You told Vesper to have faith in the magic. Lyra gesticulated the words Selena had said to her brother, as close as she could remember them. Magic, to fix all the wrongs and put things back to right. She pointed to the brush bristles then her scalp: My hair that won’t grow. She gestured to the pin’s gems and her eyes: My tears that won’t flow.
Shocked perception crossed Selena’s face. She lifted the brush and scraped the stiff bristles across Lyra’s downy scalp. Upon contact, the bristles softened then began to shorten. Lyra held the mirror up, watching . . . waiting. She and Selena both caught a breath as the stubble all across her scalp lost its dark tint in the wake of the diminishing bristles, and a silvery fuzz took its place. The fuzz thickened and grew to wavy strands—lustrous and long—a full head of hair that passed her shoulders within moments, continuing on until the length reached her hips.
“Oh my stars and moon,” Selena whispered, her eyes bulging. She held up the brush that was now nothing but a handle. “We must show Vesper.”
Wait, Lyra mouthed the request and pointed to the pin.
Swiftly braiding a portion of the shimmery strands at Lyra’s temple, Selena clipped it into place with the pin. The moment Selena drew her hand back, the three gemstones leaked free of their mounting—a deep violet liquid that streamed down Lyra’s face. Some ran into her eyes; the rest spread across her forehead and coated her cheeks, jaw, and neck.
Still gaping, Selena handed Lyra the wet cloth to blot the liquid. The gray tinge that had stained her skin after years of using the sun protectant lifted away and transferred to the fabric, revealing a glowing, moonlit complexion.
Lyra smiled at her reflection, seeing the girl in Crony’s enchanted looking glass—the cherished daughter in the portrait with her kingly father, who hadn’t yet encountered the trials that awaited her. She was the image of that princess at last, with all but one exception: every scar, scrape, and bruise remained—a tribute to the challenges she’d faced since then. A tribute to the queen she would be.
Lyra didn’t notice Selena’s absence until she heard two pairs of footsteps rushing up behind her. Lowering the mirror, she turned.
Luce gawked, speechless for the first time since Lyra had been in his keep.
Vesper, on the other hand, whistled low as he took her in her appearance—from her hair to the glittering, gauzy skirt that rustled between them. “Such brutal beauty.” His gaze skimmed the braid that framed her face, then trailed the scars upon her forehead, cheek, and the curve of her neck. “How did this happen?”
She held up the brush handle, her eyes tingling with a foreign weight that blurred her vision. As she blinked, liquid warmth trickled down her face. After licking the saltiness from her lips, she reached up and caught one tear that clung to her lashes. It smeared across her fingertip: violet and sparkling, and more precious than any amethyst.
The astonishment on her prince’s face as he watched her through Scorch’s eyes, her playmate who’d never seen her cry, gave her a rush of exhilaration.
“You’ve renewed my faith in the prophecy, Lyra.” His body tensed against the struggle to honor Luce’s conditions and not take her in his arms again.
She reveled in the moment, holding power over this one who had often bettered her in every game. She caught his hand. Pushing up his cuff, she traced the scar on the back of his wrist, the last wound he would ever inflict by draining his golden blood, and silently dared him to do the same. Abandoning all control, he traced the path of her tears—from her cheeks, jaw, and neck, then down to the beaded neckline that dipped beneath her collarbone—sending a blush of delight through her body.
“Restraint, young majesties,” Luce threatened with a growl.
Vesper drew back, and Lyra smiled at him. Now we have our magical edge. She kept the thought private between them.
The muscles in Vesper’s throat contracted on a hard swallow. “You’re right.”
“Want to clue the rest of us in on the conversation?” Luce pressed.
“She’s not to ride with me on Lanthe,” Vesper answered, his gaze never straying from hers. “She’ll lead, so every eye will be turned on her. All these years, our kingdoms have hoped for the princess of the prophecy, awaited some living fairy tale to unfold before their eyes. We’ll give it to them: a princess aglow with moonlight and silver—a survivor of ash and thorns—riding through the gates, triumphant, astride a brumal stag, the epitome of hope itself.”
29
Spikes, Stars, and Latent Memoirs
Six hours after Nerezeth’s heir apparent, his royal sister, his first knight, and four trackers journeyed to the Rigamort to prove the prince’s theory behind the burst of life that had cured his blood and melted the snow, they returned with more than answers. They returned with another miracle.
Upon arrival, Prince Vesper sent his royal trackers ahead to advise the castle’s heralders to blast the trumpets. Drawn by the sound, nobility, servants, and honored guests alike stirred from their feast-induced stupors and either gathered in the courtyard beneath the stars or looked out of windows at the snow-covered expanse beyond the gate.
As the procession came into view, the trumpets blared louder, shaking the castle to its icy roots. For five years, the Nerezethites had anticipated this event: the fulfillment of the prophecy—a princess to save their prince, heal their land, and align the skies.
Now there were two. One within the castle looking down from a tower, whose silver hair and birdsong voice had purportedly cured the prince and sent a rash of flowers to melt the wintry terrain; and another whose hair gleamed like ripples of liquid metal under the moon in the blizzard’s fleecy winds as she rode upon a majestic brumal stag to the gates, trudging through drifts of snow so high they swallowed the stag’s legs up to its knee joints. The prince and his troop of three brought up the rear on steeds, with five more brumal stags following in their wake.
Word quickly spread, via the trackers, that this latest princess—a spectacle of glittering lace, glowing skin, and lilac eyes that flashed amber in the darkness—was rumored to have been the prince’s true liberator, that she crossed through the badlands after defeating the Grim with her flood of flowers and sunlight. She had scars and scratches aplenty to substantiate the claim, and had also won the respect and loyalty of the lowliest and most mistrustful of their world, which explained why a cavalcade of hoarfrost goblins walked behind the brumal stags in a rare show of solidarity.
It was difficult to refute this new princess’s claim, being seated as she was astride an enchanted, untamed creature that hadn’t set a clawed foot outside of the Rigamort for centuries. As most Nerezethites had never seen the solitary creatures, the vision of six inspired a mix of hope, confusion, and euphoria.
The castle buzzed with debates between Eldorians and Nerezethites as to which girl was the true princess of the prophecy. Everyone had their favorite.
But how to choose? How to be sure? Only one princess could marry the prince, and only the prophesied pairing would bring the skies together again, which was the most crucial consideration of all. Crucial enough that a death sentence was hanging in the air, awaiting whichever girl would prove counterfeit.
A convocation of the two kingdoms’ councils would decide. The anticipation was palpable amongst the crowds gathered in the corridors of the great hall as they awaited the verdict being decided behind closed doors.
Neither princess attended. They were isolated to their own towers, their doors watched by both Eldorian and Nerezethite guards. One of them was an imposter, so neither could be trusted to speak on their own behalf until they’d proven their claim to Eldoria’s throne by some credible means.
Credible indeed. With the convocation ended, Griselda followed Sir Bartley through the crowds held at bay by a line of guards, arriving at her chambers where Lustacia awaited under lock and key. Nodding, the Nerezethite guard closest to the door let Griselda within. Her knight exchanged an uneasy look with her but stayed outside to give her and her daughter privacy.
The moment the door closed, Lustacia scrambled from the table where she’d been eating. Her goblin apparitions pounced upon the food tray in her absence. Being half-corporeal and half-spirit, they still required small doses of nourishment. The shadowy forms scattered chunks of fish pie and smears of jellied cream across the table in their wake.
Griselda turned up her nose at their lack of manners.