As promised, the queen sent Aurora a large chest of books. They were stylish volumes, wrapped in leather, with neat, uncreased spines. Aurora lined them up on the bookshelf, studying each cover as it came to the top of the pile, letting her thoughts fade away into the steady rhythm of bend, stretch, and place. Once all of the books were unpacked, she organized them by title, and then again by genre, constantly moving, constantly shuffling, unable to let herself sit still. When she could think of no other way to arrange them, she sat back on her heels and ran her hand along the spines.
She only recognized one of the books: a history about the first days of Alyssinia, so long ago that it felt more fantasy than truth. When she was younger, she had thumbed through her own copy so many times that the pages had fallen out, and she had scribbled her thoughts in the margins like a diary of her growing up. It must still be on the table beside her bed, up at the top of her tower, like the rest of her life from before. Almost untouched by a hundred years. For a moment, she considered going back, collecting it and her other books. But the thought made her stomach twist. She could not return to that place. Could not see the way the dust had gathered on the stairs, proof of the decades that had crept past while she slept. She could not move her things out of there and into here, like this bare room was her home now. Like she was accepting this.
She pulled the new copy off the shelf. Aurora had begged her parents, her nurses, everyone, to tell this story, the story of Alysse, over and over, in a million different ways, filling in every known detail of her life. Alysse, the namesake of Alyssinia. The beautiful princess who saved everyone, despite her youth. The girl whose kindness and empathy allowed her to understand their new land when they first fled from the magicless kingdom across the sea. Alysse the Good, who ruled after her father, wondrous fair and beloved by everyone who knew her. After every telling of the story, from when she was five until she was seventeen, Aurora had run to the window of her tower and peered out, desperate desire bubbling inside her. One day, she would be like Alysse. Wonderful, beautiful, and loved.
Now Aurora sat on the bare floor, the new volume heavy in her hands. According to the stories, Alysse had vanished into the forest a few years after being crowned queen, and so Aurora had pictured her as eternally young, as beautiful and delicate as a cobweb after a rainstorm. It seemed nonsense now. Alysse must have grown old, and Alysse must have died, just as Aurora’s parents had grown old and died, and the faces she saw every day, and even the kingdom that had surrounded her as she grew up. Aurora was the only one stuck in a kind of forever.
She tossed the book to the ground, a bitter taste in the back of her mouth.
When the queen returned a few hours later, she strode into the room without knocking. “They’re awaiting you in the throne room,” she said. “Come along, quickly. It sets a poor example to be late.”
“The throne room?” Aurora said. She stepped backward. “You said we weren’t to be married for three weeks.”
“Why would we marry you in the throne room?” she said. “My husband is holding court this afternoon. He requested that you attend.”
“The king is holding court?” Aurora asked. “What does that mean?”
The queen shook her head almost imperceptibly. “He is hearing grievances, rewarding the worthy, punishing the guilty. You will not be expected to participate. Remember what we discussed.”
Smile. Curtsy. Be silent and beautiful. Her presence would add wordless legitimacy to everything that the king said, but her input itself was unwanted.
Two guards stood on either side of huge brass doors. They bowed as Aurora and the queen approached. Through the doors was a large chamber, bursting with people. Nobles stood in rows and groups. The threads of their clothes echoed the finery fastened to the walls: golden swords and shields, standards and spears. A row of guards in red cloaks lined the wall behind the crowd, and between them, a set of oak doors stood open, reaching from floor to ceiling. When the queen crossed the threshold, the courtiers moved as one, bowing and curtsying her into the room.
Two thrones had been placed between the crowd and the brass doors. The king sat in the larger one, and the queen floated toward the smaller one, her head held high. She waved Aurora to the side with a flick of her wrist, to a spot where Rodric stood.
“Now that the princess and my dear wife have joined us at last,” the king said, “we can finally begin. Bring the first petitioner in.”
The guards led a tiny woman with stringy blonde hair into the room. When she knelt before the throne, her shoulder bones jutted out, visible through her dress. Her husband had died, she told the court, her wide eyes fixed on the ground, and she had been unable to find work or food since.
“He were a good man, Your Majesty,” she said. “Worked too many hours and didn’t eat near enough. A story you’ve heard many a time, I know. But it’s been a long winter, Your Majesty, and any help, any at all . . .”
“We may have a position in the kitchen,” the queen said, “if you are willing to work. And swear your loyalty.”
“Of course, Your Majesty. I swear. That is very gracious of you, very kind.”
“I will have you sent down to my head cook, Marie. She will see what can be done with you.”
“Oh thank you, Your Majesty. Thank you so much.”
The woman curtsied at least five more times as the guards led her out the door.
The next petitioner was clearly a noble. His clothes were tidy and neatly made, and his boots gleamed like new. Some of the courtiers murmured behind their hands as he entered, and no one greeted him with a smile. An infrequent visitor to court, perhaps, or else an unpopular one.
“Sir Gregory,” the king said. “What an unexpected sight. I haven’t seen you since I last visited Barton. How long has it been—two years? Three?”
“I believe nearly three now, Your Majesty.”
“And you’ve joined us to celebrate our princess’s return? It is a long journey.”
“I wish it were for such good reasons,” Sir Gregory said, “although I am delighted to see the princess, of course.” He bowed in her direction. “But I am afraid I must report a revolt. Last week, a group of peasants gathered outside the gates of my home, demanding food. I have none to give them, of course, none beyond what I need to feed my own family. But they would not listen. In the end, they knocked down the gate, killed one of my guards, and stole more than half the grain in my stores. My own men and the local soldiers have attempted to hunt down the culprits, but without harsh punishment, I am afraid that they will strike again.”
The king nodded. “I understand completely,” he said. “We cannot have this sort of thing going unpunished. I will send a cohort of soldiers back to Barton with you. They will find the culprits, and protect you and your family. In recompense for this crime, all men and women farming on your lands must give you half of the food they gather in the next harvest, to compensate you for your loss. Anyone who protests will be executed.”
Aurora wanted to argue, to point out that that didn’t make sense, that taking their food would make the problem worse. Her lips moved in the beginnings of a protest, but her voice did not cooperate. Not with so many people around, so many eyes watching.
“I will ensure the soldiers are ready to leave by nightfall,” the king said. Aurora bit her lip, her opportunity gone. “I wish I could invite you to remain and celebrate with us, Gregory, but I know you will be eager to return and protect your family.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said. “Thank you, Your Majesty.” With a deep bow to the king, he backed out of the room.
The third petitioner was an elderly woman with a mass of curly gray hair. She walked with her back bent double.
“Please, Your Majesty,” she said. “I have traveled all the way from Wutherton to speak to you.”
When Aurora had fallen asleep, Wutherton had been a tiny town, approximately a week’s journey from the castle.
“I no longer feel safe in my home, Your Majesty. People in the town have been accusing me of witchcraft, blaming me for things I could have nothing to do with. The sickness has been with us this winter, and many children have died. I would never harm ’em, Your Majesty, never, but some people—they’ve convinced others. . . .”