Rodric was staring at his father, his face pale, mouth open, but he did not move to defend her. For all his nobility and sweetness, she was entirely on her own.
“I am not a traitor,” she said.
“Ah,” he said. “But how do I know that?”
She pressed her hands against her sides, fighting the urge to bunch them into fists, trying to hide the way they shook. “I have never lied to you,” she said steadily. “I have always been what I claim.”
“That may be true,” the king said. “And I am inclined to believe your pleas. It would be a shame to delay the wedding on such charges. But I must take precautions, you understand. To be sure that you are not an imposter, not a traitor, plotting to use your marriage against us all. You will have to be watched closely, kept under even tighter guard. If you are who you claim, we will see that in you, in your behavior, and we will know we can trust you. Until then, you must be under my supervision.”
So it came back to this. Whether or not the king was responsible for Isabelle’s death, he was certainly willing to use it to his advantage. A few well-placed words, a smile of a threat, and Aurora would be his puppet for as long as he needed. “How long?” Aurora asked softly. “How long will I be watched?”
“As long as it takes to be certain of you,” he said. “And certain of others. If you are innocent, surely you could not object. If someone did try to poison you, you will also benefit from the extra protection. I hope you realize the severity of this,” he added. “If I hear so much as a word of protest, it will be proof of your lack of loyalty. Do not think that your fame will protect you. If you are found responsible, you will burn for what you did to my daughter.”
She had been so na?ve to believe that she could make a difference here. That it would end with anything other than this. At best, the king intended to cow her into obedience, to make sure every second of her future was his. And at worst . . . he could kill her and use her death to his advantage.
She looked at the queen. Uncertainty passed across Iris’s face, something that might have been sympathy, but she did not speak again.
Rodric had not moved at all.
There was nothing more Aurora could say in her own defense. She had left it all too late. “Yes, Your Majesty,” she said. “I understand.”
“Good,” he said. “Good. I am glad we see eye to eye. I will not detain you longer—you will want to rest before your wedding tomorrow, I have no doubt. Sir Lanford, Sir Richard.” Two of his personal guard stepped forward. “Escort the princess back to her tower. It seems like the safest place. And lock the door to her room. We cannot risk trouble finding her again.”
TWENTY-FIVE
THE ROOM WAS NOT AS AURORA REMEMBERED. EVEN in the short month that she had been away, details had blurred. The room was smaller than she recalled, and the windows and fireplace jutted out in an odd way that invited drafts into the room.
She paced back and forth across the carpet, looking at the remnants of her life before. She would spend her whole life trapped in these walls, staring out of the window, waiting for her escape. Or waiting for the king to kill her, as he may have killed Isabelle, as he had killed so many people.
An empty water pitcher stood on the table beside her bed. She snatched it up and threw it. It landed with a satisfying thud. Then she threw a book, that precious story of Alysse, all its traitorous promises crumpling as it smacked into the wall. She followed it with a plate, then the remains of a candle. Her hands shook, and she turned, looking around her room, searching for more things to destroy.
Her eyes fell on the fireplace. It was a tall, wide thing, large enough for a girl to walk through with ease. The old ashes clung to the stone. She paused, breathing hard. She remembered the music, the flickering of light . . . with a jolt in her stomach, Aurora hurried over, kneeling down in the ash and pushing at the wall beyond. Please, she thought, over and over as she pressed her fingers against the solid stone. Take me back.
Her hair tumbled down over her eyes, and she clenched her teeth, desperation crashing within her. I don’t want this, she thought. I don’t want any of this. Please. Let me back.
The stone burned, sharp like red-hot iron. She snatched back her hands.
The wall was gone. Behind the ancient ash, impossible stairs reached out of sight.
Aurora stretched out her hand. It slipped through the air where the wall had been, and she pressed her stinging fingertips into the wood of the first step. It was rough, solid, almost prickly. Familiar. Definitely real.
Knees aching, shoulders shaking, Aurora stood up and began to climb.
The stairs were steep, and they curved around, hugging the wall of Aurora’s room like vines. The darkness swallowed her, until she was nothing more than the thud of her heart, the brush of stone against her sleeve, the creak of wood beneath her feet.
Above her, light glowed.
The stairs ended in a round attic room. Narrow beams of light peeked through the rafters. Rain pattered on the roof. And in the center, a spinning wheel sat, rocking in a ghostly breeze. The spindle gleamed.
Aurora stepped forward, arm outstretched. The floor whined in protest, as though it were about to collapse, but she pressed her foot into the wood, daring it to hurt her. The wheel was smooth in her hand. She spun it, her fingers flicking over the spokes.
Such a simple, harmless thing.
She sank onto the three-legged stool and closed her eyes. Was she imagining that spark of memory, the tingling across her skin that said yes, she had been here before, and yes, she must be here again?
So much power in one little finger prick.
The spindle did not even look sharp.
She ran her index finger down the length of it, avoiding the tip. The metal was cold. What would happen if she pricked her finger again? Would she blink and wake up in the past, her family around her? Would she sleep for another century, or two, or four, until Alyssinia was smoke and ash, and nobody remembered she had ever existed? Would she die?
She ran her finger down the length again. The wheel spun, as though pushed by a phantom hand, filling the attic with a gentle click, click, click.
What would it feel like?
At least it would be a choice.
Slowly, deliberately, she pricked her finger on the tip of the spindle.
The wheel continued to click. Rain tapped on the roof. Her fingertip burned cold where the metal broke her skin.
Nothing.
She pulled her finger back. The spindle tugged as it slipped out of her flesh. Red blood bubbled in its wake.
She pricked her finger again, digging harder against the spindle, fighting the urge to flinch.
Still nothing.
She could not even do this.
The staircase creaked. She stood up, turning to look. No one was there. But a message was burned into the wall above, black charred letters that flowed and looped, so precise and so deep that they could only be magic.
She is mine.
As she watched, fresh letters scorched the stone, written by an invisible, curling hand: You cannot stop it now.
Celestine.
Prickles ran up and down her skin. She spun on her feet, but the attic was empty. The rain pounded.
“I’m not yours!” she shouted. “I don’t belong to anyone!”
Another lie.
“You can’t control me!”
It was as if the stones were pressing tighter and tighter around her, into her skin, into her ribs, squeezing her lungs until she could barely catch her breath. Shocks ran down her spine, her legs, into her feet, which were running, pounding down the stairs.
She crashed into her bedroom and ran to the window, pressing her palms flat against the sill, staring out at the city as she had done on that first day, when it had seemed possible that this was all a mistake.
She had been wrong, she realized, as she took a steadying breath, watching the bustle of the day. She was not back where she’d begun. So much had changed. She might not be able to reverse time with a prick of her finger, but she was no longer willing to smile and sit pretty and let the world move her where it desired. If she married Rodric, nothing would change. She did not want to hurt him, or see him blamed for a failure he could not control, but she could not stay and let things continue to unravel around her. People did not deserve to have their hopes dashed and their lives torn apart.
She could not sit here any longer, waiting for things to happen. Hoping that the future would be better than all sense suggested. She had to go. Away from the castle, away from this place. She needed to learn more about the strange powers that burst out of her and led her up those stairs to that cursed place, back to the first choice she had made, all those years ago.
She thought again of the king, of Celestine, of Tristan, all manipulating her, all assuming that she would go along with their plans, that she would bow to whatever they told her to do, and punishing her, hating her, when she dared to have a thought of her own. Defiance filled her. She would not vanish quietly now. She would not slip away into the shadows, and let them believe what they would. She would not let the king twist it all against her, against everything she believed.
She would give the king his wedding. She would walk to that altar, smiling and beautiful, and then she would show them all just how traitorous she could be.