The streets of London were so much more crowded than she remembered. It was as if everything in the city had multiplied. The buildings were taller and closer together, rows of red brick houses next to the new tall, skinny, cement ones with slate roofs; and there were so many people jostling on the sidewalk, elbow to elbow, shoulder against shoulder, a great army of pedestrians marching purposefully to who-knows-where. For a moment, she felt claustrophobic and trapped; lost, adrift, and alone in a sea of humanity. Her senses were assaulted from every direction: smokestacks belching into the gray sky, newsboys yelling the headlines, the salty-tangy smell of fried fish from the sidewalk vendors. It had only been four years since she’d left the city, but it felt like four decades, and Aelwyn Myrddyn stood in the middle of it all, clutching tightly the battered leather valise that contained all she had in the world. The bag was heavy with bottles of herbs, tonics, and potions from Avalon.
“All right, miss?” the driver asked, tipping his hat in her direction.
She hesitated for the briefest moment, feeling a pang in her heart. She thought of Viviane waving a solemn good-bye from the shore, her golden hair shining through the mist. For a moment, Aelwyn wondered if she had made the right decision in returning to the city of her childhood. When Aelwyn had turned sixteen, Viviane had told her that it was time to determine her fate. Magic users had two options when they came of age: to join the invisible orders, or to choose exile in Avalon.
“Miss?” the driver asked again.
“Yes, quite all right,” she said, thinking of the letter in her pocket from her father. She squared her shoulders and nodded. The driver’s orders were to take her to the palace directly, but she had persuaded him to stop a few blocks away. She wanted some time to walk by herself, to see the city up close, before she disappeared behind the black iron gates of St. James Palace. Aelwyn watched as the driver whistled and shook the reins, which were connected to an empty harness hanging in the air. The black horseless carriage rolled away slowly down the street and disappeared all at once with a thunderclap and a cloud of white smoke. Viviane’s hansoms were a rare sight in the city, and so a few pedestrians blinked in surprise; but most hardly missed a step, and were more concerned with getting out of the way of the newfangled automobiles that were clogging the narrow roads.
“Need a hand?” asked a nearby gent, his eyes lingering over the curve of her form underneath the cloak. “That bag looks heavy, lass.”
She shook her head and pulled the cowl over her mass of auburn curls. The ability to command male attention was its own kind of magic, but one that could backfire on a girl if she wasn’t careful. Aelwyn had learned caution during her time away from home, and not to waste her charms on unworthy candidates. The nubby fabric of her wrap was cozy and comforting; the cloth was handspun, and reminded her of the island and the simple pleasures of life there. She had given them up to return to this metropolis.
As a child, she had not been allowed out of the palace very often; but, after the first few moments of terror and disorientation, she had navigated her way easily, using the tall tower spires of the castle as a guide and beacon through the crowded streets. Now, everywhere she looked, there were banners hanging from balconies, and storefronts were flying the red-and-blue flags of the empire. They were remnants of last week’s victory celebration for the soldiers and magicians, who were finally home from the long war against the Prussian kingdom—although “victory” was a bit of a misnomer. The smaller nation had wrestled the mighty empire to a bit of a truce, a standoff. But in any event, the war was over—and that was indeed something to celebrate.
She walked along the mall, a broad boulevard lined with flowering trees, pretty shops, and gardens, stopping once in a while to peek into dusty book emporiums and bakeries with Cornish pasties in the windows. This is what she wanted—to live in the moment, to live in London again, to matter. She had cherished her experience in Avalon, but couldn’t imagine living there for the rest of her life as a person out of time, living in an endless present. Alone and apart from the world, she would have watched the ages going by through her aunt’s crystal glass. Avalon, for all its glories and beauty, was not enough. She was her father’s daughter, after all.
During her exile she had yearned for the city, like a missing limb. She wanted to experience all it had to offer: live in the great palace, participate in the hectic preparations for the coming season, and dance at the Bal du Drap d’Or, the Ball of the Gold Cloth—an annual gala to commemorate the unification of the two kingdoms and the foundation of the empire. She wanted to see the queen again. Emrys’s magic might be the shield of the realm, but Eleanor was its center, its great beating heart.