If human bodies had the firepower of cannons, Isbe is sure her head would have shot off and exploded, scattering burning black ash all over the council. (Aurora has read and described to her the exact mechanics of every type of weapon in Deluce’s royal arsenal, and Isbe often entertains herself by imagining putting them to use.) Her fingertips graze the tapestries and portraits that line the walls as she stomps down the stone corridors, knocking over the Hercules vase in her rush—its nose worn down from years of her touching it. The piece is worth more than the dowry of seven duchesses. She hears it shatter. Good.
Over a century ago, this whole castle was actually the faerie queen Malfleur’s own childhood home. She lived in it with her twin, Belcoeur, otherwise known as the Night Faerie. That was before Malfleur killed the Night Faerie and was assigned rule over the LaMorte territories. There’s even a popular children’s lullaby based on the story. But now ornate columns, thick rugs, and overpungent displays of flowers hide any trace of the palace’s history, which becomes more like myth every day.
Isbe doesn’t even let Aurora catch up to her as she traipses downstairs to her quarters in one of the western wings, not bothering to skip over the creaking seventh stair. She needs to be alone. She needs to think.
And for once, Aurora’s advice, her calm wisdom, simply won’t help.
Isbe knows that it’s not Aurora’s fault. It’s not her fault that she’s the only heir to the throne of Deluce. It’s not her fault the kingdom could be on the verge of war. And it’s not her fault she’s so beautiful and well-behaved and perfect. Aurora is all light. She is fresh-fluffed cream and the smell of a spring bulb’s first shoots pricking up through the earth, while Isbe has always been the expendable one, all anger and elbow, odd as a goose’s honk.
For years the council has treated her no better than a glorified servant—any kindness she has received has been at Aurora’s insistence. Isbe is the troublemaker, good for nothing except to serve as a companion for her younger sister. And now, apparently not even good for that. The truth that Isbe is simply no longer needed—by Aurora or by anyone—cuts into her, savage as claws.
She shoves open her door, and it slams into the wall with a terrible bang. It takes her a second to realize from the shift of heat and shadow, from the intake of breath, that someone is already waiting for her in the room.
“Think this here pillow has enough tassels?”
Gilbert, one of the stableboys and Isbe’s oldest friend, shifts his legs on her bed, rustling her downy coverlet. She can smell the mud on his boots and the equine musk ever present in his hands and hair.
“Enough to strangle all twelve council members with?” she replies. “Unfortunately, no, Gil, I doubt there’s enough frill in this entire castle to knot around their thick necks.”
“Bad night?”
“To say the least.”
“What is it?” Her bed exhales as he sits up—the few pieces of furniture in her bedroom have all learned to speak to her of movements, in creaks and whooshes and groans, in tics and aspirations. While Gil is, of course, technically not allowed in her room, not merely because he’s the son of the palace horse farrier but also because he’s a boy, he has nonetheless entered and exited these chambers for years without anyone knowing it, by way of a lilac trellis underneath her window.
“Isbe,” Gil presses. “Just tell me.”
“I’m leaving,” she spits.
For weeks, months even, she’s been agonizing about what will happen to her when Aurora marries. She loathes the fact that her fate is so dependent on her younger, more beautiful sister’s, the way all her choices, when it comes down to it, are invisibly tethered to Aurora’s. No matter how much she loves her sister, no matter how many years of their childhood they spent clambering up and down the winding passageway connecting their bedrooms . . . some part of her has always wished that for just one moment she could find out what her life would be like if Aurora weren’t around.
Now she will know, and she hates herself for that terrible, shameful wish.
“What? You can’t leave. I don’t understand. Where are you going?” He touches her arm—his hand, familiar as Aurora’s, is as rough as hers is delicate, a deep rein-worn crease cutting diagonally across his calloused palm.
She swallows hard. She can barely stand to explain what just happened. It’s so mortifying; she feels hollowed out. Not only are they sending her away, but it has always been their plan. She’s disposable, a pomme sauvage: a crab apple barely hanging onto the tree, not sweet enough to eat, sour and unwanted even before it falls to the earth to rot.
“The council wants to send me to a convent in Isolé. Apparently they were always intending it, but tonight we got in trouble, and the princes of Aubin—two of them, anyway—were murdered, and Aurora and I were caught spying, and now—” She takes a breath, steadying her voice. “Now I’m to depart at dawn.”
Gil barks out a laugh.
Horrified, Isbe shoves him away. “This isn’t funny, it’s my life!” She marches miserably to her trunk and throws open the lid.
Gil comes up behind her. “Well, this is perhaps perfect, then!”
“Yes, it’s—wait, what?” She turns.
“I’m leaving the palace too,” Gil says.
Automatically, she reaches up and places her hands on his cheeks, feeling the dimples and familiar smile, the honesty, the Gilbertness of him. It’s a habit that started many years ago with her half sister—Isbe would touch her face to try and read the emotions there, since Aurora has no voice to betray the feeling behind her words. It was Isbe’s way of staying as connected as possible to Aurora . . . and then it became so second nature that she began to try it out on Gilbert too. He never refused.
“You’re not joking,” she says now, both feeling and hearing his seriousness.
“No. And it isn’t funny, actually.” His jaw clicks softly. “My brother’s wife died last month in childbirth. I only just found out. Lost the baby too. Roul is . . . well, you can imagine.”
“I’m . . .” She fumbles, taken aback. “I’m very sorry.” Isbe hasn’t seen Gil’s older brother in many years, and never knew Roul’s wife. To her knowledge, Gil never met her either.
Gil clears his throat. “Anyway. He didn’t send for me. You know Roul; he wouldn’t do that. Too proud. But a messenger let it slip. He could use my help at the farm, what with the two young ones. Isn’t too many miles south of here.”
Isbe nods. She remembers when Roul left to take over a farm in one of the vast, faerie-owned fiefs farther inland. He had to pay several tithes of luck to a faerie baron for it.
“He’ll take us both in, I’m sure,” Gil goes on. “Needs all the help he can get, I’d think. I wasn’t certain if I should go. That is, I didn’t want to leave. But now . . . see? You wouldn’t have to go to Isolé. You could just come with me.”
Isbe doesn’t know what to say, only that her face feels as though it has been splashed by a pot of scalding water. Embarrassment and gratitude fight each other for space inside her chest. She has no idea what farm life is really like, but it must be better than life in a convent. At any rate, life there with Gil would be immeasurably better than being alone.
“Besides,” Gil goes on, “just picturing you at a convent is hilarious. Girl like you? Wouldn’t last ’til the first sundown.”
“A girl like me?”