CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
I tucked the letters into my coat on the walk home, clutching them tightly to my chest. Frosty air scratched against my throat, my nose pink from the cold that was loosening its grip for spring.
And I thought.
I thought about every time I’d judged him, every time I’d assumed the worst of him. I thought about David’s constant criticisms that had wormed their way into my view of the royal family.
And I thought about every time they’d subverted those expectations, from Stephen’s gratitude to Thom’s eagerness to help Asha.
He’d pulled me aside in the middle of the palace corridor to ask after her, with no care for the nobles swirling about us. Granted, he’d left abruptly in the middle of the conversation, but he’d spoken with me publicly.
He’d tutored me, a mere chambermaid, to begin with, and asked for little in return.
He’d tailored a curriculum to my learning pace. Pushed me beyond what even I believed I could do. Cheered me on, dared to believe I could grow stronger than even him.
He’d tried to see me the night before he left. Sent weekly, unanswered letters.
There were still Lee’s words to contend with, but perhaps there were two sides to even that story which I could begin to unravel when given the chance.
Perhaps I’d gotten Thom wrong. Perhaps I’d been blinded by assumptions just as much as he had.
And perhaps we’d needed to come apart, as much as it tore us both by the seams, so we could choose one another freely.
Destroyed only to be built anew.
Asha blinked wearily at me with the barest of smiles. “Lyranore.”
I perched on the edge of her bed, the blankets beneath me damp with sweat. “Yes, dear. I’m here.”
“Mama said you’d read to me.”
My mouth turned sour, my tongue thick. I held a sandwich out to her with a shaky hand. The sight of it dragged me back to another sandwich years ago, crumbs scattered beside Papa’s still form.
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and managed a small smile. “I’d be happy to.”
I set it on her stomach and opened one of Papa’s old books. It still smelled of him—of soot and flame, ink and age. I breathed in the scent.
I animated my voice as I read fables from the Wild Lands, of her ancestors taming snow leopards and riding mammoths, of communing with dragons and wielding magic deeper than Amouridia has ever known.
Asha drifted back to sleep, peace softening her expression. I collected the untouched sandwich, its weight settling into my palms. A lump formed in my throat.
I hoped she dreamed of what might have been for her—for all of us—on another path.
But the only future I longed for now was the one where she was well again.
“Master Carter, do you think I can heal others of the plague?”
We sat in the training room, shelves brimming with yellowed scrolls and the smell of musk and vanilla. In the corner, a simmering pot sent steam curling into the air. Glass bottles of neon, translucent liquids sat perched on a desk’s edge.
He scratched his cheek beneath his thick, brown beard. “Perhaps eventually, with some practice.”
I’d quickly shared my new magical discovery with Master Carter, whose brows had shot all the way up to his hairline. Like me, he was keen to experiment with time magic in whatever way possible.
But more importantly, and perhaps in poor form, I eagerly awaited the response of a certain prince. Not that I should care how he felt.
I certainly didn’t care, or at least told myself I didn’t.
Yet I wanted him to know what I had discovered. I wanted him to be proud of me, as silly and futile and embarrassing as the desire was.
With Master Carter’s assistance, I had so far unmade knitted stockings, so that they sat as a pool of brown yarn on the floor.
We’d expected that much. After all, stockings required a few days of active creation to undo, like parchment.
I attempted a sweater, which was slightly more challenging.
In my mind, the spool of magic thread yanked itself from my soul’s grip, and I was left clinging to empty air.
When I’d opened my eyes, the sweater was only half unravelled.
Today, we tried a potion, the very one simmering in the corner.
Master Carter brought me a cup and I spent a good half-hour in battle with my thread, just like the fishermen who stood by the city river all morning with strings and hope.
However, I’d come out victorious—when I opened my eyes, weak and weary as I was, the cup had broken in half, and the ingredients were pooled in separate areas of the desk: the shavings of a unicorn horn, lily petals, the blood of a flying bird, and a boiled dragon’s tooth.
And now he sat scribbling the results of our test furiously as I found myself lying outstretched on his sofa. I pondered what else I could do with my magic and how to use it to help others.
To help Asha.
“Using it to reverse this plague would be incredible.” He paused in his writings to squint at me. “But think of how exhausted you were by this afternoon’s simple exercise. To reverse a sickness that has simmered in the body for months? It would be incredibly draining to undo that amount of time.”
I already experienced nights of fitful sleep and foggy mornings after my magic shows. My current magic usage was an added weight that bore down on my bones.
“It would be worth it, though.” These days, Asha’s sleeping form was permanently etched in my mind. The fear that any day might be her last. Like Papa.
He watched me, and with a sigh, laid his pen down. “Now that you know you are doing time magic, and have discovered how to use it—”
“You mean my thread?”
“Yes, if you want to use contemporary thought, then your thread. How does it work in your mind?”
My brow furrowed. “Quite literally, actually, although I am still getting acquainted with its use. It is as if there is a spool inside my soul, and my fingers grasp the thread, and with a few tugs, my magic is enhanced.”
He came around and leaned back against his desk, his hands splayed to his sides. “Like our famed mage prince, I personally see a golden ball in my hands that I must throw with all my might. The more I use my magic amplifier, the higher I must throw it, in hopes it will still return to me.”
“Prince Thomas never told me he imagined it differently.”
Master Carter shrugged. “It is something he shared once after a Council Meeting. We all visualize our amplifiers uniquely, but it does seem that the thread is the most common metaphor that resonates with mages at the moment.” He gave a close-lipped smile.
“Which leads me to ask… what happens if I throw my ball of magic too high? Or if you pull too much from your strand?”
“The thread snaps from my hand.”
“That is all?”
“Is something else meant to happen?”
He cleared his throat. “I am encouraged, to say the least. Your body clearly implements self-protective measures. This vision of thread snapping from your hand is a way to force the magic to lose its hold of you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What happens if you have a real spool, and keep pulling?”
“It eventually runs out.”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry, Master Carter. I’m not following. Are you insinuating that I would die?”
“Well, yes. The magic would tug so much of your soul away that you are left with nothing but a shell, a body. Your very self would be poured into your magic, and nothing would be left behind.”
I swallowed. “So…”
“So it’s very important you rest and don’t push yourself too far with these experiments. Hence why we have been practicing on sweaters and simple potions. And not the plague.”
“But what if I want to try?” Asha. Her pale face. Her thin limbs and sunken eyes that still sparked with muted joy when I came into the room. “What if it’s worth the risk?”
Master Carter walked toward me and wrapped me in a hug. I nestled against his chest, against his soft, satin robes and his warmth.
“I want her to get better, too,” he said. “We all do.”
“Papa—” I choked on my words. “Papa would have given himself up to save her. Why shouldn’t I?”
“You don’t know that it would work. Not even our best healing mages have had success.” He pulled back and looked into my face. “And I’ve been hearing that a cure is almost finished. You must both remain strong.”
Thomas’s words from our time at the pond came to mind, of his mixed success, of the draining process of finding the cure, of healed frogs and hope.
I sniffled. “The cure might be too late. Besides, it will go to nobility first. These things always do.”
“It doesn’t have to,” Master Carter said. “If your presentation goes well, you might be able to connect with someone who can save her. And I can write to Junira once more, and ask for the antidote in exchange for your attendance at their school.”
Although hope sparked within me, the memory of the weeks it took for letters to reach and return from our neighboring country, of the month left before I could even present my ideas, was a weight on my chest.
As optimistic as I would like to be, it was hard to ignore that Asha’s body was weak. Gina had lasted mere months. Asha had been sick since the fall and as spring rolled in, I feared it might be her last time to see the seasons transition.
If only Prince Thomas were back in Amouridia, if only I could convince him to try his cure on Asha…
Master Carter gave my shoulder a squeeze and returned to his desk.
And I remained lost in thoughts of a long-forgotten summer, when life seemed so much better, so much happier, only to be squashed by circumstances I still didn’t understand.
My stomach dropped, and nausea rose in me. My soul grasped for a golden thread—a new addition to my premonitions—and as the fingers in my mind closed around it, I saw danger once again.
A dark night. A little pond by the palace. Prince Thomas looking at the stars. A flash of dark green mage robes. And then I heard him scream.