The Invasion of the Tearling

“You’ve impressed me, Tear Queen. Don’t ruin it all now.” The Fetch stood from the chair, pulling something from his pocket, and Kelsea saw that it was his mask, the same dreadful mask he liked to wear about the countryside. He meant to leave now. This was all she would have.

Good riddance, a voice whispered inside her head. But Kelsea recognized that for what it was: her mind’s sad attempt at self-defense. The Fetch would disappear now, leaving her with nothing. She longed for something to hold on to, and on the heels of that longing came anger. She was the most powerful woman in the Tearling, and still this man was able to wreck her with only a few words. Was this really the way it would always be?

Not always. Not forever, please God. Give me some light at the end.

She took a deep breath, and when she spoke, she noted with pleasure that her voice had strengthened, become hard. “Don’t ever come here uninvited again. You’re not welcome.”

“I’ll come and go as I please, Tear Queen. I always have. You just make sure I don’t have to come for you.” He drew the mask over his head. “We made a deal.”

“Fuck the deal!” Kelsea snarled. “That creature Finn offers actual aid. What have you ever offered?”

“Only your life, you ungrateful brat.”

“Get out.”

He gave her a mocking bow, eyes gleaming behind the mask. “Perhaps in time, you’ll grow as pretty as your mother.”

Kelsea grabbed the book from her bedside table and flung it at him. But it only bounced harmlessly off his shoulder. The Fetch laughed, bitter laughter that emerged hollowly from the mask’s mouth.

“You can’t hurt me, Tear Queen. No one can. I don’t even have the ability to wound myself.”

He slipped into Pen’s antechamber, closed the curtain behind him, and was gone.

Kelsea fell on the bed, buried her face in the pillow, and began to cry. She hadn’t cried in months, and tears were a relief, easing some strand inside her that had been stretched tight. But the pain in her chest wouldn’t ease.

I’ll never have him. She even murmured it into her pillow, but the Fetch remained there, lodged in her chest and throat like something she’d swallowed, too big for her to contend with. There was no way to make him be gone.

A hand touched Kelsea’s shoulder, gently, making her jump. Looking up with bleary eyes, she saw Pen standing over the bed. She put up a hand to convey that she was fine, but he stared at her in quiet consternation, and the anxiety in his face brought on fresh tears.

Here’s the man I should have fallen in love with, she thought, and that only made her weep harder. Pen sat down on the bed beside her and placed his hand gently on top of hers, clasping her fingers. The small gesture wrecked Kelsea, and she cried even harder, her face swollen and nose running freely. So many things in this life had proven more difficult than they were supposed to be. She missed Barty and Carlin. She missed the cottage, with its quiet patterns, where everything was known. She missed the child Kelsea, who had never had to make more than a day’s decisions, or worry about more than a child’s consequences. She missed the ease of that life.

After a few minutes Pen tugged her up from the pillow and wrapped his arms around her, holding her against his chest, rocking her in the same way Barty used to when she’d taken a fall. Pen wasn’t going to ask her any questions, Kelsea realized, and that seemed such a gift that her tears finally began to subside into gasps and hiccups. She huddled against Pen’s bare chest, liking the feel of it: warm and hard and comforting against her cheek.

It could be a secret, her mind whispered, the thought coming from nowhere, but a moment later Kelsea realized that the voice was correct. It could be a secret. No one had to know, not even Mace. Kelsea’s private life, her private choices, were her own business, and now she found herself whispering, repeating the thought out loud. “It could be a secret, Pen.”

Pen drew back, looking down at her for a long moment, and Kelsea saw, relieved, that he knew exactly what she was offering, that she didn’t have to explain.

“You don’t love me, Lady.”

Kelsea shook her head.

“Then why would you want this?”

That was a good question, but part of Kelsea was annoyed, anyway, that Pen had asked it. I’m nineteen! she wanted to snap. Nineteen and still a virgin! Isn’t that enough? She didn’t love Pen and he didn’t love her, but she liked the way he looked without a shirt, and it seemed desperately important to prove that she wasn’t a child. She shouldn’t need a reason for wanting the same things as everyone else.

But she couldn’t say these things to Pen. They would only hurt him.

“I don’t know. I just do.”

Pen closed his eyes, his mouth twisting, and Kelsea recoiled, suddenly remembering the balance of power between them; did he think she was ordering him to sleep with her? Pen had principles, and as he had pointed out, he was a Queen’s Guard. Maybe it wasn’t enough that no one else would know; Pen would know, that was the problem.

“It’s entirely your choice, Pen,” she told him, placing a hand against his neck. “I’m not the Queen right now. I’m just—”