16. Wedding Singer
Chapter 16
Wedding Singer
AIDAN
T he scents of aged paper and fresh lilacs hit my nose as I enter the bibliotheca, and I pause in the doorway, taken aback by the eerie bite of power vibrating through the air. Goosebumps raise along my arms, and my eyes narrow, searching for the source of the magic.
Elio and his new queen have arrived, which might explain the strange undercurrent of energy in the room, but the Winter King quickly fades from my mind. A darkling is standing with her back to me, her silhouette framed by the stained glass of the windows.
“Aidan, come here!” Heather motions me forward.
I watch my fiancée’s lips move, her smile wide and unrestrained, but I can’t hear anything.
The world around me fades into silence, my ears buzzing as I stare at the renowned singer Heather has been raving about for years. Elizabeth Snow is unlike anyone I’ve ever seen, and yet there’s something achingly familiar about her.
Long dark waves cascade down her back, shining under the twilight as she spins toward me. The delicate slant of her nose compliments her high cheekbones, her face so striking that it steals my breath, but it’s her eyes that make my heart stop, then race all at once. They’re large, deep, and endless. A luminous blue.
A midnight-blue gown hugs her curves, her skin pale as freshly-fallen snow. Dusk licks the edges of the dress like a waning fire that yearns to be obliterated by her frost, and my mouth dries up.
She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Simple as that.
I can hardly wait for Heather to introduce me and almost beat my fiancée to the punch before she says, “Elizabeth, this is my soon-to-be husband, Aidan Summers.”
“It’s an honor to meet you, Miss Elizabeth.”
Promises of unbridled passion and indelible heartbreak burn inside her astute gaze—reminiscent of the Dark Sea I love so much—but the spark within it flickers and dies as it meets mine.
With a discreet bend in her brow, she stares at me like she expected more of the Crown Prince of the Summerlands than what I have to offer. Blood rises to my cheeks, the disappointed curve of her parted lips like a quill ready to impart a failing grade. With one look, the gorgeous stranger pits me against all the stories she’s bound to have heard about me and finds me lacking in every measure of manhood.
I switch my weight from one foot to the other, unable to cope with the sudden ache in my gut, and concentrate on Heather instead. “Honestly, I think my lovely bride is more excited for your performance than for the wedding at this point.”
Heather rams her elbow in my side. “Shush.”
After a moment of awkward silence, my fiancée tugs her brown hair behind her ears and shakes off her obvious nerves. “I went to see you in concert once, back when you first assumed your new identity. I found it so heartbreaking that you can no longer perform “Never to Be” in the new world.” Heather turns to me, adding context for my benefit. “Since Elizabeth wrote Never to Be back when she was singing as Liz Walden, she can no longer perform her most well-known song for the mortals anymore.”
I nod in understanding.
“Alas, I can’t risk it,” Elizabeth laments.
I can’t tear my gaze away as she speaks, her voice a soft melody that drums through the air. The way her fingers grip the fabric of her dress indicates some sort of frustration, but her face remains perfectly amiable.
“Even if I only claimed to cover the song, the similarities between the performances might draw too much attention, and allow the mortals to connect the dots,” she adds.
Heather clasps her hands together. “I’m so glad you’re finally using your real face and name, though.”
“Yes, it’s a relief. I’ll age myself up with a glamor until I have to start over again. Plenty of the new world’s most revered female singers can have a career until they’re eighty, these days.”
As Elizabeth delights Heather with details about her life in the new world, the strange knot at the pit of my stomach pulses and swells. The more this woman talks, the more convinced I become that I’ve met her before, as if she stepped out of a dream I can't quite remember.
She looks familiar because she’s the most famous Fae alive, you dummy.
But the obvious explanation for the eerie sensation of déjà vu falls flat, like a more truthful, better answer is just hanging at the tip of my tongue.
“Will you sing ‘Never to Be’ tomorrow?’ I’d be eternally grateful,” Heather begs.
A crimson, adorable blush taints our guest’s cheeks. “I-I guess I just have to now? Right?”
“Oh thank you!” Heather jumps up and down, oblivious to the embarrassment on her idol’s face. “What can we offer in return?”
Elizabeth holds the question off with both hands held in front of her as though the mere thought of getting paid for her performance sickens her. “Oh no, I wouldn’t dream of asking for anything in return. It’s only fitting that a bride gets what she wants at her wedding. Especially the future Summer Queen.”
Heather squeals. “Oh my goodness! You’re an angel, I love you!”
She wraps her arms around Elizabeth, and the new Winter Queen, Lori, whispers something that sounds an awful lot like “oh, my fucking gods,” below her breath.
I know very little about her other than the fact that she’s a Shadow huntress, and a perfect copy of Iris Lovatt, the Spring Queen’s dead niece.
Elio’s lips are twisted in a grimace, but when Elizabeth glances in my direction again, and our eyes meet for a brief second, something profound stirs within me. I can’t focus on anything but her, the electric current of energy that spooked me when I entered the room is almost tangible now.
“Will you join us for the rehearsal dinner?” Heather asks quickly, like Elizabeth might poof into dust at any moment.
“Oh no, I wouldn’t want to impose?—”
“Nonsense! We can squeeze you in at Elio’s table.”
The singer puts on a brave smile, clearly holding something back. “Alright.”
Heather hooks her elbow around Elizabeth’s and leads her toward the ballroom, where tables have been set for the seven-course meal that awaits us. Elio and Lori fall into step behind them, but Hector accosts me on my way out the door, holding me back for a private word.
“Your Highness, Her Majesty the Queen says she’d rather save her energies for tomorrow. She sends her excuses,” he says sternly.
“Thank you, Hector.”
My lips curl down, and the strange heat in my blood vanishes. With Mother growing weaker and weaker, the wedding can’t come soon enough.
Royal weddings are not much more fun than birthing ceremonies or official holidays. Uncles, aunts, cousins, and strangers all want to congratulate me, and many take the opportunity to wedge in an intrusive comment. From the insincere “A country wedding, how nice!” to the annoying “So little time between the engagement and the wedding… should we expect a wee babe soon?”
I try to remain patient, but the tense conversations between Elio and Elizabeth on the opposite side of the ballroom keep piquing my curiosity. They appear to be disagreeing about something, but with so many royal acquaintances and extended family members to satisfy, dessert has already been served by the time I manage to approach Elizabeth again.
Tons of guests asked her for an autograph, but none of them managed to hold her attention.
I slide into the empty chair next to her, the seat abandoned at the moment as Elio and his new wife take to the dance floor. “You’re quite the celebrity. Everyone is dying to hear you sing,” I say, unable to think of a more clever conversation opener.
She squares her shoulders and gulps down a sip of Nether cider before angling her body to me. “Everyone?”
She looks at me through her long, black lashes, daring me to include myself in that statement, and my lips quirk, a sizzling warmth nestling beneath my ribs. “Everyone.”
She finally averts her gaze and motions to the tall, intricate white orchids and golden thread centerpieces. “Is this the wedding you’ve always dreamed of?”
“As a rule, I can’t say I’m a big fan of weddings.”
“Why not?”
I clear my throat awkwardly, my eyes darting to my lap. I can’t tell her the whole truth, but I can find an innocuous answer. “It’s all a bit too…flashy for me.”
“I thought nothing was too flashy for someone as ardent as the Crown Prince of the Summerlands.” She smiles to herself like she’s privy to some dark, inside joke that I can’t quite make sense of.
“I know my birthmark makes people talk, but I’m not half as garish as they say.”
“Are you sure about that?” Her attention shifts to the spot where the Mark of the Gods is situated on my hip.
I swallow hard.
By the Flame. How does she know where it is? And moreover, is she flirting?
Am I flirting?
What the?—
“Have we met?” I blurt out, flustered by the intensity of her ocean-blue gaze.
“What?” she breathes. Her creamy skin loses even more color, like the blood in her cheeks drained out entirely. “Are you serious?”
There’s an unmistakable edge in her voice, and I begin to wonder if I misread our initial encounter, when I thought she found me so disappointing. Maybe she feels as oddly drawn to me as I am to her, but the thought is equally thrilling and absurd.
“I can’t shake the feeling that we’ve met before,” I say, inching forward ever so slightly.
She rubs the chill from her arms and tightens the shawl around her shoulders, her fingers gripping the fabric so firmly that her knuckles whiten. "I thought—” her mouth hangs agape for a moment before she squeezes her eyes shut. “Perhaps you've heard me sing?" She reaches for her glass of water and gulps down half of it, as if in a hurry to wash away the entire conversation.
The motion causes her delectable scent—hints of pines and abyssal violas—to fill my nose, and my mouth waters, the urge to reach out and brush her creamy skin almost impossible to quell.
“Heather listens to your songs almost every day,” I admit.
"That must be it, then." She puts down her glass and returns her attention to me, her blunt, direct stare making my heart pound.
Fuck, with her looking at me like that, I can’t concentrate. I’m getting married tomorrow. I can’t be seen flirting with the most famous woman in Faerie, but I lean in without meaning to. “How do you know where my mark is?”
“Isn’t that common knowledge?”
“No.” I shake my head, and the corners of my mouth twitch. “And you’ve answered all my questions with questions.”
“Did I?” a secret smile passes over her lips, and the teasing edge of her voice sparks a fire in my blood.
“Answer me. Please.”
She opens and closes her mouth. “I’m not sure how.”
A heavy silence falls between us. “Try.”
“To tell you the truth, I feel like I’m about to faint.” She braces her hand on my arm to steady herself, and I suck in air.
Her skin is cool, smooth, and perfect. My fire bristles at the simple touch, my magic thrashing within me, desperate to engulf her.
Elizabeth bites her bottom lip, her cheeks flushed, and her gaze drifts to my hip again, right where my birthmark lies. Her index finger moves in her lap, as though tracing invisible lines. The sight is arousing as fuck. Blood rushes to my groin as I shift awkwardly, well-aware that I’m trapped here at this table until I manage to simmer down.
I feel hot and cold, more certain than ever that something is amiss, but Elio and his wife Lori return to the table, forcing my attention away from Elizabeth.
“Aidan. Quick question. Will the King of Light be here tomorrow? I was pleasantly surprised to see he wasn’t around tonight,” he asks, sitting beside me.
I blink away the fog of desire. “He should attend, in theory, but ever since my father died, he hasn’t set foot in Augustus.”
Elio despises his father, and the feeling is mutual. The whole subject is sore between us, considering how close I was with his brother before he vanished, but some things are better left unmentioned.
In a few days, I’ll be the only member of my family left standing, and the thought is sobering to say the least. Father, Willow, and now Mother…
“Do you expect any further trouble with the Tidecallers?” Elio asks grimly, aware of the queen’s dreadful poisoning at the hands of the rebels.
“We’ve heard loud rumblings about the Lord of the Tides’ incursions into the continent. According to our intel, he’s particularly active at our borders with the Red Forest, the Solar Cliffs, and Wintermere, recruiting new members and gaining support among the population.”
The Winter King and Queen exchange an anxious glance.
“Do you know who he is?” I say quickly.
Elio presses his lips together. “Maybe. We suspect that the man who led the attacks on the Frost Peaks is actually the Storm King’s youngest son.”
“Seth?” My fists curl at my side as I recall Seth Devine’s rebellious antics and complete disregard for traditions. “I knew that treacherous weed had ignored my invitation for a reason.”
“Not Seth,” Lori explains with a wince. “Seth actually went missing trying to reason with his younger brother.” I open my mouth to argue, but she adds, “Thorald Storm has a third son, one he’s been keeping secret.”
Lori might be a darkling, and a mortal at that, but I trust Elio, and my brows raise. “Why? What could have been so wrong about him that he was denied the opportunity to enroll in the academy?”
“He vanished before he could enroll. We’re still piecing out the story, but Luther Storm was manipulated—or seduced—by Morrigan Quinn, and Seth has been looking for him for a couple of years,” Elio says.
“But then, he’s too young to be Lord of the Tides. Mentions of the title date back a decade at least, and this young Fae prince couldn’t be older than twenty.”
Lori takes a long sip of cider before she asks, “Are we sure the Lord of the Tides is not Morrigan herself?”
I deny her hypothesis with a confident shake of my head. “My sources assure me it’s a man. He’s often been seen around the seediest taverns and brothels, riling up the common folks.”
I glance at the busy room around us, full of High Fae and royals, and congratulate myself for holding the wedding here, and not at the capital. Eterna would have been a good place to stage a coup. Augustus is safer, but considering everything that happened, I feel increasingly uneasy.
“I might be able to learn more if you allowed me access to my brother,” Lori says with a stiff nod.
“Your brother is my only lead to the rebels that perpetrated the attack on the queen,” I whisper. “Why shouldn’t he be made to confess his sins?”
A sad smile plays at the corners of Lori’s mouth. “Respectfully, Your Highness, I believe I will constrain him into talking more efficiently than you could.”
“Why?”
“Do you have any siblings?”
My jaw clenches at a sudden burst of emotion, and I avert my gaze. “I did. But she died.”
“Then ask yourself this: who would have been better equipped to make her crack under pressure in an interrogation? You, or a perfect stranger?”
A deep breath rushes out of my lungs. “Alright, I’ll relinquish the prisoner to your care, but he must not be allowed to go free until the rebellion is extinguished. And if he’s found guilty of my mother’s condition, he’ll be put on trial and sentenced here, in Summer.”
Elio agrees to my terms with a quick incline of the head and squeezes his wife’s hand. “You have my word, Aidan. I swear it.”
Magic crackles through the air at his formal promise.
As I stare at their laced fingers, a twinge of jealousy cramps my gut. I relinquish my seat, squeezing the back of the chair for a moment before turning back to Elizabeth. I shouldn’t have discussed matters of the realm in front of her, really, and open my mouth to ask for her discretion only to find her seat empty.
Elizabeth is gone. I search for her in the crowd, but she seems to have slipped out of the ballroom altogether.
“Aidan. Don’t linger near Death, my darling, or he’ll freeze the life right out of you!” Freya Heart, the Spring Queen, shouts. She approaches the table with her usual poise, her long black nails clawing at her golden fan.
Elio bares his teeth at the jab. “Freya. Never a dull moment with you.”
“I wish I could say the same.” The black woman’s attention shifts to Lori, the Winter Queen, a perfect copy of her dead niece but for her round, human ears. “Come along, Aidan. I have a bone to pick with you.”
I school my expression in one of polite interest and let the monarch usher me away.
“Your mother is not here tonight,” she remarks.
“Yes. Sadly, she couldn’t make it.”
Freya arches her perfectly-shaped brow. “Tidecaller trouble?”
“Perhaps,” I answer, keeping my tone aloof.
The Tidecallers are to blame for the queen’s absence because their wicked schemes condemned her to a slow, untimely death, but I keep that part to myself.
Mother did not wish to spark up outrage across the realm by disclosing her current condition. News of her poisoning would have forced us into a quick, half-assed, retaliatory conflict. Sending out our troops blindly into the Breach would be like eating out of the palms of the rebels hands, for that’s certainly what they intended to happen with their cowardly move. Hell, I’d wanted to jump onto the first available boat myself when I’d found out about the source of her sickness, but Heather had talked me off the ledge.
Still... I’ll kill the ones that orchestrated the attack if it’s the last thing I do.
Freya pulls me to her table full of High Fae, where I try my best to assuage their worries about the rebels and the war that’s coming. There’s nothing that makes a High Fae more thirsty for wine and hungry for gossip than the prospect of an armed, deadly conflict.
I get roped into endless political rambles and try to push Elizabeth from my mind.
As we’re about to go to bed, Heather sinks onto the mattress beside me, one hand busy unhooking her ruby ear cuffs. “Elizabeth was a welcomed distraction from all the gruesome political talk tonight. The guests were very curious about her.” She presses her lips together before adding, “And no wonder… She’s the most beautiful woman alive.”
“Agreed.”
“Hey!”
I duck to avoid the pillow coming for my head and chuckle, “You said it first.”
“It’s a big weekend for us. We can’t afford to…proposition our wedding singer, not when she’s as gorgeous as that.”
I point my index finger at her nose, no stranger to the sheepish grimace on her lips. “Oh, I can see it on your face. You’ve thought about it.”
“Shut up!” She slaps my hand away, turning red. “I caught her stealing glances at you and remembered you’re objectively attractive, for a guy, and the thought briefly crossed my mind. Before I dismissed it completely.”
I bring a hand to my chest, falsely insulted. “Ouch!”
Heather and I are best friends, and even though we’re not in love, I intend to take our new commitment seriously. I imagine we’ll both have lovers at some point, but on the surface, we’ll have to act like any married king and queen are expected to. And we actually like each other enough that it won’t be too taxing.
“Didn’t you feel like something was weighing on her, though?” I ask.
“Like what?”
“No clue. I just found her a little more…withdrawn than I would have expected.”
“She probably felt out of place. You know Winter Fae are often uncomfortable in the Summerlands. She was probably just thinking back to her year at the academy?—”
I prop myself up on my elbow. “Wait a minute. She attended this school?”
“Yes, for a year. I’m sure I mentioned it before. You never listen to me.” She tucks a pillow between us like she always does. “Goodnight, pearl of my eyes.”
“Sweet slumber, urchin of my soul.”
We both snort at the familiar phrases, and I twist around to face the wall, my mind still boiling with half-formed questions. Elizabeth’s haunted gaze lingers beneath my closed lids. I find myself obsessed with the notion of what might have happened tonight, if I had been in a position to ask that gorgeous darkling to dance.
I toss and turn in the king-sized bed until I can’t take it anymore. This bizarre pressure between my ribs won’t relent, and sweat pearls above my brows.
Unable to sleep, I sneak out of bed and head back to the bibliotheca. All the lights are closed except for a few bronze lamps lined up over the long desks. The enormous moon glares at me from the window. Craters and shadows move upon its surface, drawing shapes and patterns in a language I almost understand, a secret just out of reach, hidden in the scars of its crust.
If Elizabeth only spent one year here, it means she never graduated, so I’ll have to look in the admittance records. Those are rarely used and kept on top of the built-in shelf, and I stretch to reach the right volume, one foot secured on the solid mahogany ladder. An accumulation of dust and ensuing friction slows my movements as I slide the padded cover out of the stack. I tuck the ledger open on the last step of the ladder, the tepid urgency that lured me out of my room sharpening into focus.
I drag my finger over the aged paper, across columns and rows of names written out in a neat calligraphy by the school’s record clerk. My stomach flip-flops as it reaches Elizabeth’s name, and I blink at the year underlined above with disbelief.
Wait.
She was here the same year I was? How is that possible? Must be a mistake.
But Hephaistos knows our temperamental record clerk and historian extraordinaire, Jillian, would not allow a blunder of this magnitude to spoil her precious archives. No, it’s right here in indelible ink. Elizabeth Snow attended this school at the same time I did, and the name written two lines below hers sends acid to my throat.
Not only was Elizabeth a first-year during my time at the academy, but she knew Willow. Blessed Flame… Why can’t I remember her at all?