched it, as if it meant to devour him before her eyes.
No.
She would have to devour it instead.
Though it made her heart thunder to entertain such an intimate move, the prince didn’t have time for indecision or timidity. She closed her eyes, cupped both sides of his face, and pressed their lips together. An invasion of liquid flame scalded her mouth and tongue, sucking the breath from her lungs, yet in its wake came an unexpected sweetness, a softening as his lips returned to supple flesh and began to mimic the movement of hers. His throat opened on a breath, and she tasted something both fruity and bitter—the residue of the spell keeping him alive, holding the curse at bay. She swallowed his relieved sigh. His cheeks softened beneath her hands and his jaws worked as he broke free bit by bit and responded to her touch, to her kiss. Then his relief shifted to a ravenous response, as he gorged himself on her moonlight.
The coolness seeped from her body, and yet she still would’ve drowned in the beauty of sensation, her mouth following his direction, his passion—a lovely exchange of light and dark—until the sunlight he sent back grew so hot it savaged her from within. She could no longer taste the sweetness, for she drank pure combustion: a flame cauterizing her throat and racing through every vein, setting fire to her bones.
She gasped and drew back, hacking. Smoke slipped from her lips and nostrils. Silent screams stretched her broken vocal cords. She struggled to stand and clenched her throat, almost blinded by the yellow brightness radiating from her own skin.
The nightsky fabric abandoned the prince and retreated to contain only her. She toppled backward, saved from a hard landing by the saddlebag still on her shoulders. Daylight scalded her from the inside, wanting out. It razed against every nerve ending, sending jolts of lightning into her muscles. She spasmed and writhed, unable to even crawl toward the entrance and the iron door, to escape into the snowy outer world. The nightsky seemed to understand; it responded, barricading the brilliant light beneath the surface of her skin. The shadows in the room joined the cape to fight the steam seeping from her ears . . . from her nose . . . from her mouth. The lacewing cloak wound around her from head to foot, then lifted her: torso, arms, legs, and toe tips from the floor. She managed one glimpse of the prince—bound and lifted as she was, but it wasn’t enough. He wasn’t yet flesh and blood; his deep coppery complexion and silken black hair hadn’t returned. His eyes remained closed. Though his lips twitched, she wanted more. She wanted to hear his breath, to see his fingers move, clenching and unclenching in a fight to awaken. She couldn’t leave, not until she knew he’d live . . . but the choice wasn’t hers.