45. Cassiel
By the time I reach Edwin’s tower, my thoughts have tangled themselves into something tight and unworkable, like a piece of ruined net. The spiral stairs feel longer than usual, like I’m blind again and without my cane. I’m lost in the dark once more.
I gain some speed by the time I reach the top, not because I’m ready to do whatever needs to be done, but because I’m ready to see her again. I am always, perpetually ready for that.
I push the door open and burst inside.
Edwin jumps, a spark shooting up from the work table. “Don’t you lot ever knock?” he says.
Wren sits on the chaise behind him. She gives me a nervous smile. She’s breathing a little hard, a satchel slung across her shoulder, hair half-loosened from whatever binding she’d attempted.
“Cass—” she starts.
I cross the room before she can finish.
She drops the satchel with a heavy thud and meets me halfway, slamming into my arms. I’m holding her too tightly, probably, but she doesn’t protest. Her grip is just as firm, fingers fisting into the back of my waistcoat like she needs to make sure I’m real.
I press my face briefly into her hair. She smells like wind and cold air and something floral.
“You’re back,” I say, because it’s the only thing that matters for a moment.
“Did you ever doubt me?” she replies, voice a little muffled against my shoulder.
Behind us, there is a deliberate, pointed clearing of a throat. We separate, reluctantly.
Edwin stands by his workbench, arms folded, still concentrated on his task.
“This,” he says, gesturing to the space around him, “is a workshop. Not a meeting place for dramatic reunions.”
Wren snorts under her breath, already shrugging off her outer layer and pushing loose hair back from her face. “You love it really.”
“I tolerate it,” Edwin corrects, which is as close to affection as I suppose we can expect.
Wren turns back to me, all trace of humour sharpening into something more intent. “Well? Have you made a decision?”
The tightness in my chest increases. “Yes,” I say.
Wren stills. “And?” she presses.
“I’m going to do it.” The words come more easily than I expect. “We’re going to try to wake my mother.”
Wren nods once. “Good.”
I loose a breath. “There’s something else,” I add.
“What?”
“Ru is going to help.”
The reaction is not what I expect.
“You asked Ru?” Wren says.
I brace myself—already anticipating the argument, the anger, the inevitable accusation that I’ve crossed a line I shouldn’t have. I’ve rehearsed the defence in my head half a dozen times on the way here.
“I needed to—”
“No,” Wren says, shaking her head lightly. Something in her expression shifts to the point of softness. “It’s good that you asked her.”
I blink.
“She should know,” Wren continues. “It’s her mother too. It’s her that will be paying the price if you are lost.”
I wait for Edwin to admonish me for placing so much on a child’s shoulders, but he doesn’t either. Of course, he might not care one way or another.
Wren pauses for a moment, then reaches for her satchel, double-checking the contents.
“I’ll meet you at your mother’s room,” she says. “Can you make sure no one disturbs us?”
“Of course,” I promise.
She studies me for half a second longer, as if committing something to memory. I’ll see her again in a few short moments, but I wonder if Wren, like me, spends a moment of every parting wondering if this is the last time we’ll ever see each other.
I hate it.
I move to kiss her, but I’m too late. Bone and feather and air fold into something small and dark and swift. She soars out of the window, and the room feels impossibly empty without her.
I stand there for a moment, staring at the place she was, before the reality of what comes next settles back in.
No turning back.
“Try not to die,” Edwin says dryly from behind me.
I let out a quiet, humourless breath. “I’ll do my best.”
“Do better than that,” he replies. “I like your sister, but I don’t like the idea of a child queen any more than you do.”
I nod solemnly, and head for my mother’s room.
Dain is waiting exactly where I asked him to be at the foot of the stairs, half in shadow, arms folded in a way that suggests he’s trying very hard to look like this is a normal evening and not… whatever this is.
He straightens when he sees me.
“Your Highness.”
“Cassiel.”
“Tonight, it definitely feels like Your Highness,” he insists, which is probably right. I have ordered him to be here, after all. A friend could have just asked.
His gaze flicks up the stairs behind me, as if expecting someone else to follow.
“No one’s with you?” he asks.
“Not yet.”
He nods, once, and I hate him for not asking more questions. I don’t deserve his respect, his loyalty, his kindness. He should be angry.
I need him not to be.
“You’re certain about this?” he says quietly.
No.
“Yes.”
I’m certain that if I don’t try to get my mother back, I’ll spend my life regretting it.
“Then I’ll keep watch,” he says. “No one gets into your mother’s room unless you say so.”
“Thank you.”
We walk the rest of the way together in silence, a journey that seems all at once too long and over in an instant. The guards outside my mother’s chambers stiffen as we approach.
“You’re dismissed,” I say, before either of them can speak.
They bow and withdraw.
I’m still not entirely used to my instructions being obeyed without question, but tonight, it’s very useful.
I step into the room. Inside, the attendant looks up in alarm, halfway through adjusting the blankets.
“My prince, I—”
“You too,” I say, more gently this time. “Thank you. I’ll take over from here.”
She doesn’t argue. Just curtsies and slips past us, casting one last worried glance toward the bed.
The door closes.
Ru is already here, perched on the edge of a chair too big for her, staring at the still form on the bed like if she looks away for even a second, something terrible might happen. Relief flickers across her face as her gaze lands on me, quickly replaced by something tighter. Nerves.
“Ser Hollowbrook,” she adds, nodding at Dain.
“Your Highness,” he says, softer than I’ve ever heard him.
I force myself to tease him. “You never say my title like that.”
“You don’t have pigtails.”
Dain moves toward the door again, preparing to take his place outside, but stops when a sudden burst of air flies in at the window. He startles so violently he nearly reaches for his sword, only to freeze as a small bird darts in, wings beating sharply as it veers—
And becomes Wren mid-flutter.
Dain stares.
Then, to my immense surprise, he lets out a strangled, disbelieving sound and crosses the room in three quick strides.
“You can turn into a bird?” he demands, grabbing her into a tight, incredulous hug before she can so much as greet him. “And a wren, too? That’s a little on the nose, don’t you think?”
Wren laughs. It’s a real, unforced laugh, the kind that would have made me jealous when we first met. Her eyes are wet.
“I didn’t name myself,” she says into his shoulder. “It’s good to see you, Dain.”
“It’s good to see you too,” he says, holding her at arm’s length. He frowns a little at her shrunken form, but says nothing, jerking his thumb at me instead. “This one has been miserable without you.”
“That’s—” I begin defensively. “That’s entirely fair. Carry on.”
Runara’s there a second later, wrapping her arms around Wren’s middle. “You’re back,” she says, muffled.
“I said I would be,” Wren replies, softer now.
For a moment the four of us just stand there, and something in my chest eases. The room, for one, brief moment, almost seems full enough.
I can survive like this, I think. We’ll be fine, as a four. If we stand close together—
If we stand close together, we won’t notice the gaps. We won’t notice who isn’t standing with us, only who is—
But then my mother lets out a long sigh from the bed, and drags all of us back to the present with it.
Wren pulls away, wiping quickly at her eyes before anyone can make a comment of it.
“Right,” she says, brisk again, though the warmth lingers at the edges. “No time to get sentimental.” Her gaze drops to Ru. “Are you ready?”
Ru straightens immediately. “Yes.” She pushes back her sleeves. Both arms are covered with runes from wrist to elbow in careful, deliberate patterns. “I even added these, if they’ll help. I found a book about them…”
Wren steps closer, taking one of Ru’s arms gently, turning it slightly to catch the light. “Well,” she says. “That’s not a bad idea, actually.”
Ru beams, just a little.
“Although,” Wren continues, already reaching into her satchel, “I may need to alter some of them.”
“Of course,” Ru says quickly.
Dain clears his throat, stepping back toward the door. “I’ll be outside.”
“Not a soul, Dain.”
“On my honour as a knight,” he says. “And also as your friend.”
I nod, my throat too tight to speak. He slips out, closing the door behind him.
Wren moves immediately, the room beginning to change under her hands. She retrieves candles from her satchel and places them around the bed. Then herbs, crushed between her fingers and scattered in small, precise piles that release a sharp, unfamiliar scent into the air.
Next, she brings out a piece of rope. It glints faintly, like something woven with light rather than fibre.
“Enchanted?” I guess.
She nods. “To bind us to our anchor,” she explains, as she coils part of it at the foot of the bed and keeps the rest loose. “And to each other.”
I bring out her dagger, the one I always keep with me, and hand it over.
“I read that objects can serve as anchors too,” I say.
Wren glances over—and smiles. “It’ll do.”
She moves again, pulling out a chalk. She marks the headboard first with symbols I don’t recognise, layered over one another in looping, intersecting lines. Then she drops to her knees and disappears halfway beneath the bed, continuing the pattern along the floor.
The air grows thicker, like her motions make magic a tangible thing. I wonder if this is part of the fey ancestry I hold. She did say my senses were sharper.
Wren finishes underneath the bed, swaying slightly as she stands. She’s moving again before I can steady her.
She’s tired. There’s a slight drag in her movements, and the faint hollows beneath her eyes are darker than ever.
A flicker of unease curls in my chest. Is she well enough for this? Perhaps we should wait and let her gather her strength for another day. I open my mouth—
A sharp noise from outside cuts through the room.
“I don’t care what orders my nephew has given, you will open the door this instance!”
Aunt Imogen. Oh, Saints.
“With respect, Your Grace—”
“Show your respect by opening this door.”
“I cannot—”
Something bangs against the door, like a whole body slamming against it. Dain tumbles into the room, his arm twisted round his back by Imogen, whose face couldn’t look any more like fire and thunder if I’d captured it and forced it onto a brush.
“Aunt—”
Imogen sweeps into the room, releasing Dain and letting him tumble to the ground. Her eyes blaze as they take in the scene in a single, devastating glance.
Candles. Herbs. Runes. Ru. Me.
Wren.
“What,” she says, each word as sharp and precise as the stab of a needle, “is the meaning of this?”