This young woman who struggles to free herself from her grasp is a stranger, not her sister. Her sister has not come.
And that’s when the final piece of her abandoned life comes back to her. It was a short time later—less than a year after the incident—when Belcoeur began to notice a different kind of change. Her belly had grown round and hard, swirling with beginnings: the kick of a foot. The hiccup of tiny lungs. Someday soon, she realized, a child would be born.
Desperate, she wrote to her sister, begging her to understand. Begging her to forgive, so that Belcoeur might be free to love Charles again. Her wish came true when Malfleur responded.
Everyone deserves true love, my dear sister, she wrote. And the child will know its father.
Accompanying the letter was a magnificently carved chest—in and of itself one of the finest gifts her sister had ever sent her. With trembling hands, Belcoeur took the key that had been wrapped in the letter and used it to unlock the lid.
The first thing she saw inside the trunk was a flash of gold—the peaks of the Blackthorn crown Charles wore every day except when riding.
Then she noticed the blood. . . . And the meaning of her sister’s words came crashing down like an ax.
Belcoeur screams now as she screamed then, yanking the oversized crown she has worn for over a century off her head and throwing it to the ground before the visitor.
Her vision is blurred by tears over all she has lost—her child, her sister, her love.
For what she sees within the crown before her is the final memory, the final truth: Charles Blackthorn’s severed head.
34
Isabelle
“Careful!” William’s voice flies up at her from below, rough and salty in the fog.
The rope ladder sways under Isbe’s feet, banging against the craggy cliffside, and for one second she imagines what it would feel like to simply let go and allow the Strait of Sorrow, a few hundred feet below, to swallow her. . . . She’d make just a small, unmemorable splash in the grand scheme of things. The image reminds her of a story Aurora once told her, about an arrogant boy named Icarus who fashioned a pair of waxen wings. He flew too close to the sun, which melted his wings; then he fell to his death in the waters below.
“Are you trying to make a point about the dangers of excessive pride?” Isbe had asked, putting on a fake pout.
“No,” her sister had replied, tapping into her hand rapidly. “I’m making a point about wax.”
Isbe swallows hard, trying to put the memories from her mind. She can’t let herself give in to this urge to mourn her sister when she’s not even dead. If she starts to grieve for Aurora, for Gil, for all of them, it will mean the end. She keeps climbing down, her hands slick on the rungs.
The idea had come to her quickly. After the shock of seeing Aurora’s unmoving form, they had ventured up to the wall walks to survey the surrounding land. William saw animals asleep in the barn. He saw royal banners fallen under piles of muddy sleet and snow. He saw death. He saw the vines. And, in the distance, he saw something that made even the worst of the destruction seem but a prelude: the black wave of Malfleur’s army descending Mount Briar to the west.
Isbe convinced him they needed to find someplace to hide out while they came up with a new plan to lift the curse. Certainly it wasn’t safe to stay put—the risk of disease was in the air, and the castle was unguarded. Nor was it wise to attempt further travel. Even the Veiled Road would be dangerous with Malfleur’s organized forces now on the move. Time was ticking, and with every minute of daylight the threat of discovery grew.
The idea to find someplace upwind of the vines came first, and then the solution was natural, for there is only one thing separating the castle from the southerly winds that blow off the strait, and that’s the cliff face. For years now they have housed the royal family’s stores of wine—barrels and barrels of it—in caverns built directly into the sides of the cliffs. Apparently the darkness and temperature are ideal for preserving the wine’s value. But they will also be ideal for eluding the dangerous fumes of the sleeping sickness and the detection of potential invaders.
The rope ladder is tricky to handle, typically used only by experienced stewards of the royal household, or on rare occasions the pantler or butler. The drop if they should fall is deadly. Next to the ladder dangles a series of pulleys and levers that convey the casks up and down as needed. The contraption clanks noisily beside Isbe, rattling her nerves.
William, who has gone before her, finally reaches out to help her into the entrance of the cavern. The blustery wind all around them drowns out her relieved sigh. She hears the scratchy snap of the flint followed by the sizzle of the lantern being lit, and the bitter cold subsides somewhat as they make their way deeper into the wine room—especially once they hang the thick velvet curtain they brought and decide it’s safe to remove their masks. Isbe heaves in a huge breath, inhaling the cool musk of grapes and oaken casks.
“Isabelle.” William touches her elbow, and she sucks in another breath. He still has that lime-soap smell—or maybe she’s only remembering it, that not quite sweetness.
She turns to face him but takes a step back so that they are no longer touching. “You can call me Isbe, you know. That’s what Aurora and Gi— That’s what everyone else calls me.”
She’s not sure why she’s decided to tell him her nickname now, of all times. Maybe it’s being home at last that’s made her realize he needs to understand who she really is, her true role. She’s the bastard. The trouble underfoot. The sister. The thorn.
“No,” he replies, and a little shock moves through her—a good kind of shock. “I prefer to call you Isabelle. It’s who you are to me now.” He’s so resolute and so certain, even if he is contradicting her wishes. . . . Maybe she doesn’t mind. Maybe she’s relieved, having come to savor the natural way her name rocks across his tongue and lips.
Maybe, even, he’s right. She’s begun to think of herself that way too.
“All right, then,” she says, turning away to hide the heat in her cheeks. “I was just going to unpack these.” She gestures to the small bundle of scraps they managed to forage from the pantry, navigating around the cold, snoring bodies of the local peasants who had attempted to raid it before them. “I think this should be enough to last a few days.”
“A few days? How long do you intend for us to hide out here?” There’s urgency in his voice.
“Just until we can decide on another way to try lifting the curse. I’m thinking we need to get into contact with the faerie duchess Violette, if we can find her. I remember Binks said—”