TWO
HER FINGER ACHED. SHE PRESSED THE TIP INTO her palm, squeezing the pain away, but that boy, that prince, was still standing there, still watching her like he could never have believed she would be here, and had no idea what to do now that she was.
“There is no story of me.”
“Oh, but there is, Princess.” Rodric took another step forward. Eagerness radiated from him, as though this was the moment, this was when everything would become clear. “Everyone loves you. You can’t imagine how wonderful things will be now that you’re awake.”
“Awake?” She pressed her hand against the wall to steady herself.
“We tried to awaken you before, of course,” Rodric said quickly. “Lots of people tried over the years. But it didn’t work. Before today.” His cheeks were pink. “I didn’t think it would be me. I mean, I’m glad it is, but . . . I’m not usually big on the whole heroics thing.”
Over the years?
“How long was I asleep?” she asked in a careful, measured sort of voice, like it wasn’t really an important question at all, like she already knew the answer and merely wanted to check.
“We tried,” he said again. “But it’s—it’s been a while.” He stuttered over the words, dragging them out of some cautious, uncertain place. “Longer than we hoped. Not forever, but . . . a while.”
Not forever. A while. He said the words the way her father did, when he first locked the door to her tower and told her she could not wander around the rest of the castle any longer. It wasn’t safe. She needed to stay inside, for her own protection. For a little while, he said with a slight frown and an evasively comforting smile. Just a little while.
That had been eight years ago. And then she had fallen asleep.
“Tell me,” she said. She stepped toward him. “Tell me how long it has been.”
He looked away. The silence stretched between them. “One hundred years.”
“One hundred years?” She repeated the words in her head, trying to make them stick, but they didn’t seem to mean anything at all.
“Well—one hundred and two.”
But everything looked the same. Her book was still propped open on the table. Her candle stood half-burnt, wax frozen in a drip down the side. Every ornament was in the same place as yesterday, every detail identical to the day before her eighteenth birthday, when she had brushed out her hair and tried on her new dress and celebrated the fact that soon she would be able to go out into the world. Yesterday.
“No,” she said. She shook her head. Her hair brushed against her neck. “You’re lying.”
“Princess—” He reached for her again, and she jerked away.
“You’re mad,” she said, but she did not believe it. The air tasted heavy and old. She stumbled to the door and tugged it open.
The landing beyond looked like an abandoned ruin. Dust coated everything in the small circular space, from the little table opposite to the staircase that spiraled down out of sight. Rodric’s footprints led to her door, and thicker patches trailed beside them, as though other people at other times had made the same trek. Spiderwebs hung from the corners, and her favorite tapestry, the one of a rearing unicorn in a forest of light, was moth-eaten beyond saving.
“Princess . . .”
She let go of the door. It swung closed with a creak. Impossible. It was impossible. A trick. She stepped back again, and again, then turned and hurried toward the window, desperate for a breath of fresh air, for the reassuring sight of the forest.
It was gone. A city sprawled into the distance, as far as she could see. The sun bounced off red roofs, houses all jumbled together between weaving stone roads. The air hummed with the sound of chatting and laughter.
An entire world, sprung up in an instant.
“Princess?” Rodric said. “Are you all right?”
She did not reply. Her fingertip throbbed. Everything was gone. Everyone . . .
“Where is my family?” she said, forming each word carefully, like they might explode if disturbed. “Did they sleep as well?”
Silence, unbroken except for the hum of the city. She continued to stare at the view, watching people scurrying along the road below. She did not want to touch the question again, did not want to ask, but the silence dragged on, each second heavy, and the truth hardened in her stomach.
“Rodric.” She dug her fingers into the window ledge, pressing until her knuckles turned white. Forcing the pressure down, away, out of her body and into the stifling stone. “Where is my family?”
“I’m sorry, Princess,” he said. “They’re—they died. A long time ago.”
“They died,” she repeated. Meaningless words, really. How could your family, your whole world, vanish while you slept? It wasn’t death, with aging and sickness and pain and grief, when they were simply gone. Lost decades ago, while she remained young and unchanged. She slid her hands off the windowsill and stared at her pale skin.
Was it the sleep, or the shock, or just her own weakness that made her feel numb, like she was in a dream still? She did not scream. She did not cry. A small part of her curled up in her chest, and when she looked up, the light burned her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Rodric said again.
She did not reply.
“Should we go downstairs?” he asked. “Everyone is waiting.”
“Everyone?”
“Some of the court. My family. Not as many as you might hope, but . . .”
She turned, her hair trailing across her neck. He had a gentle face. He seemed to mean well. “Your family?” she said. My family is dead.
He smiled, a hopeful little smile. “They can be your family now too.”
She stared at him.
He blushed. “Shall we go?” He held out his arm.
“Yes,” she said slowly, carefully, clinging to the word. Her legs shook, so she placed her hand on the crook of his elbow, as lightly as she could. His doublet was soft under her fingertips.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.” It was all she could say.
Rodric ducked his head. “This way.” As if she needed prompting.
Dust settled on her lips and between her eyelashes as they walked. It coated everything, rising up in a cloud every time Aurora took a step or brushed her hand against the banister. It scratched her throat, the lines behind her teeth, and she coughed.
They walked down the stairs, around and around, until Aurora’s head spun. The staircase became neater with every turn. The dust thinned. New tapestries hung from the walls. In one, a golden-haired girl kissed a prince under a wedding arch. A few steps farther down, the same girl slept in a huge bed, lit only by the glow of a thousand fairies. Then she was sitting before a rickety spinning wheel, a single finger raised. Aurora stopped and brushed the same finger down the cloth. Her nail caught on the rough thread. “These are of me?”
“Yes,” Rodric said. “They were gifts. In honor of you. I don’t—I don’t know from whom.”