Princess of Curses & Croaks (The Seasons of Magic #2)

CHAPTER ONE

When I awoke to the rumbling of summer’s first thunderstorm, I knew my father would die today.

I don’t know when or how the premonitions began, but they always came like a tidal wave over my senses: my muscles tensed and dread swallowed every other thought.

And as I stood there, watching somber clouds hang over the house, something in me hardened and bit back for the first time.

Not now.

But the urge did not care for me or my wishes. It didn’t care for anybody—not when I knew Ms. Appleby’s terrier would take a turn for the worse, when I sensed the unfaithfulness of my brother-in-law, or when my best friend’s evasiveness stirred fears about her home life.

The premonition came, went, and left destruction in its wake. And it did not care.

“Good morning, Papa,” I said, drawing his curtains so that sunlight could tickle his skin. He lay on the bed, his face haggard, his eyes barely open in the dim light.

“There’s my lily pad,” he murmured in response.

I laid a sandwich on the mattress, cold roast peeking out from beneath rye bread slices.

We’d be thrilled if he managed even a few bites.

My lips tightened in a forced smile. “And how are you feeling today?”

“Much better.”

He always felt much better, even when it was clear he was much worse. Day by day, the disease had carved away at his life. The stocky, muscular man who used to throw me in the air in exchange for squeals and giggles was now little more than the skin and bones that held him together.

My stomach turned. “You look better,” I lied.

He laughed as if he knew. I drew closer, clasping his hand.

The sweet scent of lilies rose from his bedside table, where Mama’s fresh bouquet from this morning sat.

Papa had always loved lilies, the way they blossomed with vibrant colors in the sun’s warmth.

My sister and I were unsure if he loved the flowers because they shared a name with our mother, or if he’d fallen for Mama because she reminded him of the flowers he loved.

“What news from the palace?” he asked.

“I’m not exactly on the King’s council, Papa. I only tidy the young princes’ rooms.”

He sighed. “You’re made for more, Lyranore. Your magic…”

“I know, Papa.” Guilt gnawed at me. It’s what he always said when my work came up.

Never mind that it helped pay the bills after he fell ill with the Quiet Passing, the plague slowly seeping through the kingdom’s population.

It had left behind an empty chair around every family table we knew in the Capitol.

And now, it seemed, it was our turn for the disease to settle under our roof and steal our father’s final breath.

I tried to suppress a shudder. “Have you finished writing your stories with Kelara?”

“Over there,” he said, nodding his head toward a stack of handwritten memories that sat atop his nightstand. “You ought to read it. Before I—” His voice caught.

“I know.” My eyes prickled and I looked away. “I’ll get Mama. She’ll want to know you’re up.”

He grasped my wrist as I rose to leave. “I’m so very proud of you, Lyra. Working at the palace… I know you’ll always make me proud.”

My throat tightened. I leaned down and hugged him, enveloping myself in the dwindling warmth I’d considered home for so long.

His arms lay limp at his sides. He used to tickle my belly, tap my nose affectionately, smooth back my hair and say it was just like Mama’s.

Now he lay as if already prepared for the burial.

“I love you,” I whispered. His ribs shook beneath me, his chuckle reaching my ears.

“I love you too. I’m not used to hearing such sentimentality.” When I pulled back, his eyes were narrowed, mischief lurking within them. “Are you sure you’re well, lily pad?”

I swallowed and nodded. “I just wanted to make sure you knew.”

He shot me a wink. “How could I not? No one else is willing to sit and read political diatribes to me.”

At that, I laughed. “I’m truly a saint.”

“Here, here.”

We shared a smile and I slipped out, taking a moment in the hallway to pause. My lungs strained against the fear pressing against my chest, and I waited until my breaths steadied before I fetched Mama.

Before I fully grappled with saying farewell to the man who’d believed in me more than I ever deserved.

The premonition is wrong today, Lyra. You only imagined it.

Bile tinged the back of my mouth and I forced my hands against countertops as if my fingers could leave indents.

Flies buzzed loudly in and out of my ears; I wished I could silence them. And then Mama asked me to check on Papa.

If only I hadn’t heard her.

If only.

I clasped trembling fingers together, my tight lips painfully curved, and wandered down the hall.

His form on the bed was still.

I treaded closer, my hands flying to my mouth. My fingers dug into my cheeks.

Bread crumbs were scattered across his blankets. The sandwich I’d made was still tucked in one hand.

But his eyes—once so sweet, so lovely—were lifeless: wide, unblinking, and empty.

I dropped to my knees before him, the world blurring around us.

Moments later, Mama’s blood-curdling scream rang out through the house. She rushed forward to clasp Papa’s hand and shake him awake. After no response, she threw her body on top of his, as if she thought her warmth could bring him back.

A chill ran down my spine.

Tears coursed down Mama’s cheeks as she sobbed over my father, but I stayed frozen on the floor, my eyes dry.

All I could think, again and again, was that despite the warning—that cursed premonition—I never got to tell Papa all that he meant to me.

I never got to say goodbye.

Kelara’s arrival home did little to soften what was already the worst day of our lives.

As more sobbing filled the house, I slipped away, out the oak door Papa had installed a year ago when he still had a little of his former strength.

The cool wooden planks of the porch creaked beneath my feet, boards my father and I had put together on a dismal summer afternoon much like this one.

I wandered through the clover lawn we’d planted, its soft leaves brushing my ankles, and dragged a hand through my hair.

A rock struck my toe and I yelped before kicking it away.

I stomped on the weeds that had long invaded his garden, grumbling at anything that might hear me as my foot pulsed with pain.

When it was clear nothing would reply, I marched to the only place free from memories of Papa.

I marched to the palace.

Thunder rumbled again in the distance, but I lifted my chin and tramped barefoot through the dry, dusty Capitol streets, nodding at the palace guards who recognized me as a chambermaid.

In the gardens, the vibrant roses were in full bloom.

Toads croaked amidst the buzz of dragonflies as I approached my favorite little pond, tucked into a corner of the gardens that rarely saw visitors.

Tadpoles darted beneath the water’s surface.

Finally stilled, I breathed deeply, and imagined my emotions, my fear and pain, sinking into the pond’s murky depths.

A few moments passed before my fragile calm was disturbed.

“Hello.”

I glanced up. Across the pond, a familiar figure stood watching me, books in hand.

Prince Thomas.

“Are you going to be long?”

My jaw slackened. “I beg your pardon?”

“I was hoping to use the pond to practice some water-based spells, and…” His words fell away as my mouth became a tight line.

“Of course, Your Highness,” I mumbled as I rose to my feet, unable to summon the subservient expression expected of me.

He shook his head, adjusting his spectacles with one hand. “No. Never mind. I’ll find somewhere else.”

“If that is your wish, sire.”

I curtsied, as I should have done at the start of our conversation, and he nodded before turning away.

I was, thankfully, left alone in my thoughts once more.

Irritation simmered in the back of my mind over the way I’d been addressed, how I was made to feel small simply because of my social status.

The many tomes Papa had made me read aloud—filled with ideas of equality, dignity, and the value of every soul—rose unexpectedly in my mind.

You’re made for more, Lyranore.

I ground my teeth until my jaw ached. Papa might have believed all sorts of ridiculous notions about my future, but that didn’t mean any of it was true, or should come true.

I’d had an abundance of hopes for his future, and yet those were all now dashed against the rocks beneath my feet.

We were supposed to travel together once he felt better.

I’d bought him an atlas when he first fell ill so we could start planning our family trip.

He was going to take me to the Wild Lands, to our ancestors’ home.

We were going to see shows of wonder in Kerimiya, feast on savoury creations in Cobleran, hike through Junira’s forest of giants…

He was supposed to be there when I found success, cheering me on from the sidelines. When I got married to the love of my life. When I finally made something of myself.

A frog hopped off a dark green lily pad, and its splash stole my attention. The pad floated toward me, away from its fuchsia-colored lily. It settled at the edge of the pond, replacing my reflection.

I let out a sob.

It was the only time I allowed myself to cry for my father, the only time I truly let myself feel the pain of his loss.

He’d never get to see me become the person he believed I could be—someone who now felt forever out of reach.

My head hung low as I walked out of the palace. My eyes were red and sore from watching dragonflies dance between raindrops. The water mingled with my own tears. As I passed the gate, a guard jogged over to me.

“Hello.”

My expression hardened. “Yes?”

“I…” His voice faltered. “I simply wanted to see if you were okay.”

“Why?”

“I saw you earlier by the pond. You didn’t seem okay.”

I looked at him, at the shaggy brown hair that fell into his eyes and the earnestness that shaped his features. “My papa died today.”

He drew in a sharp breath. “I’m terribly sorry.”

I offered a tight smile and turned to go. The guard hurried to keep pace with me. “May I walk you home? I’m headed into the Capitol myself.”

I nodded without stopping, and we walked through the city in silence broken only by peals of thunder and rain clanging against rooftops. We were a soaked pair by the time he bid me goodbye, his hair sopping but his expression still strangely warm.

I failed to hear his parting words as I trudged inside alone.

The odd guard vanished from my thoughts as a curtain of grief drew itself around my home.

For weeks, I refused to leave. Every movement, every word, ached like a weapon’s strike, and so I did nothing but lie and stare at the still world Papa left behind.

The whole house smelled of him—fire and ash, parchment and dust. Every room I glanced into held memories I did not want to relive.

And the world felt heavy, as though even the air weighed me down during those all-consuming weeks of mourning.

When I finally returned to the palace out of necessity, a familiar figure lingered at the edge of a palace hallway.

That same palace guard who’d walked me home waved my way and jogged over to me.

Suddenly, the grief felt a little lighter.

He eagerly inquired about my father, about my health, about myself.

It was… nice. In a way wholly unfamiliar. One that helped distract me from the sorrow that ached like a bad bruise with each day of service.

On a sunny morning a few weeks later, flies buzzing around us, he and I observed the royal family play croquet in the fields. We sat in the shadows of a large oak, my head resting on his shoulders as Prince Stephen missed his shot entirely.

“Oh dear,” I murmured.

David snorted.

“What?” I pulled away to look at him.

“Who cares whether the young prince does well?”

“I do. I’m his maid.”

David raised his brows. I rolled my eyes.

“You care too much for them,” he chided. When I pulled away even more, he tilted his head. “I only say it because I care for you.”

I sagged at the earnestness in his face, always written in the crease between his brows. “Why should it matter whether I care?”

He gave me a sad smile. “Because they couldn’t care less about people like us.”

I clenched my jaw, thinking of all the little ways I knew the royals cared. The bills passed on our behalf, the holiday allotments gifted to the cities, even the way Prince Stephen smiled at me in the hallway…

They had to.

And then I remembered that day at the pond only months ago, my first conversation with a prince.

My mind conjured the bothered look on Prince Thomas’s face. Like I’d been taking up too much space, like my grief was an inconvenience to him.

A spark of annoyance lit within me.

David reached an arm around me, rubbing my shoulder in distraction.

I managed a weak smile. “I suppose you’re right.”

His eyes searched mine, as if worried he’d spoken more than he ought to have. “But I care about you, Lyra. I always will.”

My smile grew, and I leaned into him. His arms pulled me close. We watched as Prince Thomas tripped mid-run, barely staying on his feet.

David snorted again, but I couldn’t bring myself to join him.

I sighed into his embrace. David was good to me—kind and reliable. He never missed our daily walks together, always inquired about my health and my family. He was respectable and had a good head on his shoulders, always reminding me what was realistic for people like us.

And for the next year and a half, he was enough. Between the efforts of him and my best friend Ella, I slowly returned to life, to work as a chambermaid, and to someone of the lowest classes: no more thoughts of craning my head upward, and no more thoughts of my father and his misplaced pride.