CHAPTER NINE
I tilted the final wooden figurine toward the ogre, his lance in the air as if ready for battle.
Over the years, Prince Stephen’s wooden collection of miniature knights, horses, and mages had grown.
Each was hand-carved and painted in incredible detail, from clenched hands to taut reins to the unique family crests on each shield.
Ever since I was assigned to the younger prince’s room, I had enjoyed setting them into little scenes to surprise him when I had the time.
And although the prince had never spoken a word to me, he would always smile at me when we passed in the hallway, despite the expectation that I remained unseen.
And while my distaste for the royals’ snobbery continued, I made an exception for Prince Stephen, whose anxious tendencies had worsened over the years, leaving him an outcast in his own court.
If such a little act on my behalf could bring him joy, then I would gladly do it.
I crossed to Prince Leon’s bedroom. Soon, Prince Stephen would gain his own chambers and my workload would strain even more. I was already struggling to keep up with my duties after Ella’s disappearance.
I dusted a few instruments, stripped his bedding to take to the scullery, and stirred the coals in his fireplace. The youngest prince always had his music sheets arranged and his clothing folded by the time I reached his room.
As I worked, my mind wandered once more to Ella’s final words to me, the finality with which she had ended our friendship. All I was left with was an empty cot beside mine and the grating voices of Anna and Drea.
It was one of the worst fates I could imagine.
Last night, her absence weighed so heavily I stared at the ceiling until midnight, finally stumbling out of bed to wander the palace gardens. Beneath a full moon, the cool night breeze tossed my unbound hair, free from watchful eyes. I choked down the fresh air as nausea climbed my throat.
And now, that same sense of unease made my stomach churn. Was this all that was meant for me? Tidying princes’ rooms and trading shallow gossip with the twins?
Never finding out what I or my magic was capable of?
My mind returned to the pillar of water reaching into the sky. How far could it have stretched, if the prince had desired? What was holding us back from reaching the clouds, or even the stars?
How far could I have lifted it?
I glanced over the princes’ chambers one final time before letting myself out. The hallways bustled with the midday rush of servants and nobles, all flustered with duties and meetings. I wove between the crowds absent-mindedly.
When I felt a light tug on my arm, I jerked my elbow away, my lips twisting into a frown. “Don’t touch me.”
Prince Thomas’s mouth fell open, his feet shuffling backward. “My apologies.”
“You frightened me.”
He pressed his lips together. “I shouldn’t have been so forward.”
I stared at him, unable to agree, but unwilling to deny it.
“I…” His words trailed off at my waiting expression. “How’s your daughter?”
“My daughter?” It took me a moment to realize what he was asking. “Oh. You mean my niece, Asha.”
He pushed up his spectacles. “Your niece…”
I nodded. “She slept from the time I brought her home to this morning when I left.” My voice wavered at the end, and I looked up at him with uncertainty in my eyes, hoping he could soothe the concern wrapped around my heart. “Is that to be expected?”
He nodded. “Yes, it is. I didn’t realize you were merely her aunt.”
Merely? I furrowed my brow at his choice of wording. “What do you mean by that?”
He didn’t respond, his eyes caught on something behind my shoulder.
I turned to see one of the sitting members of the Mage Council bustling down the hall, his gaze fixed on the prince.
The man’s tall, slim figure and pinched features marked him as the famed Master Blackwood, a powerful noble and an even more formidable mage.
His family crest appeared on many of the serums at the herbalist shop Mama worked at.
My eyes flicked between the two men. “I should go,” I muttered, dropping into a curtsey.
The prince barely noticed, sending a half-hearted nod my way before walking past me toward the mage.
Left behind, I rolled my eyes and walked on. Not even worth the time to finish a conversation he started, I thought to myself.
What would it be like to be worth that time? To command a prince’s attention, to stop him mid-conversation? It must be exhilarating to have that kind of power: a chance to sit on the Mage Council, to perform demonstrations for the courtiers, to have the King’s ear when it came to magical matters…
My cheeks heated at the ridiculous fantasies. I was beginning to sound like my father and his radical ways. It was silly.
When I returned to my room, Anna and Drea were away, still elbows-deep in the many duties we were overloaded with in Ella’s absence. I dropped onto my mattress, staring up at the ceiling, my calves aching from being on my feet all morning.
Is this really all I’m made for?
I needed Ella and her distracting dilemmas to dwarf my own. I needed David and his sweetness to help me untangle my own confusing pain.
Prince Thomas’s face crossed my mind, and I pushed it away with a frown.
I needed Papa.
I rolled onto my stomach, grabbing my bindle from beside my bed and rifling through it.
I pulled out the book Mama had told me she packed, running my hand over the front.
It wasn’t a properly bound volume—a strip of worn leather covered a stack of parchment, all held together with twine.
Unloosening the knot, I pried the book open and recognized Papa’s own writing sprawled across each page, the paper wrinkled beneath the pressure of his thumbprints, his ink smudged into the corners.
My lips curved upward.
I remembered this journal with painful clarity. I wouldn’t be able to forget it if I wanted to.
He’d been chronicling his memories with Kelara’s help, a collection of the information he wanted to leave behind.
I was so grateful Mama had ignored my command, that she’d disregarded my desire to toss this piece of his heart away as if it were rubbish.
I flipped through the pages, watching as his handwriting grew sloppier. By two thirds of the way through, Kelara’s neat scribbles had fully replaced his own.
On the last page, Papa’s final words were sloppily scrawled in his own hand. By then, he’d been much too weak to move, but even still, he’d written five simple words: Make me proud, lily pad.
A tear I hadn’t noticed forming slipped down my cheek. I swiped it away. My eyes darted around to see if anyone had noticed.
I ran my hand across his last message, my index finger tracing the swirls he made on this very paper when his life was about to end. This was his final wish, and what had I done for him? Continued to endure. Pretended I was content.
I wasn’t content.
And I couldn’t endure—not anymore. Not when my own life was becoming emptier with each day I trudged through, each day I let time slip away from a life I already knew was too short.
Papa had taught me life was brief in the way he lived and breathed and taught and died.
I took in a shuddering breath, flipping through the earlier pages. Stories of our ancestors, of my family history, of our magic littered the pages. I stopped at one passage filled with instructions for a beginner’s water magic spell. At the top he’d written, “For Lyra to try.”
I scanned the instructions, my confidence rising. Papa knew I had no talent for fire magic, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t try other elements. Most mages had a basic understanding of them all. I read and reread the instructions, letting the words sink deeply into my mind, my heart, my confidence.
What harm would trying do?