Chapter 7
Chapter
I thought I knew what hope was.
Then she reached her hand into my chest and set a brand new dream aflame.
Dinner drags on in a mutual exchange of backhanded compliments and the intemperate sipping of our kingdom’s finest reserves.
Mother spends most of it regaling us with the days of her youth, when the kingdoms flourished with budding life.
Even our vine-riddled garden had once been a colorful array of plant husbandry.
Back when the sun and moon rose and set, and children played in the enchanted forest.
I can only wonder what life might have been like. Or I would, if the prince’s thumb wasn’t rubbing circles on my thigh.
I don’t know what I hate more. Him, or the unsettling sweeping sensation stirring in my core.
Both. Definitely both.
“So, Sunday.” Aurelia’s lips curl into the shadowed impression of a smile. Eerie. Forced. “Have you put much thought into what a life outside these castle walls might look like?”
Yes. Only every other day of my life.
“I can’t say that I have.”
“And why would she, Mother, when the Silverwoods have given her a life most women could only ever dream of having. Given the circumstances.” Thoren punctuates his arrogant excuse for praise with a dimpled smile.
Much to my dismay, it works well in wooing my mother, even earning him a rare nod of approval from the king.
But I see the wolf hiding beneath his sheepish grin. I know the real Thoren Charming. The twisted version that takes way too much pleasure in seeing how far his hand can travel up my leg before I react to whatever game he’s playing. One I have no intention of letting him win.
He may already have my hand, but my heart? My body will be gone from this world long before he ever takes it.
If only my parents hadn’t traded theirs for greed and stature. Maybe they’d see the shipwreck they’re anchoring me to.
“We did the best we could,” Mother sighs between sips of what must be her fourth glass of spiced wine. “What we need—hiccup—is a way to break the curse.” Her words come out slurred. “In your letters, you had mentioned knowing what that final act might mean?”
Letters? What letters? My heart sinks as I follow Mother’s drunken gaze to Thoren beside me. This was his idea?
A twisted smile plays on the prince’s lips as he observes my surprise.
“Yes,” he answers coolly, as if reading my mind.
“I had my pontiffs look up curses of old, and they believe that what is truly needed to complete the final act is a union. The heart of a daughter into the hands of the first-born son,” he recites, eyes narrowing into an unfathomable void where my worst nightmares dance.
“I was born my mother’s first son. And Sunday? I believe Sunday was born to be mine.”
His?
No. Never. Absolutely not.
I turn away, concealing the shiver of terror racing down my spine with a long swig of wine. But mine appears to be the only heart full of sorrow. Around me, the kings and queens share in their excitement with a toast of their glasses.
How any of them could believe this rubbish is utterly astounding.
Sure, rationally speaking, this plan makes some sort of sense.
Certainly more than the very real alternative, which would rip the heart from my chest and into the hands of a twenty-four year old skeleton.
But still, no half-dead self-respecting princess wants to marry this not-so-charming prince, even if the alternative is death.
I take another generous sip, hoping to smother the frustration heating my cheeks with a light buzz.
“So this is a proposal, then?” I’m going to be sick again, but the prince?
He leans into our routine, his dangerous smile climbing higher upon his golden cheeks.
“No,” he answers coolly, lighting a spark of hope in my belly. “Not here.”
I sit back, even more disoriented than before. Though that could be the liquor.
I’m not the only one. The ridges between Father’s thick brows cave inward as he looks to Thoren’s father for explanation. A detail, it would appear, he wasn’t made aware of.
“We were thinking it would be best to have the engagement ceremony back in the Kingdom of Riches.” Lucius shifts in his seat, scratching at the irritated skin beneath his robe.
“Of course you were,” I hiccup.
Father cuts me a scathing look, but it’s Lucius whose nostrils flare.
“That is not how we do things, Lucius. We have traditions,” my father interjects, puffing out his chest.
“Exactly. Traditions!” And consent would be nice too. I raise my glass of wine, only to have it swiftly stolen from my grasp by the prince of petulance himself.
First my heart. Now my wine. Where does it end?
“We need this to work, Oren,” Lucius sighs, massaging the bridge of his nose.
“Our people are gravely ill. Our harvests, plentiful as they are, are ripe with the taste of rot. And your soldiers, once the strongest men in all the realm, are little more than mad men, afraid of the ghosts haunting their shadows.”
I’m no stranger to the burning shame of thinking of all the lives counting on us to break the curse. But Father? He would rather die than accept what we’ve become, let alone have it thrown in his face.
The silence that follows is sobering. The heat from Father’s boiling blood creeping into his hardened gaze.
Lucius is quick to surrender, offering up his palms. But even with the obvious fear bobbing in his throat, the heaviness of the truth lingers in the smoky air around us.
“I believe what my father is trying to say is that we are all very eager to start anew. But of course, we defer to your best judgement, your highness.” Thoren placates. “If you’d rather we have the ceremony here, I am certain it could be arranged. Though, I do wonder…”
He pauses, bringing the weight of his gaze to fall on me. On the pale blue hue of my arms.
“Perhaps the price was always meant to be paid in the place where the debt was made. A daughter for a son, in the place where the Evil Queen and her son were slain. I might be wrong, but do we really have the time to test that?”
Father looks to me, contemplating the prince’s words, and even I must admit it’s hard finding holes in Thoren’s theory—especially when I have none to offer up in its place.
I see it in the way Father’s eyes linger over the faint blue tint already climbing its way up my body. He’s no longer considering Thoren’s idea. He’s accepting it.
I grab a lemon posset and quickly stuff it into my mouth, but all I can taste is bitter resignation. It’s almost poetic how well Thoren’s plan fits the timing of everything. If what Galahand said is true, there isn’t much time to break the curse and save the kingdoms.
“Very well, then.” Father pushes to his feet, towering above everyone at the table. Commanding nothing short of their full attention.
“I will agree to this arrangement—on one condition. My men will be the only ones to escort Sunday to the Kingdom of Riches. There they will remain with her until a proposal has been made. Only then will I withdraw them and place Sunday in your care.”
Aurelia and Lucius share a triumphant look as they rise to their feet. Thoren is quick to follow, finally releasing his grip on my leg to shake my father’s hand. Our mothers share a clumsy embrace, giggling and smiling, paying no mind to what their happiness has cost me.
I suppose I can hardly blame them for leaping at the opportunity to bring back the world they knew. The one filled with unfathomable amounts of wealth and violent plunders.
Yet, I do.
I know what I am to them. What I was born to be.
I was not made to be loved.
I’d just hoped they would grow to love me anyway. But this isn’t a fairytale. And it’s certainly not another happily ever after.
While the rest of the royals are busy sorting the details of a future I have no say in, I slip into the cold night air, to the place where flowers once bloomed.
Though they have all long wilted away, the lightest current of columbines still laces the wind, a gentle reminder of what could not stand the test of time.
I don’t know what I’m hoping to find out here, but when you’re a girl forced to give all that you have left, there isn’t much left to lose. Apart from my unkempt hair and makeup, that is.
I cast my gaze upon the cloud-littered sky, welcoming the trickle of rain.
I can still feel Thoren’s touch on my skin, as cold as his eyes.
I can hardly believe the boy that blamed me for all of his hardships has grown into the man that believes I was made for him.
Yet, somehow, it makes perfect sense. What better way to punish me than to make sure I can’t get away. Again.
I follow the little gravel path that winds through the thick blue bushes of the thorny garden, thinking back on the first and only time I managed to escape the prince’s grasp. It was the very same day I met my best friend.
The haunting thought alone is enough to stave off the chill racing over my arms. If I wasn’t so bone tired, I’d laugh at the absurdity of it all.
Dead people aren’t known for being warm, but that’s exactly what Riven was.
An embrace with a scarred smile that brought every part of me to life.
Even the parts I thought to be just as dead as he was.
I lean into his memory, running my fingers over the twisted branches he told me were once green.
If it weren’t for him, I would have never known about all the different shades of summer, or that the sun was yellow, with rays that shone a honeyed hue.
Nor would I have believed that the blue bark of the barren trees scattered throughout the garden was once brown.
Several lifetimes have passed since then. It feels like another since I’ve seen him.
I stop before a rare rose bud, brushing my thumb over its velvety petals. I used to wonder if his hand in mine would feel the same. Soft and warm, yet oh-so-forbidden. Like his voice, ringing in the back of my mind.
“He’ll call you a beast. I’ll only call you mine.”
“Ouch!” Blood blooms from a thorn prick just between my fingers. It’s not enough to require a pontiff’s attention, though whether or not I’ll need it is yet to be determined.
After all, I am out in the wee hours of the night, searching for the answer to a mad man’s riddle whilst daydreaming of a boy who’s long been—
Oof!
Air whooshes from my lungs into the frigid night, swirling like smoke between me and the wall I’ve managed to stumble my way into.
Which is odd, considering I don’t remember there being a wall in the middle of the garden.
Nor do I remember any of our walls toting what feels like a well-muscled torso, or having a heady scent of cinnamon and…
Wild orange?
I peer up through my fallen curls, heart racing in my chest as I find what is most certainly not a wall.
It’s a masked man with the most devastatingly beautiful eyes I have ever seen.
In the shade of autumn green, they stare down at me, wide with surprise.