FIFTEEN
WHEN AURORA FINALLY SLEPT THAT NIGHT, SHE dreamed in fitful snatches. A crowd chasing her down the street, Tristan pulling her along before shoving her to the ground. Hands snatching at her hair, her clothes, as she struggled to regain her feet.
She woke up drenched in cold sweat. She forced her aching legs out from under the covers and paced the room. She wanted to see Tristan. She wanted to escape from these walls, to drink mead, to forget who she was meant to be for one more night. But she couldn’t. She knew she couldn’t. She had been a fool to ever trust him.
She pulled the book he had given her from its hiding place at the back of the bookshelf and began to read, trying to remember the thrill of that night. Every word of adventure seemed tainted now. It all made her think of Tristan’s face as he told her his secrets and of the brutal hero he thought he could be.
She grabbed the cover, ready to tear some of the pages away, but then stopped and tucked it back where it had been before.
“Goodness, Princess,” Betsy said, when she arrived with breakfast. “You look a sight. Are you all right?”
“Yes,” Aurora said. “Yes. I just had a bad dream.”
“Oh,” Betsy said. She ducked her head, as though suddenly remembering that they were not friends after all. “At least you’ve been getting some sleep.”
Aurora received no summons from the queen that day, and Rodric did not appear. She assumed that they were busy preparing for the engagement presentation the next day, that Rodric was learning a speech while his mother picked over every word choice, every intonation, every thread of his clothes. Aurora had not been invited. Why would she be needed, when no one expected her to say a word, when the queen could dictate the details of her every move? She picked up a book and tried to read it, but the words would not stick in her head.
Tomorrow, she would be officially engaged. She would stand before the crowd again, and they would cheer, and Rodric would smile, and happily ever after would begin. Tomorrow.
Someone knocked on the door. “Come in,” Aurora said.
The door creaked open, and Isabelle slipped through the narrow gap.
“Isabelle. What are you doing here?”
“Sorry,” Isabelle said quickly, almost tripping over her own feet in her hurry to back through the door. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I just thought—”
“No,” Aurora said. She hurried to close the door before Isabelle disappeared entirely. “You just surprised me. Don’t you have lessons?”
Isabelle looked at the ground. She definitely wasn’t supposed to be here. “Only history,” she said quietly. “Mrs. Benson was going to test me.”
“Sounds like something you wouldn’t want to miss.”
“It’s boring,” Isabelle said. “I’d rather talk to you.”
“You don’t like history?” Isabelle shook her head. “I thought you loved stories.”
“I love stories,” she said, energy appearing in her expression almost instantly. “Ogres and swordfights and romance and—and everything! But history isn’t like that.” She tilted her head, watching Aurora closely. “Except you,” she added. “Without the ogres and swordfights. But you’re not history. You’re here.”
“Everything in history was here once,” Aurora said. “That’s what makes it interesting.” Isabelle did not look convinced. “My favorite story is true,” she added. Or at least, it had always seemed true to her, when she’d pored over the pages, soaking in every word. When she had pretended to be the great Queen Alysse, alone in her playroom. “Have you heard the story of Alysse?”
Isabelle sighed, that painful, world-weary sigh of an overburdened eight-year-old. “Alysse was one of the first settlers in Alyssinia,” she said in a dragging monotone. “She made the land hospitable and was a great queen.”
“Ah,” Aurora said, grabbing Isabelle’s hands and pulling her toward the chairs in the center of the room. “But do you know the real story?”
Isabelle shook her head. Aurora nodded sagely and sank into her chair. Isabelle settled at her feet, her skirt forming a bubble around her. The book sat on her bookshelf with the others, perfect and unread, but Aurora didn’t need it. She could still remember every word. “Long ago,” she said, running her fingers through Isabelle’s hair, “the people of Alyssinia lived across the sea, in a land of metal and smoke. Once, the land had been beautiful and full of magic, but the wicked kings had choked its beauty, and the magic died away.”
“Like here,” Isabelle said.
“Yes,” Aurora said softly. “Like here. Disgusted by their rulers, and full of despair, a group of bold adventurers set off across the sea, until they saw land that seemed to glow with natural power. Enchanted by its stormy skies, wild forests, and glassy lakes, the adventurers decided to settle in this land, naming it after their leader’s beautiful young daughter, Alysse.
“But the land had a mind of its own,” she continued. “Cutting down trees seemed to turn the creatures against them, and the land seemed to need cajoling more than taming. If they did not figure out how to get Alyssinia on their side, the people would surely die, but no one, not a soul among all those men, knew what to do. But Alysse was different. She was just your age, you know, and when she walked in the forests, she said she heard the whispering of the trees. And she knew how to whisper back.”
“With magic?”
“A kind of magic, I suppose,” Aurora said. “She soothed the way for her people and led them deeper and deeper into the forest, pointing out each place where a few of them could live. Not in cities, not walled up and locked away. But little villages, and one castle, hidden among the trees, where no one else could harm them.”
As Aurora told the story, about the good, patient, kindhearted Alysse, who brought peace between the people and the land and made everything possible, the familiar words began to feel twisted and foreign. Like they did not quite fit in the air. Alysse had always seemed so strong to her as a child: a future queen, loved by everyone she met, an adventurer in a new land and the only one who understood it. She had been so good. So gentle. All the regal traits her mother had impressed on her, long ago.
“What happened to her?” Isabelle asked.
“She vanished. They say that one day, she was wandering in the woods, and she disappeared into the mist. The forest reclaiming its own.”
What nonsense, Aurora thought. She died. Everyone died.
“Will she come back?”
“No one knows.”
“Maybe she’s you,” Isabelle said, bouncing on the spot. “Everyone says you’re going to save us. That you’ll bring magic back!”
Magic. For the first time, she heard the word and felt a twist in her stomach, a little thrill. Having that kind of power, that kind of influence . . . it was a wicked thing. Yet she could not deny the satisfaction she felt at the thought of it. At the idea of having importance, having true influence, the ability to do as she pleased.
It was impossible, of course. She was not a long-dead queen reborn, and she was as likely to restore magic as she was to see her parents again. But she could not crush Isabelle’s dreams. She could not crush that feeling in herself.
“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe.”
That evening, the entire court gathered in the banquet hall for a pre-engagement celebration. A silk curtain hung across one end of the room, hiding a makeshift stage from view. Members of the court waited on slanted wooden benches, whispering and joking among themselves. The benches formed a V, with two red-and-gold thrones in the center for the guests of honor. Aurora sat in the one on the left, her hands clasped neatly in her lap. Next to her, Rodric fidgeted with his sleeve. Neither of them spoke.
Finnegan sat to Aurora’s left. She did not look at him, but she could feel his eyes on her.
A short man stepped around the curtain and addressed the crowd. “My company and I are honored to perform before you tonight. At our beautiful queen’s request, we will be presenting a dumb show of a story that I am sure you all know well, reviving this old form of entertainment in honor of our princess.” He bowed at Aurora.
“Excellent,” the king shouted. “Let the play begin.”
The curtains slid open, revealing two figures, a king and a queen, covered in finery. The queen rocked a baby in her arms, and peaceful music rang out from a harp. Aurora pressed her hands into her lap. She should have expected this blind cruelty. They were going to perform her life back to her, as though it were nothing more than light entertainment.
Finnegan leaned closer, hissing below her ear. “Oh, good,” he said. “This is my favorite story. Don’t you agree?”
She ignored him.
One by one, actors approached the woman and child, their faces hidden by masks. They each bowed or curtsied and placed a gift by the baby’s feet. Then a drum rolled, echoing like thunder off the stone walls, and another player appeared, dressed in black from head to toe and wearing a bird-like mask with dark feathers and red scales around the eyes. The figure pointed at the child, her chin thrown back in defiance as the music swelled. The king pulled out his sword and advanced, but the woman waved a hand, and the sword vanished. The audience gasped.
“The blade retracted through the hilt, of course,” Finnegan murmured. “It has vanished up the actor’s sleeve. Ingenious, really.”
“Thank you for the explanation,” Aurora said, the words scraping through her teeth. “I would not have noticed it myself.”
“You are very welcome,” he said. “I know that illusions must be quite out of your depth, innocent as you are.” She jerked around to look at him, but he shook his head. “Shh,” he said. “Watch the play. I want to see how it ends.”
Onstage, the witch threw back her head and laughed. The music rose, and the room plunged into darkness. When the light returned, a young woman was standing on the edge of the stage, brushing her long blonde hair. Her golden mask only covered her eyes, and the actress’s lips had been painted rose red. The court watched as the girl flitted about the stage, pressing a hand to her heart, tilting her head and reaching into the air. Every movement was graceful, every twitch of the lips delicate and refined. A flower of a girl, silent and pure.
“You know,” Finnegan said, “I think I like you better.”
The stage princess fluttered like a bird, dancing with an imaginary partner, curtsying to no one. The music ached with loneliness, and then jolted, as the pretend Aurora turned to find the dark bird-masked woman behind her. The woman beckoned.
The strings shuddered in fear as the princess stepped back and shook her head, her hands reaching for help that was not there. The woman beckoned again, and this time the princess slid toward her.
Aurora closed her eyes. It was only a play. A story of her life, nothing like it had been. But as the strings shrieked in her ears, something flickered in her memory. Some kind of music, a bobbing light, and a pull—not like a trance, but like an urge, a need to follow her curiosity and face whatever lay beyond. Her fingertip burned at the memory, and she ran her thumb over it.
The lights flashed again. When Aurora opened her eyes, the princess was reaching for a spinning wheel, one finger outstretched.
Rodric slid his hand into hers and squeezed. She squeezed back, her fingers tightening around his knuckles.