Chapter Eleven
My sleep is uncomfortably dreamless, as if my brain was snuffed out like a candle and relit as the sun rose.
It takes me a moment to remember where I am. I kick my feet like a grasshopper under the silk blankets of this unfamiliar
bed and blink against the morning light streaming in from the ceiling-high windows. The whole room smells of dew-covered roses,
the kind that grew in our garden back home in Belgrave Square.
The same girl with the sunset hair from last night is in my room, building up a fire in the grate. When she hears me stirring,
she turns around.
“Good morning, miss!” she says cheerfully, and adds another stick to the crackling fire. The smoke here smells different,
sharper, almost medicinal.
“Morning,” I mutter, my throat too dry to say much of anything. I push myself up on my pillows and run a finger through my
unruly hair, finding a braid I don’t remember doing.
Eloree pushes a cup of tea into my hand, and its warmth leaches through the porcelain into my cold fingers.
I’m wary of eating or drinking anything in the Otherworld.
I’ve read enough stories of young maidens eating a single cherry at a revel and getting stuck or sick for ages, but I’m going to have to eat eventually and my stomach is gnawing at itself with hunger.
I take a tentative sip and find it close enough to English tea, if a little floral.
“Up, I must dress you,” she chirps.
“For what?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer; instead, she gestures for me to raise my arms. I do so reluctantly, and she slips off my nightdress and
puts me in a clean chemise.
Over that, she laces an old-fashioned tab-waisted corset. The dress is snow-white, the square neck and bell sleeves adorned
with golden cord. She leaves my hair loose around my shoulders, save for two small braids that pull away from my face.
She opens the door and waves me through. “Come, come.”
“Where?” I ask again, but again, I receive no answer.
“Where is Lydia?” I raise my voice as fear begins to prickle at my arms.
“Her Majesty, Queen Lydia, and His Highness, Prince Emmett, are waiting.”
It’s jarring to hear my sister referred to as Her Majesty, but I suppose she is the queen of the Otherworld as much as I am the queen of England.
I follow Eloree down the grand staircase to the first floor, past a library with ceiling-high shelves of forest-green marble,
and a strategy room in dark burgundies with an enormous map in the center. There’s another rickety wooden staircase that leads
down to a cellar smelling strongly of something.
The prickles of fear have turned into full-on, stabbing panic. The castle is silent and still. We pass no others, hear no
voices.
“Where is everyone?”
“Waiting.”
“Where?” I prod, but Eloree gives nothing away.
The doors to the castle are at least three stories tall, carved of white wood. They creak against the stone floors as they
swing open on their own, revealing a crisp, blue day.
We walk all the way to the gates of the castle. They, too, swing open freely as we approach.
“Please,” I beg, but Eloree doesn’t so much as turn around.
I think about running, sprinting into the woods or something, but that feels useless. I have an eerie feeling there’s nowhere
in this kingdom Bram couldn’t find me.
We’ve only been walking for a few minutes when I hear the distant roar of voices.
It starts so low I convince myself I’m imagining it, but as we get closer there is no denying the cacophony.
It brings to mind the day of the regatta, when hundreds gathered on the banks of the Thames to watch the boats race.
“What are they cheering for?” I ask.
“You.”
We turn a corner, and I see them. The winding streets of town are packed with faeries who stand shoulder to shoulder.
Some hang out of upper windows, waving ribbons or sloshing wine onto the onlookers below.
The crowd parts reverently as Eloree and I approach, and this close, I can tell they’ve been up all night or longer. They
have the glassy, bedraggled look of faeries at the end of a long revel. Their mouths and clothes are stained with bloodred
wine, and their cheering is reaching a near frenzy.
In the very center of town, where four roads converge to make a square, a hasty platform has been built.
In the center is Bram. He’s sitting on a throne, one hand holding up his bored-looking head, the other spinning a knife against
the armrest.
I gasp softly upon seeing him. Some animalistic part of me, the place in my brain that has kept humans alive for generations,
begs me to run or fight, but all I can manage to do is freeze.
Lydia said we had more time. I thought we had more time.
Bram’s full mouth pulls up into a half smile, and he gestures at me lazily with the tip of his dagger. “You’ve kept us waiting
long enough.”
The crowd goes wild as I step onto the platform. In the far back, I spot little Aurelia Vallen and her husband who look just
as delighted as the rest of them.
On either side of Bram are Lydia and Emmett. Lydia wears a cream-colored dress similar to mine, and Emmett is in black court
regalia like Bram, a golden circlet on his dark hair.
Lydia’s eyes meet mine with a weight I’ve never seen in them before. No longer the vacant stare I grew used to in our last
months together, but something desperately urgent. I used to be able to read my sister’s mind with nothing but a glance, but
in this moment she feels as far from me as she did when I was in London.
Emmett, on the other hand, can’t even look at me. His eyes are fixed on the eaves of some far-off building.
Bram lounges on his throne, as handsome and relaxed as ever.
Not seeing any other choice, I shuffle up beside Lydia, so I’m standing next to Bram.
Now that I’m up here I can see the banners. They hang from every window in the town square, painted with borders of stars and moons and wildflowers, all bearing the same message boldly in the center: WELCOME, IVY.
This spectacle isn’t something you could plan overnight.
My heart goes to my throat and I fear I might be sick, right here in front of everyone.
“You knew I’d come?” I whisper down at Bram.
Bram examines the shiny tip of his dagger. “You’re not nearly as clever as you think.”
Which means Rhion told him, which means my friends aren’t safe. My mind spins.
“I’ve only ever wanted what’s best for everyone.” Bram addresses the crowd now. “But it seems even my best-laid plans have
unintended consequences. Two kingdoms, two queens seemed a rather neat arrangement, but I get the impression the Benton sisters
are unhappy with the tangled web we’ve found ourselves in.
“Despite these temporary negative feelings, it’s a great pleasure to have my people here to witness a joyous announcement.
It seems we’ve found ourselves in quite a conundrum, but never fear, as I have a solution.”
The crowd cheers and Bram preens.
I stare across the dais at Emmett and silently beg him to look up at me, but he’s as still and useless as a statue.
“No—” I open my mouth to protest, so used to lying to keep Bram’s temper at bay that it’s my instinct to soothe him. My corset
bites into the flesh of my waist.
He slams the tip of his knife into the arm of his throne, splintering the wood beneath.
“Let me finish!” He takes a breath and composes himself.
“As I was saying, the situation is untenable. We can’t go on with all this—” He pauses and waves his knife mindlessly, searching for the right word.
“Scheming. It leaves a bad taste in one’s mouth, does it not? ”
I look to Bram, ignoring the crowd. “I only missed my sister,” I lie, the desperation to placate him clawing at me. It would
be easier if he were angry, but this eerie calm is so much worse. The boning of my corset seems to grow tighter, and I suck
in an uneasy breath.
“Let’s not do that, Ivy,” Bram dismisses me. “I have a plan to solve all of this, and it’s going to be so much fun.”
Dread curdles in my stomach. Lydia reaches over and clutches my sweaty hand.
“I got the idea from my mother, actually,” Bram explains. “She held a series of games to help me identify the most suitable
candidate for an English wife. Why not do the same to identify who will be the best queen of the Otherworld?”
I’m going to be sick. The edges of my vision blur in and out as his words settle. More games.
“No, please, darling, let’s go back to London and things can continue on as they ever were.” I fight to keep my voice sweet
and steady. There’s no mistaking it this time—my corset squeezes, leaving me gasping.
Bram shakes his head. “It’s impractical to have two wives. A folly of ambition. The people should have one queen.”
“Long live the queen!” a few in the crowd shout, and I know it’s not me they mean.
Bram’s nostrils flare. “I am your king!” he snarls. The audience cowers and Lydia looks away, embarrassed.
“No, it makes sense,” I say gently. “Lydia is such a perfect queen here, and I am so useful to you back home in England. You need us both.” My corset constricts again, the pressure on my lungs nearly unbearable.
“I need you both?” he replies, voice thick with sarcasm. “So I can spend the rest of your lives watching you scheme behind
my back? You have more loyalty to each other than you do to me, your husband. It’s disgusting.”
“But—” I protest. I can’t take a full breath, so the words die in my throat.
For the first time, Emmett glances to me, worried, but just as quickly looks away, and his stony expression returns.
Bram sighs and tips his head back. “Do you ever stop talking?”
I sputter, all at once ashamed and terrified and filled with rage.
“What will happen?” Lydia asks, so quietly it’s nearly a whisper.
Bram looks up at her. “What?”
Lydia doesn’t look up. “What will happen to the one who doesn’t win?”
Bram shrugs. “What is it your English aristocracy does? The loser will get a house in some backwater corner of the country
and you can carry out the rest of your days living like royalty in the middle of a sheep pasture.”
I hear the unsaid: No matter what happens, you will never see your sister again. I stopped Mor’s games once; surely I can do it again.
Bram points his knife lazily in my direction. “I know what you’re thinking, Ivy. There is no getting out of this. I am not
my softhearted mother.”
“But—”
He interrupts me with an exaggerated sigh and looks between me and Lydia. “You know, I’m tempted to pick Lydia. She talks back so much less. But then—” He looks at me. “Lydia left me. Ivy, you’ve been so loyal.”
He fixes his gaze on Emmett next. “She’s never once faltered. She lets me into her bed as easy as breathing.”
My skin burns red and I want to explain that it’s not like that, but it wouldn’t do anyone any good.
“I—” There’s not enough air in my lungs to form the words. I gasp.
Bram looks to Emmett. “Oh, how I love those little gasps she takes. Don’t you?”
Emmett just keeps staring ahead, his chest rising and falling.
“These games will make it all easier. And it’s so much more fun this way, don’t you agree?” Bram says.
“What if we say no?” I pant, my lungs screaming.
He frowns. “I was afraid you might say that. You’re no fun at all sometimes, you know that?”
The crowd parts, revealing two figures, huddled together and flanked by armed guards. Faith is sporting a purple black eye.
Marion’s knuckles are smeared with blood, and I hope that means she got a few good blows in before they dragged her here.
Behind them, Rhion stands, his face unreadable, his gaze only on Lydia. My heart sinks. We were so foolish to trust him.
“You cut your hair,” Lydia mutters.
Rhion’s eyes widen, betraying an emotion I don’t think he meant to show.
“I’ll keep your little friends safe for you,” Bram continues. “You can rest well knowing they’re being taken care of in the
dungeons. But if you stop participating . . . then I can make no promises of their safety.”
I want to say something noble and brave like You’re a monster or I can’t believe I ever thought I could love you. No one could. But I still can’t breathe.
Bram turns to Lydia. “I know what you’re thinking—who are these girls to you?”
“I wasn’t thinking that,” Lydia replies softly.
“Oh, don’t start acting all saintly now,” Bram snarls. “Should you act out, I’ll punish Emmett. Is that motivation enough?”
Lydia blanches. “I won’t act out.”
“Good,” Bram says. “Then there’s nothing to be worried about, is there?”
Emmett’s eyes haven’t left the eaves of that far building. It looks like his mind vacated his body long ago and all that’s
left is a husk of him.
“You won’t send him back to the dungeons, will you?” Lydia asks like it pains her.
Bram shrugs. “Not unless you give me a reason to. Emmett has been a loyal regent and I see no reason to punish him unnecessarily.”
Bram looks to me with his brows raised, as if to say Look how reasonable I am. Then he stands from his throne and claps his hands. “I know you have missed me, these many months I’ve been in England, but
let me remind you, this is who we are. Only I can bring you this. Let the games begin!”
The crowd goes wild, cheering and screaming and sloshing their cups. Someone hanging from an upper window magicks a cannon
of confetti that flutters from the sky, leaving us coated in a rainbow of colors.
“Now?” I ask, shocked.
“Would you rather wait around? Your mortal lives are dwindling away at quite the clip. I’ll never understand humans’ lack of urgency.”
Lydia looks to me, something dejected in her posture. “Let’s just get it over with, Ivy.”
Guards herd us away before we can say another word.
“I’m sorry!” I call to Marion and Faith, but I don’t know if they hear me. I’m knocked unconscious as soon as I step down
from the platform.