Chapter Sixty-Two Blodwyn #2
All attention pivots to the upper floors of the palace where, to my complete astonishment, Aunt Margaret has appeared in one of the blown-out windows. Her silver gaze shines in the light of the dying pyre. And she’s holding…a mirror.
“It’s his,” Ayleth says in a gasp. “Callen’s.”
“Margaret!” Papa barks. “What are you doing? Put that down! Carefully!”
I look to Ayleth, panicked. “You said if it breaks, Papa dies?”
She swallows. “Yes, but so will Margaret.”
Horror flares in my veins. I rush toward the palace.
“Do as Papa says, Aunt Margaret!” I call up to her, breathless. “Please. It will kill you!”
Her face tilts toward mine. I’m not sure how much of her is left within the shell of her body, but I pray that she can hear me. That she will not do this.
“Listen to her, Margaret,” Papa attempts. “Put. It. Down!”
Aunt Margaret looks back to him. Smiles. “Long live the true queen!”
And then she heaves the mirror out the window. Light flashes off its surface as it flips over itself, hurtling to the ground. Papa races toward it.
“Catch it, you imbeciles!” he yells to the guards. “Don’t let it—”
The mirror hits the flagstones and bursts apart, glittering shards of glass soaring all directions. Papa freezes as if shot. He stumbles, then drops to his knees. A few garbled words escape his lips, and then he slumps over.
He does not move again.
“He’s dead!” someone cries. “The king is dead!”
The news ripples outward, but I can hardly register the court’s reaction over the storm of emotions raging in my own mind as I stare at Papa’s lifeless form.
Despite the lies, the years of neglect and even cruelty, he was still my father.
I still craved his love. But he was never going to give me that.
Ayleth may have carved out his heart, but Papa buried it himself long ago. I’m not sure he ever felt its presence.
“Look!” someone calls, pulling me out of my reverie. “The duchess!”
Aunt Margaret. In all the commotion, I didn’t see what happened to her.
She must have toppled out of the window with the mirror.
Her body is splayed on the flagstones, limbs bent at sickening angles and her mirror-like eyes staring blankly into the distance.
The fleshy lump that was a heart lies amid the pieces of glass, blood congealing beneath it.
“No,” I whisper, tears stinging in my eyes as I kneel beside my aunt.
Aunt Margaret had her own shortcomings, but Ayleth was right. She did care for me. She wouldn’t have destroyed the mirror if she didn’t. And now…
“Blodwyn,” Ayleth says softly behind me. “I’m so sorry.”
“What can I do?” I ask, helpless. “There must be something.”
She just shakes her head sadly. “There’s nothing. She’s gone.”
No. I won’t accept it. Aunt Margaret sacrificed herself for me.
I have to do something. That same impulse from earlier awakens inside me.
I lean into it, obeying the instinct to place my hands on Aunt Margaret’s body.
When I next exhale, that strange force leaves my palms and winnows into Aunt Margaret.
I sense it spreading outward, snaking through her veins.
I concentrate as hard as I can, wishing with all my might that Aunt Margaret will be whole again. And then—
Beneath my hands, Aunt Margaret’s bones start to snap back into place.
Her muscles and organs knit themselves together again.
But there’s one piece that I sense is missing.
A hollowness that must be filled. That force inside me settles in Aunt Margaret’s chest. I urge it on and it cobbles itself together, pulsing in time with my own heartbeat until…
Aunt Margaret coughs, her eyes flying open. They’re not silver anymore, but gray. Hers.
I sit back on my heels, looking from my aunt to my hands, equal parts shocked and amazed and…frightened.
“It worked,” I breathe.
Aunt Margaret is as stunned as I am. She holds her arms out to inspect them. Pats her chest and her torso, as if to make sure that all her parts are whole.
“You saved me,” she says at last. “Why?”
“Because…you’re my family.”
A crease forms between Aunt Margaret’s brows.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever been claimed as such,” she says quietly. Her gaze drifts over to Papa’s body. “Certainly not by this family.”
In that moment, I can see her as she was years ago. Not just a princess, but a young girl shoved aside and forgotten. One desperate for an ounce of real love or attention.
“Things are going to be different now,” I tell her. “For us. And for Riven.”
She looks at me. Tears well in her eyes. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Aunt Margaret cry before, but I don’t sense that she’s sad. Not entirely. She cups my face in her palm.
“Yes,” she says. “And I can think of no one better to lead it.”
—
Less than an hour later, the court gathers in the throne room.
Or what’s left of it. Wind groans through the mangled windows, glass shining like jagged teeth in the empty frames.
The decorations for Papa’s macabre celebration are in shambles.
Garlands of white roses hang at odd angles.
The tables of food have been upended or are spattered with blood.
More blood puddles on the floor, the bodies of those killed in battle pushed to the sides of the room until they can be collected.
I stand at the front, Papa’s throne behind me, looking out at the confused and terrified faces of the courtiers and having absolutely no idea what I’m doing.
My heartbeat pounds in my ears, drowning out the thrum of hostile mutterings, most of which are directed at me.
“You cannot expect us to accept her as queen.”
Lord Warbeck’s voice rises above the rest. He’s been shouting since the courtyard, his face reddened with rage. I haven’t seen Gavin again, though. Where did he go? Back to his estate? I suppose I can’t blame him. I’d rather be anywhere than here.
“Of course she’s your queen,” Aunt Margaret returns, annoyed. “Callen is dead. She’s his heir. And you all saw what Blodwyn can do.”
“Is that supposed to sway us?” Lord Warbeck barks a laugh. “Look at her. The girl’s a witch. She’s glowing, for goodness’—”