38. The Ember of Midnight
Chapter 38
The Ember of Midnight
CHARMING
I lead Cinder into a storage room. The smell of must and acrylic paint thickens the air until my eyes water.
The dark is oppressive, even for me, and I can see in the dark. It takes a couple of moments to light the candles. I’ve already located the item and hung it on a wall, on display for Cinder.
Once the room is illuminated, Cinder’s eyes turn round and glassy. “The Ember of Midnight.”
I found it.
I fucking found it.
I deserve a medal. Or at least my own detective series complete with a roguish cap and pipe as I solve even more mysteries.
The painting is a beautiful skyline of the Midnight cliffs. Byung-He has perfectly captured the crashing waves below. The starlight seems to stretch out to me with a hundred magical winks that make it feel like a benevolent divine being is giving me a cheeky nod of knowing. I see you. All is well.
Fucker always had a talent for art.
But the best work he ever did is standing next to me, clutching her heart as if it might pop out of her breastbone.
“Took a bit of doing to find it,” I say, forgoing modesty to let her know I hunted like a dog to figure out what she was looking for. “Would have helped if you told me it was a painting from the get go.” I scratch the back of my head, not about to admit I had to pull on Jack’s strings for information.
Cinder spares me the briefest glance before she’s glued again to the painting. “It’s bigger than I remember,” she breathes.
“Yeah. If your plan had been to swipe it and return home, I’m not sure how you’d get those slim little arms around it to make off with it.”
“I would have managed.” She says it with all the piss and vinegar in the world. Which tells me she also has no idea how she would have got it back to the Common World.
Then Cinder lowers to the ground, crossing her legs, settling in. I drop down next to her and sit in silence.
In the foreground is a woman with jet-black hair that gleams beautifully against the deep blue and indigo hues of the night sky. Her pale skin glows like moonlight, and only half of her face is visible as she stares out at the ocean with loving awe.
I don’t consider myself particularly sentimental, but even I have never been able to deny that Byung-He's work moves me. Perhaps this one more than any other.
To my knowledge, he never painted people or portraits. The woman’s dark eyes are filled with so much love I can almost feel it swelling inside me like a second heart growing in my chest, crowding out my non-beating organ.
While it’s kind of creepy feeling, it also creates a sensation of fullness and companionship. Like I’m suddenly not alone.
A silence falls over us, and the moment feels sacred.
This is important. This matters, and I won’t ruin the moment. Cinder risked coming back to Midnight, risked facing an ugly past just for this and I’ve been desperate to find out why. I do my best not to stare at Cinder as she drinks in the painting with a blatant thirst.
Though her eyes remain glassy, tears never fall.
The question of why burns my throat. It presses on me with increasing pressure, but I fight it with everything I have. Cinder needs this moment more than I need my question answered.
“Ask it,” she finally says, her voice a little ragged.
“What is so special about this painting?” It comes out in a whisper.
Her shoulders hitch and I can’t tell if it’s a hiccup or a swallowed sob.
“It’s my mother.”
I suspected. Knowing gives me a strange sense of relief that I’d guessed correctly. The eyes, the hair, they are Cinder’s.
“She died in childbirth. It’s the only picture I’ve ever seen of her.” Cinder’s voice is thick with emotion. “And it’s painted by my father’s hand. When I’m with this painting it’s my family, all of us together.”
“You look like her,” I point out, nudging her with my shoulder.
A lop-sided smile springs to her lips.
I swear my heart almost beats.
I’m ready to let the silence fall around us again, but she goes on.
“When I sit in front of this painting, it’s like I’m with them. I can feel my mother’s love. My father used to tell me how excited she was for me to come into this world. That she wanted a girl more than anything, and she would be so proud of me. When I look at this painting, I’m part of a family unit and I’m not alone anymore. I actually. . . belong.”
“You belong with your friends,” I point out, trying to ignore the almost painful squeeze in my chest.
You belong with me.
“Yeah.”
“Wow,” a laugh burst out of me. “That was completely unbelievable. Do you really not think you belong with them? Goldie, Snow, Rap, all of your friends at the Poison Apple adore you.”
Cinder shrugs, avoiding my gaze. “It's very nice,” she says again in a completely unconvincing tone.
I study her for a moment, realization dawning. “But you don't fully let them in, do you? You keep a part of yourself locked away, even from the people who love you most.”
Her eyes snap to mine, a flicker of defensiveness in their violet depths. “That's not true. I'm close with my friends.”
“Are you?” I press gently. “Because I've seen the way you are with them. You laugh and joke, but there's always a distance, a wall you keep up. It's like you're afraid to let them see the real you.”
Cinder opens her mouth as if to argue, then closes it again. Her shoulders slump almost imperceptibly.
“And it's not just them,” I continue softly. “You do the same thing with me. We've been through a lot of the same things, but I still feel like I only know a fraction of who you are. You're always holding back, keeping me at arm's length.”
She stays silent, but I can see the truth of my words hitting home in the way she worries her lower lip between her teeth, the way her gaze darts away from mine.
“I think I understand why,” I murmur, turning to look at the painting once more. “After what happened when you were young, after your father died. . .”
Cinder inhales sharply beside me, and I know I've struck a nerve.
If I could find those fucking monsters who attacked Cinder as a child. . . Perhaps when I’m not on Castle-arrest anymore, I’ll go hunting for some rogue vampires. Make them pay for what they did to her. For the scars they left behind.
If that is who is responsible for her pain. Another theory has been forming since our tryst in the gardinium maze.
We sit quiet for a moment, the only sound the distant ticking of a clock echoing through the empty halls.
“But this painting,” I say at last, “it's different, isn't it? With your family, captured like this. . .it's safe to feel that connection, that love. They can't hurt you here. Can't let you down.”
Slowly, Cinder nods. “When I look at this, I'm part of a family again. I'm not alone anymore. I belong.” Her voice cracks on the last word, and she clears her throat. “But out in the world. . .it's not so simple.”
“No,” I agree quietly, “it's not.”
She doesn't respond, just continues to stare resolutely at the painting. As if she has refuge as long as she has her eyes on it.
I know, deep in my bones, that I want to be one of the people she lets in. One of the ones she trusts with her whole, unguarded heart.
No matter what it takes
I don’t deserve her, but fucking hell I want her more than I want anything else.
“It’s not safe.” It’s barely a whisper from her perfect purple-painted lips.
“What do you mean?” I ask, instead of giving into the almost overpowering desire to kiss her.
“You can never know who to trust. Not really. I know my stepfamily was never the most affectionate or loving, but I figured we were still family. I was very wrong.” Her voice drops to a low, dark pitch. “The moment my dad died, they turned on me. They hated me and I had no idea. So not only was I devastated over my father’s passing, but I found my family wasn’t really my family at all. Suddenly I wasn’t allowed out of the house. They locked me and forced me to clean like a servant. It was like that for four years until I couldn’t take it anymore and left when I was sixteen.”
“Sixteen,” I echo, stunned. I often wondered what happened to the human girl after her father died, and now I know. “How did you get past the border?”
Without my necklace or Cinder’s shoes, there are portal points between the realms—gates guarded on both sides. My father is strict on border patrol.
She shook her head. “Dumb luck. I was so small, I was able to sneak by. But the constant blood loss took its toll. By the time I escaped, I was severely anemic. The iron supplements help, but it's a constant battle to keep my levels up.”
And it doesn’t help she’s been living two lives, her head spinning from one emotional shock after the next.
“I lived on the streets of Boston for a while until I found jobs here and there. Then I met Goldie. She introduced me to Rap and the Poison Apple. I got some actual money and put myself through college for art. But this. . .” She sighs at the stretch of canvas. “I’ll never be this good.”
“You should stop comparing yourself. Your father was talented, but so are you. In a completely different way that’s unique to you.” Then I lean back, observing the painting closer. “Did your parents love each other?”
She nods. “My father adored my mother. But I bet if they lived long enough, they would have been disappointed in each other, or maybe even in me. But here in this painting, there is so much love. It can’t be taken away. It can’t turn into bitterness, resentment, disappointment.”
With that, Cinder pushes up to a standing position, dusting her hands off. I’m on my feet in a second.
Something in me says she’s been too vulnerable for too long and she’s trying to shut it down. But I won’t have it. I got past her defenses for just a little while and I’m fucking addicted to it. I could live off her hardness, any scraps she’d throw my way. But now that I’ve brushed against her naked underbelly, I can’t stop until I’m nestled in there, a permanent fixture in her softness.
“Your parents would never be disappointed in you. If they were here, you would have been safe and loved.” The word comes out almost ferociously.
Cinder shakes her head. “I used to fantasize about that, but the more I know the world, the more I realize people live too long. Not just fairies. Live long enough and I think we’ll find everyone ends up hating one another or at best, drifting apart. At least you and I have a straightforward agreement.”
I swallow over a lump in my throat. I want to tell her she’s wrong. I’ve seen the way she completes the Poison Apple, the way her friends look at her with such love and acceptance. Even her boss would protect her from the likes of me. I want to show her that’s not how relationships work, but truthfully, I wouldn’t know.
I turn and run my hand along a crate of paintings, almost wishing for the stab of splinters.
“I’ve never had that acceptance you spoke of. My father only views me as an heir to his throne, a pawn of power. I still remember the day I found that out. I began training at twelve in martial arts, and when I won my first tournament, I went to my father after to share the pride I felt. I worked my ass off.”
I remember stepping into the training arena, my heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and nerves. “At twelve years old, it was my first real martial arts tournament against other young nobles learning the warrior disciplines.”
All eyes turned toward me as I made my way to the center mat. The King's icy gaze bored into me from his ceremonial throne. I could feel the weight of his expectations like a lead vest strapped to my chest.
“The referee called the first match, and I faced off with a wiry boy a couple years my senior. We exchanged the traditional formalities and then the bout began.”
Months of rigorous training took over as we traded blows and grappled. I had been drilled mercilessly on form, tactics, and sheer ferocity. Mentors beat those lessons into me until they were deeply ingrained instinct.
“Eventually I landed a decisive strike, sending my opponent sprawling. The referee's hand shot up, declaring me the victor. A primal sense of accomplishment surged through me. I had proven myself, overpowered my adversary through sheer skill and fortitude.
“As I turned with a flushed smile toward my father, desperate for his approval, his expression remained chillingly impassive.”
As I tell Cinder the story, a painful coldness extends out from my center.
The King's voice had cut through the arena like a blade. “Continue.”
I didn’t understand. The other kid was on the ground, dazed. I’d won.
My father’s eyes narrowed to slits. My chest deflated as surely as if he'd struck me. Before I could respond, he continued in a booming proclamation. “Continue.”
Realization dawned. The word hung in the air like a sword suspended above the captive onlookers.
I stared at my downed opponent, already battered and beaten. A sudden pit opened in my gut as I realized my father demanded I continue wailing on him well past any honor or decency. Simply for the sake of dominance.
“And no one on the court would stop either him or me. I was to make an example of our power, our ruthlessness. I was meant to inspire fear and let everyone know the Charming throne ruled all.”
When I opened my mouth to protest, my father’s granite expression turned any objection to ash on my tongue. The truth was laid bare—the approval I so desperately craved would not come through upholding virtues like honor or mercy.
“At that moment, I understood my father did not view me as his son, only as an instrument to wield and shape into the most ruthless extension of his will. And if I failed to become that heartless embodiment of his power. . . then I was nothing at all to him.” The wood of the crate cracks under my hand. I didn’t realize I’d been holding it so hard. I step back and wipe my hand down my pants.
“Did you do it?” Cinder breathed after I told her what happened. “Did you keep beating the other kid?”
I shook my head. “I wouldn’t do it.” I paid for that.
It was the first day I learned what true pain was, but it wouldn’t be the last.
“Since then, I’ve almost made it my mission to disappoint Daddy Dearest.” The partying antics, the sleeping around, they were partly proving that I was exactly what he said I was—useless, irresponsible, and no real royal. The rest was because I was trying to fill that hole inside me where I imagine parental love should be.
“But your mother loves you,” Cinder points out even as she crosses her arms over her chest. “At least you have her, still.”
I nod and grip the back of my neck. “My mother does love me, as much as she can, but she doesn’t have much to give. I don’t know when it happened. I was too young to realize it for a while, but something in her is broken. I’ve no doubt my father is responsible,” I finish darkly.
Yet another reason on top of the pile of cruel sins he’s committed that he needs to pay for. If only I could get the Mice to help me with making him pay for them.
“Cinder,” I start again, dropping my arm. “About the scars.”
A pair of perfect lips press against mine, and my question scatters.