Chapter 2
After escaping the armoire, I take the stairs two at a time, trying to outrun the erratic thud of my heart.
It doesn’t work. The disordered rhythm chases me all the way up to Evelyn’s bedroom, where I waste no time hurling myself through the door. All three of my sisters stop and stare as I lean against the wood with one hand mashed to my chest.
Goddess, what just happened down there? Did the fae king…scent me out?
Evelyn surveys me from her vanity, her nose wrinkling. “Sariah. Why in Ishanna’s name haven’t you gotten ready yet?”
My throat works around a dozen possible responses.
I want to say there’s no need, that I refuse to attend tonight’s presentation, but that’s a lie.
Not only do the terms of the treaty demand my presence, but I’ve longed to put this day behind me all my life.
Once the fae king officially passes me over, my future becomes my own.
I’ll face the Claiming and walk away, and then nothing will stand between me and my dreams of joining the priestesshood.
Which means tomorrow, at sunrise prayers, I’ll kneel before our High Priestess and ask to take the robes.
I’ll start as a dedicant, then someday, years from now, become a full-fledged priestess.
I’ll float through the temple hallways, my white robes rippling, my hair so long it brushes the backs of my knees.
I’ll even have earned my magic by then, like my sisters have already.
I’ll have made my family proud. I’ll belong.
Finally.
The thought girds me, enough that I push away from the door. But the fae king’s glance still lingers, like a cold shadow cast across the back of my neck. “I have time,” I manage.
“Barely.” Evelyn huffs. “The Claiming starts at sunset. That’s in less than half an hour.”
A protest gathers on my lips, but she’s right—outside the window, the sun burns low, flooding the horizon with creams and oranges and pinks.
Not much time at all, then.
From over by the floor-length mirror, my sister Brynne glares. “Where were you, anyway? Don’t tell me you went spying on the fae king?”
Evelyn gasps. So does Carina. Three pairs of hazel eyes pin me in place.
The weight of their stares makes me squirm, but I can’t lie.
Brynne will know, because like all my sisters—like every woman in my bloodline except for me—she’s earned her Grace already.
The goddess gifted my eldest sister with farsight, which means Brynne has probably spent the last half-hour watching me from here, her rosebud lips pinched in distaste.
“I wasn’t spying,” I say stiffly. “I just wanted a glimpse, that’s all.”
Another collective gasp from Evelyn and Carina. Brynne smooths down her skirts, her expression unchanging—a dead giveaway that she has been watching.
I look away. This is why Brynne and I don’t get along. Her constant surveillance unsettles me.
Carina takes a hesitant step, her hands trembling as she knits them at her waist. “If you saw Amriel, maybe you could…um…you could tell us what he’s like?”
The question comes out whisper-thin—at twenty-three, Carina holds the title of not only youngest, but also quietest, and she often speaks as though she doesn’t have a right to. As though her own questions frighten her, somehow.
Usually, I’m gentle with her. We all are. But right now, I can’t stop the truth from tumbling out. “He’s exactly what everyone says. Cold. Frightening. Definitely dangerous.”
A squeak flies from Carina’s throat. “I should probably change, then. Try not to draw any attention.”
I grimace. I hate that she looks so terrified. Actually, now that I peer closer, all three of them do. Brynne hides it better than the others, but the tension in her jaw makes me want to rush to the door and lock us all inside.
Because not one of us would survive life in the fae king’s castle, where all manner of heathen things take place. As children of Ishanna, we need order. Discipline. An austere marble temple in which to spend our mornings on our knees, communing with our goddess.
Or, in my case, striving to earn my Grace.
Carina scurries toward Evelyn’s closet, presumably to find a dress even less likely to attract notice than the drab thing she’s already wearing. The moment she passes from earshot, Evelyn’s narrowed gaze finds mine. “Did you really have to scare her like that?”
Acidic guilt eats its way up my throat, but everything scares Carina. She still sleeps with a candle lit, afraid of what lurks in the shadows of her bedroom. “She asked. What should I do, lie?”
Evelyn grumbles something indecipherable, then swivels back to her vanity and frowns at her reflection, as if she, too, hopes to find some way to diminish herself.
“Just tell me Amriel was in his fae form, at least? Because if he shows up as a goblin tonight, nothing will stop Carina from running away screaming.”
Her question gives me pause. It’s rumored the fae can take two forms—one essentially human, the other…not. Which I believe, because our cook gossips relentlessly about the goblin who joined the fae delegation on their last visit to court.
“The fae king’s Shadow,” she likes to say, clutching her moon pendant so hard her knuckles turn white. “That’s what they call him, and I’ve never seen anything so unnatural, so…beastly. And Ishanna help me, I hope I never lay eyes on the likes of him again.”
That term has always stuck in my mind—the fae king’s Shadow.
I don’t know what it means, exactly, only that our cook makes him sound like some kind of cross between a guard and a warrior.
One who always takes his goblin form. In my imagination, he looms as a monstrous shadow, grotesque and misshapen.
But I saw nothing that gruesome down in the hall just now, so maybe the king’s Shadow didn’t come, this time. “Actually, they were all in their fae forms. You have nothing to worry about.”
Evelyn goes to work taming her brown curls. “Well. Thank Ishanna for that.”
“Oh, what does it matter?” Brynne cuts in, a sour twist on her lips. “Fae or goblin, it’s not like the king will choose any of us. He never does.”
Her words sink deep, sparking warmth in my marrow. She’s right. Since the end of the war, Amriel has come to choose a mate eight times, and eight times, he’s walked away empty-handed.
“Actually,” Evelyn says, “I think tonight, he’ll…”
She trails off, and both Brynne and I snap to attention. We know exactly what it means when Evelyn “thinks” something.
Sure enough, Evelyn’s gaze turns glassy, her attention shifting to some landscape beyond the mirror. I step in. So does Brynne, catching the hairbrush just as it falls from Evelyn’s hand.
I brace to catch my sister if she topples. Evelyn may be Graced with foresight, but sometimes, when a vision grips her, her body shuts down. Once, she fell and hit her head so hard our surgeon had to stitch up her scalp, afterward.
This episode passes quickly, though. After a handful of heartbeats, Evelyn blinks in a way that lets me know she’s rejoined reality. Still, I let a few moments pass before lowering my hands.
Evelyn stares into the mirror, her cheeks ashen, her fingers clamped around the vanity to steady herself. “The king will choose someone,” she murmurs. “Tonight. I saw it.”
I try to school my expression, but no force in existence can quell the horrified wrench of my mouth. “What? Are you sure?”
A hard swallow travels down her throat. She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t have to.
“Who?” I demand. “Who will he choose?”
“I…” Evelyn’s brow knits. “I don’t know. Someone in this room. That’s all I could see.”
My fingers curl, my nails biting into my palms. Of course it’s someone in the room. There’s no other possibility, because the Claiming only applies to women of royal blood. To princesses, in other words. Like me. Or Brynne, or Evelyn, or—
Carina emerges from the closet, wearing a dress that vaguely resembles a potato sack. When she spots us huddled by the vanity, she stops. “What? What’d I miss?”
My sisters exchange a horrified glance, but Brynne doesn’t hold back. “Evelyn had a vision. She says Amriel’s going to choose someone. Tonight.”
The color in Carina’s cheeks drains away, along with all the warmth in the room. Cold seeps into my stomach while goosebumps pebble along my skin.
“You’re sure?” Carina whispers.
“That’s what I saw,” Evelyn says hoarsely.
Long moments drag by. A hard gulp scrapes down my throat, loud enough to echo from the plain furniture and bare floor. Evelyn hasn’t been wrong yet. Which means…
Oh, goddess. Ishanna help us all.
The stony silence has barely settled when Brynne bursts into motion. She flies toward Evelyn’s chest-of-drawers, her movements frantic.
I frown. “What’re you doing?”
Brynne doesn’t answer. She just yanks open the top drawer and fishes out a pair of shears, then darts to the floor-length mirror, where she turns the blades on her own hair. Metal flashes and squeaks. Her long, honey-brown locks float downward and pile at her feet.
Horror lumps in my chest. I try to force it down, but the tightness refuses to ease. Within minutes, Brynne’s scalp gleams from beneath bristly, uneven stubble.
She turns to us, something hard and fiery glittering in her eyes. “We’ll change it. Evelyn’s vision. I don’t care how ugly I have to make myself, I won’t be Claimed by a fae. By a…a heathen. I’d rather die.”
My throat bobs. I have no idea how to respond, only that I agree—I can’t think of a worse fate than being stolen away from Aethrolia. Being ripped from Ishanna’s grace. Especially on the eve of earning my magic.
Because I’m close now, I can sense it. This morning, when I knelt and clasped my hands beneath my chin, I felt the goddess’s regard, like a warm breath against the back of my neck.
It was Ishanna’s way of reassuring me, I know it. She may have saved my Grace for last, but only because she has plans for me. Ones that involve me becoming a priestess.
Which means I can’t let Amriel Claim me, either. I won’t.