Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Please, Captain,” Will says, no trace of his teasing temperament, “put the sword away.”
Ava doesn’t trust him. It’s in her eyes. The last time she saw Will, he brought the roof down on her guards. The time before that, he carried me away covered in blood. There’s no reason for her to give us any leeway.
“Why were you falling?” Ava asks, a steady grip on the hilt.
I shiver in the puddle that almost drowned me, in soggy clothes that stick to my skin. The sword aimed at Will’s neck is a nerve-racking reminder of the one that ripped open my stomach, and from the jitter in Will’s raised hands, it’s on his mind too.
“Morgana tried to kill us,” I say.
Nettle’s mouth is a hard line as she picks up her knife and wipes the mud off. Ava’s eyes jump from Will to me. They’re having a hard time deciding what to do with us, and I don’t blame them.
“Please lower the sword,” Will cuts in. “At least let Fliss move out of reach. Threaten me all you want.”
I throw him a sharp glance. He can’t possibly think I’d leave him in harm’s way.
“The orders from above say I should be doing more than threatening you, Willoh,” Ava says with conviction.
But this might be the first time Will’s ever tried to start with peace, attempted to begin with civility, and so her hand lowers ever so slightly.
“You’re wanted dead or alive by the royals, and there are many of my guards who’d like to see justice done for what you did to Howell. ”
Will’s expression cracks like a chip in a mirror, and I wonder if anyone but me could notice how much of a strain it is for him to keep the mask on. To keep himself from breaking like he did last night. Around these people, around possible threats, he’s not letting his guard down.
“Morgana possessed him. He didn’t want to,” I implore, increasingly frustrated that I’m having to work so hard to be convincing. It’s never been a problem before. “We never wanted Howell to get hurt. Can you just hear us out? Please, Ava.”
“Hear out a murderer?” Nettle bites. “As if. We’re taking you in.”
The knife in her hand spins. She flips it in the air and catches it, intending to intimidate us. She doesn’t realize how jumpy we both are around weapons.
Naturally, Will jumps.
From the first glint of sun against the sharp metal, he snaps his left hand in my direction and a glimmering golden shield appears before me, a wall of magic neutralizing a repeat of my brush with death, and as Will moves his hand, so does Ava.
“No magic!”
She grabs his shoulder and forces him back into the muddy grass, stepping forward so the point of her sword creases the fabric directly above his heart.
“No!” I yell.
I don’t even think about it. I throw myself sideways out of the safety of the golden shield and thrust the base of my palm against the flat of the sword. I shove it out of the way and fling myself onto Will’s soaked chest, curling myself over him. Protecting him. Shielding him.
“Don’t hurt him, please.”
Will’s heart hammers unsteadily.
I raise my head to Ava. “Please. If Howell hadn’t covered me last night, I’d be dead too. He saved my life. He believed me.”
Ava contemplates the scene before her. She studies the fading golden shield, Will’s supplication, the way he isn’t daring to move, my beseeching, desperate plea. She’s never seen either of us act like this before.
Her sword drops to her side.
“Go on,” she says, wary.
Nettle folds her arms, and insecurity creeps up my throat.
I bumble out a condensed version of the truth—how the queen sent me to collect flowers for a spell that will cost Cardamine his life, and how in return, Bash will gain the use of magic.
I tell them that Morgana is manipulating the queen and poisoning the king, how she possessed Will to attack the castle, and how if we don’t stop the ceremony, they’re more than likely going to blame whatever disaster happens on us.
“We wanted to talk with Bash alone and explain everything, but Morgana was waiting for us,” I say, and shudder at the vastness of the sky above. “I think she’s hoping we’re dead.”
The women exchange a look.
“I have noticed that the queen’s mental health has been in decline lately,” Ava says. “She even dismissed all guards from her wing of the castle. And the king hasn’t been well for some time now. The physicians haven’t been able to find a cure, so poison could be a likely explanation.”
“Are you kidding?” Nettle says. “You’re going to believe them after what Prince Bastion said last night? He was convinced Felicity had lost her mind!”
Ava sighs. “I do believe them,” she says. The castle casts a shadow over the lake. “But I also cannot break my oath. I cannot disobey orders.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, and clutch Will’s shirt.
“I can’t help you. I’ve sworn an oath to the people of Alrick, and that means following the laws. Peace and order come first no matter how much I believe your story.”
“Will’s innocent,” I say. “Card and Bash are in danger. It’s the truth. Ava, surely you can—”
“Or,” Nettle interrupts, “we can throw both of you in the dungeons.”
“Without evidence, it’s your word against theirs,” Ava says. “If we can think of a legal way to solve this mess, then I will do all in my power to assist you.”
“We don’t have time,” Will says, pushing up to rest on his elbows. As if to agree, the bells above the castle chime twelve times, each peal a foreboding threat. He sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Add this to my list of crimes, Captain.”
He flicks his fingers against his thumbs and a silver spark of light shoots toward the women. Ava has a second to shift closer to Nettle before they both drop to the ground, sound asleep among the weeds, their wedding clothes now splattered and stained.
Will winces at me. “I shouldn’t have done that, right? I’m sorry. I panicked.”
I shake my head.
“We need to get moving. The wedding is starting,” I say. “We can apologize later.”
On my first step, I slip in the mud. Will catches my elbow and waves his hand down my back, reducing the nip of the lake water with a magical warmth. It spreads like steam from his fingers, down my limbs, to the hems of my clothes and tips of my toes, until all the water and mud has evaporated.
“Thank you.” I exhale in relief.
Will leaves a steadying hand on my lower back and asks, “New plan?”
We tread carefully away from Ava and Nettle, guilt squirming in every step.
So close. We were so close to having someone believe us.
I’d become so used to having my words taken as faith, it’s entirely—and annoyingly—new not to have that happen.
Is this really all because Bash believes Will cast some kind of spell on me?
Can one small assumption really shake everyone’s confidence in my curse? The one time I need it to work…
“No more talking,” I say, clenching my hands. “New plan is to storm in and stop the wedding.”
“Sounds good to me.”
We hurry toward a side entrance and enter.
It grants us swift passage to the giant doors of the Grand Hall, behind which everyone will be seated for the wedding.
The bottled nerves in my stomach make my teeth clench as we find ourselves obstructed by two guards posted on either side of the doors.
They watch over the entrance hall, now cleared of debris and sparkling under the sun that beams down through the shattered ceiling, but from my experience in the dungeons, I know that I can use poppies to put them to sleep.
I picture the vase of poppies on my table at home and say the summoning spell.
I had enchanted the flowers this morning, hooked my magic inside, and drawn out the sedative, so it’s a quick blink until both guards slump against the wall, snoozing, and we can make for the doors.
Just as I cross into a patch of light, Will halts me.
“Fliss,” he says softly, and I’m clay in his hands, ready to do anything he asks. “If anything goes wrong…”
I take in those serious hazel eyes, my heart aching with all the possibilities that await us.
There’s a chance—and not a small one—that one of us won’t make it.
That Morgana will annihilate any hope and twist the truth.
Will’s mouth opens. The words don’t come.
His eyes flicker over my face like he’s etching it into his memory, engraving me in his heart.
“Tell me after,” I whisper, and brush my thumb over the scratch on his jaw.
Will smiles and leans into my touch. “Okay.”
We steal the second, hesitate just a moment longer. Anything that happens from now on will be worth it. It has to be. I have to believe that’s the truth.
Then, with my shoulders set, I march toward the doors of the Grand Hall. Will slaps on a smirk and splays his hands. The wind hears his command and the doors burst open.
“Stop the wedding!” I shout.
The hall holds its breath. Rows of ribbon-backed chairs seal wide-eyed guests in place, surrounded by walls of silken drapes and dried white flowers that I personally picked out and bundled together weeks before.
The aisle stretches before us, a straight shot to the raised stage where Cardamine stands on a thick ivory carpet in the pearly suit he’s shown me several times, with a deep-violet tie, silver cuff links gifted from his grandfather, and a buttonhole of fresh baby’s breath.
His ash-blond hair is swept back, his pale skin flushed and alive.
We’re not too late. As our interruption sweeps through the hall, his crisp blue eyes instantly lock on mine.
I’m doing this for you, I try to convey. Trust me.
I don’t know if he does.