Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
The sky garden lay hushed beneath a wash of moonlight, but Aurelise could not seem to match its calm. She paced between the flowering arches again and again, her heart thudding in counterpoint to the soft rustle of the night breeze through the vines.
A tangle of emotions writhed through her chest. Giddiness from her earlier triumph at tea, where even the High Lady had graced her with an approving nod before departing.
The memory of it still sparkled through her veins like champagne bubbles, that heady sense of achievement at having not merely survived but genuinely succeeded at something so far outside her usual sphere.
And beneath that effervescence lurked a thrilling anticipation that made her fingers itch for quill and parchment.
Tonight, she would write to R again. She would tell him who she was, ask where he suggested they might meet, how they should proceed from this momentous revelation forward into whatever future awaited them.
But threading through both joy and anticipation came a horrible, leaden dread that sat like a stone in her stomach.
Because tonight—stars help her—tonight she must tell Prince Ryden that whatever existed between them must end.
The very thought sent an aching pain lancing through her chest, as though someone had reached inside and squeezed her heart with merciless fingers.
She had asked Thimble and Spark for privacy after they’d helped her slip out here unseen, and something in her expression must have conveyed the gravity of her request, for they’d actually taken her seriously.
Thimble had squeaked something about checking on the kitchen mice, while Spark had muttered about needing to inspect the quality of the evening’s custard kisses, and both had vanished with unusual haste.
Now she was alone with nothing but the rooftop terrace’s nocturnal symphony—the gentle splash of water from the fountain, the rustle of leaves in the evening breeze, the distant trill of night birds.
She paused at the balustrade, gripping the cool stone as she gazed out over the palace grounds.
The stars shimmered like scattered frost across the skies, their light falling over her skin in a whisper of silver.
She drew it in with a slow breath, tasting night and starlight and something quieter still—peace.
A thought drifted through her mind, unbidden: This could all be yours. You could stand here every night.
The soft sound of footsteps on stone sent a bolt of panic shooting through her. She turned, and there he was—Prince Ryden, stopping a few paces away, that slow, lazy smile already curving his lips in a way that made her insides melt.
“Have I mentioned,” he said, his voice carrying that particular quality of intimate amusement that never failed to undo her, “how I love you in pink?”
Aurelise glanced down at herself, heat rushing to her cheeks. Thimble had helped her back into the rose-hued silk tonight after Marta had left, somehow managing the ties at the back with her small paws. Aurelise had certainly not been about to face this conversation in her nightgown.
“I—that is—such observations are hardly—” Flustered, she raised a hand to her hair, tucking a stray strand back into its arrangement, though she suspected the gesture only drew attention to how her fingers trembled.
“And I adore how easily you blush. I suspected as much from the very beginning.”
“You … what?” That was really a rather strange thing to say. But Aurelise shook her head, not wanting to be pulled into his orbit, not when she had such difficult words to speak. “Your Highness, I need to tell you—”
“First,” he interrupted smoothly, “allow me to congratulate you on not merely surviving but truly conquering your tea this afternoon. That inspired touch of honoring the companions?” His expression shifted to something softer, more genuine. “I loved it.”
She could not think of what to say, especially when he was looking at her with such open admiration, but she managed to stammer out her thanks. Then, drawing a fortifying breath, she launched into the speech she’d been preparing since the moment she’d asked Thimble to arrange this meeting.
“I believe,” she began, proud when her voice emerged steady, “that I have discovered a solution for your magical difficulties. One that does not require you to bind yourself to someone merely because her magic appears to stabilize your own.”
That mischievous curl returned to his lips. “If you are imagining it would be some terrible hardship to bind myself to you for the remainder of my—”
“Please.” The word came out sharper than intended. “Do not jest. I am trying to say something important.”
His expression sobered—almost convincingly. “Forgive me.”
She nodded, gathering her thoughts again. “I spoke with my brother Kazrian yesterday—when I, well, briefly departed Solstice Hall—”
“Absconded with palace property,” the prince supplied. “I confess to being thoroughly entertained when a palace companion told me what she’d witnessed. The Lady Aurelise of five or six weeks past would never have dared such audacity.”
Aurelise frowned at the interruption, though the expression lacked true censure.
“As I was saying, I discussed with Kazrian—without revealing the specific details of your situation, naturally—the possibility of crafting a sort of … enchanted cuff. For someone struggling to control wayward magic.” She twisted her fingers together, watching his face carefully.
“If he could infuse my magic into such a device, the way he did for the chandelier crystal, it might serve to calm your volatile magic. He believes it entirely feasible. You could use your authority magic without fear of it unraveling beyond your restraint. There would be no pressure to choose a bride based on magical compatibility.”
Something shifted in his expression—surprise mingling with an emotion she could not name. “I … that is … I was not aware something like that might even be possible. Do you think … could your brother actually achieve that?”
There was something unexpectedly endearing about his uncertainty—a rare glimpse of the prince unguarded, momentarily unsure of himself. “I don’t see why not,” Aurelise said with a small smile. “He is very good with things like that. He always has been.”
Prince Ryden nodded slowly. “Thank you.”
“Of course.” She dipped her head, then forced herself to continue with the harder part. “And now I must impress upon you the fact that … that things cannot continue between us as they have been.”
“Ah.” He tilted his head, studying her with eyes dark like a midnight sky. “Yes, I knew this was coming. I must confess, I found myself irrationally jealous.”
“Jealous?” She blinked at him, frowning.
“Yes. Of myself.”
“That … that makes no sense, Your Highness.”
“I know. Because I still have not told you—”
“I cannot be your princess.” The words tumbled free in a rush, but she needed to say them before he could distract her again.
Instead of being upset, that slow smile returned, spreading across Prince Ryden’s features like sunrise. “My princess,” he said softly. “I confess, I very much like the sound of that.”
Frustration flared through her, and she drew herself taller.
“You are deliberately ignoring the rather crucial words ‘cannot be.’” Another breath, another attempt at steadiness.
“I should like to request permission to leave Solstice Hall. To withdraw from the Crown Court entirely. I believe I’ve remained long enough that my departure would not reflect poorly upon my family, and with—”
“Lady Aurelise.”
“The timing is actually quite fortuitous,” she forged ahead, ignoring his interruption, her words coming faster now, “given my brother’s new child. I wish to be closer to my family at this time. We could announce that—”
“Aurelise.” He took a step toward her, closing some of that careful distance she’d maintained.
“That my family—”
“I love you.”
The words struck through her like a bell’s toll, reverberating until there was nothing left in her but silence. For a heartbeat, she was utterly still—breath, thought, and reason suspended—before the enormity of it all came crashing back, sharp and bright and terrifying.
“No.” The word emerged as barely a whisper. “You cannot say such things. It isn’t—”
“And I know you love me.”
“I—that is—you cannot simply presume—”
“It is not presumption.” His voice had gone quiet, certain, gentle in a way that threatened to undo every defense she’d carefully constructed.
“Nothing has changed since the Crown Court began!” The words burst from her, desperate and slightly frantic.
“I remain entirely unsuitable for this role, this … this life. You require someone dazzling and unafraid, someone who does not hide in kitchens and flee from ballrooms. I would make the most dreadful princess imaginable.”
“That is categorically untrue.”
Her music began to trill around them, agitated notes spiraling through the air. “It is! You believe you know me because you’ve convinced me to attempt various improper adventures with you these past weeks, but you don’t. You—”
“If you would allow me a moment to—”
“No!”
“Lise—”
“You do not know me at all!”
Suddenly he was directly before her, hands pulling her against his chest, arms wrapping around her with firm, steady certainty. “I do know you!” he declared, his tone almost fierce.
The suddenness of it stole her breath. She went utterly still—frozen, wordless, scarcely certain she was even breathing.
But there was something in his unyielding hold, in the steady warmth of him, that slowly unraveled her resistance.
Almost without meaning to, she found herself yielding, softening against him.
“I do know you,” he repeated, quieter now. One hand came up to cup the back of her head, drawing her closer to him, and his lips pressed against her hair, his breath stirring the carefully arranged strands.