38. Cassiel
Although existence without Wren should not be possible, the next few days pass in a blur of parchment, voices, and the scrape of chair legs against marble floors.
I am back in the council chamber, back at the head of the long obsidian table, back beneath the vaulted ceiling painted with the victories of my ancestors.
The light spills in through the high windows in molten shafts of gold.
I still have not grown used to it, having my sight returned.
At night, I fumble around in the dark rather than lighting a lamp, forgetting that I can flood the room with light.
Each morning when the sun dawns is a welcome surprise.
Wren gave this back to me. I will forever be grateful.
Much like I will forever miss her.
I straighten in my seat as Aunt Imogen finishes her report.
She stands to my right, immaculate as ever, silvering golden hair braided and coiled like a coronet.
To the surprise of absolutely no one, she governed in my absence as though she had been born to the throne instead of merely adjacent to it.
“There were disturbances along the eastern docks,” she says. “Notable ones.”
“Define notable,” I reply.
Her mouth thins. “We suspect Nubaia.”
The name lands like a dropped blade.
“She attacked a warehouse last week. Two guards dead. Resources taken—iron, salt, several crates of gunpowder.”
I close my eyes for a moment, cursing my foolishness. In the forest with Wren, I’d almost forgotten the conflict raging outside. That peace—however fragile—had settled like dew over everything.
But the dew is all gone now, and everything is fire and ice.
“What would a faerie want with iron?” I ask.
Imogen inclines her head. “I have no idea.”
The chamber feels colder suddenly. The painted victories on the ceiling look less triumphant and more like warnings. We are still in this. The conflict did not pause simply because I walked into the trees and lost myself in Wren, all over again.
Wren, Wren, Wren. Her name thumps against my heart, like a bird in a cage.
I force my thoughts back to strategy, thinking about where Nubaia might strike next.
It might be prudent to reduce the number of warehouses, and strengthen the guards on the ones that remain.
I take some time to evaluate the strengths and weaknesses of each location, as well as who is guarding them.
I don’t want to lose any more guards. Do I send out our finest, hoping they will fare best in a fight, or the ones less likely to be missed?
Wren would be able to advise me, if she was here, either with insight into her grandmother, or by helping me see the best course of action to take.
I don’t think it’s enough to send for her.
My voice sounds steady as I issue commands, as I listen to trade updates, to border disputes, to petitions from the south. When the meetings end and the council disperses, I linger in the hall.
The corridor outside the chamber is awash in late afternoon light. It strikes the stone at an angle that turns the floor into honeyed fire. I remember standing here with her—Wren laughing softly as she tried to describe the exact shade of gold the sun made on the walls and failing miserably.
But I see it now, and I see her standing in it. I colour moments I knew only in sound.
We trained in the lower courtyard. I pass it and can almost hear the clash of wood against wood, her breath sharp with effort, the triumphant grin when I finally disarmed her.
We walked that path along the inner gardens where the ivy curls like lazy serpents along the balustrade. I pause here now, fingers brushing the stone she once leaned against. The memory stings with its softness, her shoulder against mine, the quiet between us more intimate than words.
The western battlement. Saints. I should not go there, but I do.
The wind is higher today, tugging at my hair, carrying the scent of distant rain. This is where we sat, legs dangling over the edge like reckless children, the night after we kissed, when we were trying so desperately to be friends and convince each other we were fine.
We were friends, I know. We are. Whatever other terms have been heaped upon us since that moment, friends is at the root of all of it. She may be my vastren, but that word is the flower in bloom.
I swallow, and continue on my way, making the journey towards the grand hall at the centre of the castle.
The doors are closed now, but I push them open anyway.
The chandeliers are dark. Only the last wash of sunlight filters through the tall windows, staining the marble floor in blue and rose. I step onto the empty expanse.
I can still feel her hand in mine as we crept away from the others, towards the parlour where I’d arranged a private ball for the two of us, where we could dance unseen, unwatched by all but each other.
I can’t believe I burned her dress before I got to see it.
I had not known how to dance without sight. Wren didn’t know how to dance with it. Together, we were a clumsy, perfect pair, both trusting each other completely. We laughed at every misstep.
She pressed closer when the music slowed.
She is stamped across every inch of this palace, but across my chambers most of all. When I finally return to them, she fills the empty chair beside the window, where she sat polishing her sword, and the edge of my desk where she read my books. The bed—
I exhale sharply and turn away.
At night, when the torches burn low, I lie awake and swear I can feel her fingers tracing the line of my jaw. The ghost of her breath at my throat. It is madness. I know it is. But my body remembers her with a clarity that makes the absence unbearable.
So I work, and when I cannot work, I draw.
I have always sketched in charcoal and lead—quick studies, sharp lines, impressions of movement. Now I sit before a blank page and try to draw her.
The curve of her cheek.
The stubborn set of her mouth.
The wild fall of her hair.
Every attempt is wrong. Too sharp. Too soft. Too contained. I crumple the paper and begin again. The floor of my room is littered with failures.
I order paints, which arrive as swiftly as I imagine things do when you’re the Prince Regent. They’re expensive, and it shows. Pigments ground fine as dust, oils that gleam like jewels in their glass jars. I tell myself colour will fix what charcoal cannot.
It doesn’t.
How do I mix the exact shade of her eyes—the depth of the pitch, the gleam of that gold? How do I capture the warmth beneath her skin when she laughs? How do I render the light that seems to live inside her?
I can’t.
The canvas remains stubbornly blank when it comes to her.
Instead, I paint the light through my curtains at dawn—thin and silver, spilling over the edge of my bed.
I paint candles burning in dark rooms, skin rendered pink and translucent as the flames glow against palms. I paint sunsets and sunrises, nebulous dusks, violent streaks of crimson and gold tearing through heavy clouds.
Every canvas is about her, but none of them contain her. The canvas would split with the weight of it.
In the evenings, I make an effort to take dinner with Runara.
She is already there when I arrive tonight, seated with impeccable posture, hands folded neatly before her plate. I can’t help but feel Mother would praise her for this if she could; Ru has always struggled to sit still.
“You’re looking very poised tonight, Sister,” I tell her, resisting the urge to ruffle her hair when she’s trying so hard to look respectful.
“I’m so glad you noticed.”
She flashes me a grin that doesn’t quite meet her eyes. I’ve missed her smiles, but I wish I wasn’t aware of the sadness behind them. Could I sense that when I was blind? I could always hear a smile in someone’s voice, but the strain in her face doesn’t match how she sounds.
We swap trivialities and pleasantries. Imogen asks about her day, what she’s learning with her governess. Ru lists her topics methodically.
Finally, she admits, “I miss training.”
Imogen pauses. “I can hire you an instructor, if you do not wish to learn from the knights. There are plenty—”
“No,” Ru says, voice curt. “I don’t want another instructor.”
None of us say much after that. I wonder if Imogen knows that Wren was Ru’s instructor, and the only one who didn’t declare her unteachable. I can understand Ru not wanting someone else.
“I could train you,” I tell her, inwardly wincing at the thought. I want to spend time with her, but I don’t want my little sister to have to fight. I don’t want to have to picture her in battle.
Or with a blade through her gut.
But Ru doesn’t have to know my fears. Her eyes glitter for the first time. “Really?” she says.
“Yes, if you want it. I can’t promise we’ll be able to train every day, but—”
“Yes!” she claps her hands together, squirming in her seat. “Yes, yes, please!”
“Stop squirming, Runara,” says Aunt Imogen, sipping her wine. “It is most improper.”
“Yes, Aunt Imogen.”
Ru settles back down and digs into her venison with some vigour. I realise—with a small, unwelcome jolt—that she has not sought me out once since my return, despite how excited she seems about the prospect of training with me.
When she rises, she inclines her head. “Goodnight, Cassiel.”
“Goodnight, Runara.”
She leaves without looking back.
Back in my chambers, I call for the bath to be drawn.
The bathing room is a chamber of pale stone and hammered copper, with a great tub seated at the centre. Lanternlight scatters across the water in trembling shards. Steam coils upward, softening the edges of everything.
I dismiss the attendants at first and sink into the heat alone.
The water swallows me to the chest. It is almost scalding, almost enough to burn thought away.
Almost.
Wren reaches me here, too.
She had stood at the edge of this very bath on her third night in the castle, passing the soap I dropped into my hands. It was the first time we ever touched. A few days later, when I was violently ill, she assisted me then, too.
We bathed here together after making love, our limbs tangled beneath the surface. I memorised the shape of her by touch alone. The slope of her shoulder. The dip of her waist. The tremor in her breath when I drew her closer.
My gaze drifts to the inner curve of the copper wall. Her handprint is still there, a darkened impression pressed into the metal where it warped and cooled again after she lost control of her powers for a heartbeat.
I slide my fingers over it now. The outline of her palm fits beneath mine.
It’s too much.
My throat tightens. The bathwater suddenly feels suffocating instead of soothing.
I drag my hand away and tip my head back against the rim, forcing myself to breathe.
Focus.
The steam catches the lanternlight above, scattering it into thousands of drifting sparks. I watch it instead. It shimmers as though spun from crushed diamonds.
The door opens softly.
Anne steps in with fresh towels folded over her arms. She freezes for half a second when she realises I am watching her.
When I was blind, servants moved more freely around me. My nudity had been practical, irrelevant. Now her gaze flicks determinedly to the far wall as she crosses to the stand beside the bath.
I am used to this. Royals grow accustomed to bodies as fact. Knights dress and undress in shared quarters without ceremony. Flesh is not scandalous to me.
But I had forgotten that others do not live so freely with their bodies.
I clear my throat lightly.
“Have you ever noticed how steam glitters, Anne?”
She startles, nearly dropping a towel. “I—can’t say that I have, Sire.”
“It’s marvellous,” I insist, gesturing toward the drifting vapour. “Look at it. It catches the light like a field of stars.”
She dares a glance upward. “Yes, Sire.”
I smile faintly. “I had not realised how much I missed such small things.”
Her shoulders ease a fraction as she sets the towels down. “It is good to see you… noticing them again.”
She steps out of the bathing room, lingering at the threshold. Her gaze shifts towards what I assume is the desk.
“I see you’ve taken up painting again,” she says.
“I have.”
“You should see the ones the Princess does.” There is warmth in her voice now. “They aren’t as detailed as these, of course, but…”
My head lifts. “Ru paints?”
The last painting she presented to me—well over a year ago when she must only have been around seven—had been a smeared ‘rainbow cat’ with more enthusiasm than structure. I had praised it as though it belonged in the grand gallery, whilst privately judging the composition.
Of course she is better now. Time didn’t halt simply because I wasn’t looking.
“Yes, Sire,” Ann continues. “She’s very good.”
“She never mentioned it.”
“Well, why would she?”
Steam continues to rise between us, glittering in the lanternlight like something holy.
“Thank you, Anne. That will be all.”
She dips into a curtsey, relief evident now that conversation has replaced silence. “Shall I send someone to assist you from the bath, Sire?”
“No. I’ll manage.”
When she slips out, the room grows quiet again. I dress slowly after the bath, the linen cool against skin still warmed by the water.
For a moment, I consider simply sitting down at my desk and painting the night away myself, but I can’t quite shake the idea that it isn’t my own art I crave tonight.
I want to see Runara’s.