Chapter 14
I rouse from a deep sleep with a groan, eyes bleary. I try to make sense of my surroundings, but everything is tilted sideways. My neck aches, and I realise I am slumped onto the prince’s bed. My head rests on the top of his covers while the rest of me sits on the stool.
I gasp and bolt upright.
“Saints!” the prince yelps.
“Shit!” I yelp in response, equally startled. I wince and groan at the twinge in my neck from sleeping in such an awkward position. The prince regards me, half-sitting against his many pillows with a book in his hands.
“You gave me a fright.” He shakes his head. “You were sleeping quite peacefully until you decided to awaken with such…” He eyes me, frowning in annoyance. “Vigour.”
I rub my neck, my face scrunched while my brain catches up. I am in the prince’s chamber s , I think to myself. I stayed with him while he recovered and…I glance at him sheepishly.
“I must have fallen asleep.”
He raises an eyebrow but says nothing. I remember the expression on his face last night—the mixture of hurt and helplessness twisting his features. I remember the cloudy grey of his eyes, open and vulnerable. I search for any traces of it left but his disposition has returned to his usual aloofness. I sigh and stretch to rid myself of the ache in my neck.
I am still wearing the queen’s crimson dress. Despite being more comfortable than other gowns, I doubt it was intended to be worn for this long. The bodice presses into my back and cramps myophid, forcing me to twist to the side and stretch it. I catch the prince glancing at the dress before fixing his eyes back on his book.
“Why did you not wake me?” I ask, looking pointedly at the book he read while I slept unawares next to him.
“You seemed content,” he replies, still reading. He licks a finger and turns the page. “Why? Do you have somewhere to be?”
I look at him so sharply he flinches.
“If that is supposed to be a particularly callous joke about my imprisonment, you can tend to yourself next time,” I snap. The venom in my voice surprises even me, but I am too angry and tired to care. A deep crimson blooms across the prince’s cheeks .
“N-No,” he stammers, his decorum evaporated. “My apologies, Miss Shivani. I did not think before I spoke. I did not…”
He closes his book and places it on his lap, sighing.
“I would not make light of your situation, I assure you. I only…I only wish to know if you are willing to stay a while longer.”
The prince looks at me earnestly, the cracks in his stoic mask showing. My irritation subsides. I study his face to search for signs of the simmering rage his father holds beneath the surface. But I can see none. Not even a trace of the beast I witnessed last night remains. That does not mean it is not there , I warn myself.
“Yes,” I tell him, sitting back. “I can stay. On the condition you answer a question for me, completely honestly.”
I do not know where my boldness comes from, but I know my dinner with the king last night has only served as a reminder, it does not matter how much I try to please and appease him or the prince. I will be executed at the end of six months, regardless. I lock eyes with the prince, determined.
“That would depend on the question,” he replies, and I roll my eyes.
“Fine. Do you know how to break the curse?”
The prince slumps back, frowning.
“True love. ”
I quietly note the tinge of bitterness in his voice. He glances behind me, through his window, but when I twist to look, there is nothing there. I turn back to face him but his eyes fix on a distant spot and his jaw is set. Is he lying?
“No,” I say firmly. “The real way to break the curse.”
“That is the real way. What are you talking about?”
I lean forward, my elbows on his bed, and look him hard in the eyes.
“Do not lie to me,” I tell him quietly, and his face scrunches in confusion.
“Have you gone mad? What in Saint’s name am I supposed to be lying about?”
I sit back as we stare at each other. There is a beat of silence as I search his face. He does not look away. He is telling the truth.
“You truly do not know,” I say finally, and we both hear the pity in my voice. The prince narrows his eyes. “The king…lied. About the curse. Or about how to break it, at least.”
The prince scoffs.
“A poor joke.”
“Your Highness…”
He grips his book so hard his hands begin to shake. Gently, I explain everything the king told me. He sits and listens with quiet fury.
“So, all those women died for nothing,” he eventually says. “They had no chance of breaking my curse.”
I do not know what to say, so I stay quiet.
“And…” his voice breaks slightly. “I will be a monster forever.”
“No, no.” I shake my head and grasp his hand. “You are not a monster. And we will break this curse.”
He averts his eyes and gives a slight shake of his head, disbelieving.
“We will,” I insist. “Before I was…before I came here, I studied many kinds of magic.”
This catches his attention. He locks eyes with me again and sits up straighter.
“You did?”
I try to tell him about Frostalm and my application to the House of Learning but the words stick in my throat. I cough and blink away tears.
“Yes,” I croak. “And I know all curses can be broken.”
The prince’s eyes light up, and I find myself smiling back. Optimism washes through me, sparking fires of renewed determination.
The prince is not well enough to leave his bed, but we break fast together regardless. The maids bring us breakfast trays, and we share the meal while I stay by his bedside.
“I have read many books on curses,” I tell him, smothering butter across another slice of bread. “But I have never seen anything like your transformation. ”
“It is alright.” He gives me a sad smile. “You can say monster. Transformation does not do it justice, I have heard.”
“But you were truly not a monster. You were something else. It was…well, it had scales and a long jaw. You looked in pain.”
The prince leans forward, intrigued.
“I must admit, I have no clue what I look like during these times. I only remember snippets. The only descriptions I have heard are…”
He presses his lips into a thin line, looking stricken. I think of the king and how a man such as that would describe what I saw.
“Unflattering?” I attempt a half-smile.
“You could say that,” the prince replies with a strained smile of his own and sits back.
His eyes are cast downward, and his hands are clenched tightly. I swallow, my chest aching for him. His chestnut hair falls forward over his forehead, and I notice a light smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks. For some reason, this makes my heart start to race.
“Do you paint, Your Highness?” I ask softly. The prince looks up at me. His expression is neutral except for the smallest downward tug of the corner of his lips.
“I am afraid not, Miss Shivani.”
“When I am feeling melancholy, my favourite thing to do is paint,” I tell him. “I did not have access to many paints, but sometimes my aunt and I were able to scrape enough ingredients together to make our own. I would paint, paint, paint until I ran out. It made me feel better. Calmer.”
The prince watches me, the firelight dancing in his eyes. My palms go slick.
“Do you have something similar, perhaps?” I ask. A tremor enters my voice that I fight to steady.
“Yes,” he says softly. “Gardening.”
“Is it…farming of some kind?” I struggle to picture what he means by gardening.
He laughs, a delightful sound bursting from his chest. I am so startled I laugh back.
“My apologies.” He grins. It transforms his face in a way I cannot look away from. “I should not have laughed. That was rude of me. Gardening is planting flowers or herbs and such.”
“So you can use it for food?”
“Yes, but also for pleasure.”
I cock my head, not understanding.
“There is nothing quite like planting a seed and nurturing it, watching it grow, seeing it bloom.” As he talks, his eyes glaze over. There is love in his face.
“It sounds wonderful, Your Highness.” I smile at him, a warmth in my chest that comes not from the hearth.
The prince looks at me then, and it is not a gaze I have ever known before. It is intense. So intense, my heart is a fist pounding against my ribs, and my breath catches in my throat. I do not know what to say, so I say nothing. All the while, his eyes linger on mine, glinting like folded steel.
“Thank you for staying with me last night.” The prince raises his hand as if to place it over mine but hesitates and draws back. “I would urge you to stay in my chambers for the next few days. At least until my father finds something else to draw his attention.”
“Oh.” I look around. “Yes, you might be right.”
“I do not have any paints, unfortunately, but you are welcome to any books you find.”
I twist my neck to look at the collection of books lining one of his walls. They are colour-coordinated. A great sorrow wells up as I find myself missing Aunt Meena’s messy library.
“I am sorry,” the prince says quietly. I blink at him. “You must miss your home.”
“Yes.” The sadness leaks into my voice.
The prince catches his lower lip between his teeth. He clears his throat.
“You mentioned a House of Learning,” he prompts gently. “And that you studied magic?”
Grateful for the change of topic, I nod eagerly.
“Yes, and History. Although I was considering Linguistics also.”
“History and Linguistics.” He sounds impressed. “I suppose the two would be closely related. ”
I blink at him.
“Are they?”
“Of course.” The prince shrugs. “If you only read one language’s history, you only read one side. And history rarely has one side.”
I give him a side-long look, silently impressed myself.
“Quite right,” I agree. “History should be viewed critically, I believe. Whoever wrote it or said it will have their own biases.”
The prince’s cheek curves in a smile.
“It has been a long time since I had such a lengthy conversation with anyone,” he tells me. His ears tinge pink at the tips. This time, when he reaches forward, he does not falter. He lays a large hand on top of mine. The air thrums around us. “I—”
“Excuse me, Your Highness.”
We are interrupted by a knock at the door. One of the guards steps inside. The prince immediately looks away, and the spell is broken. I am left flustered, though I am unsure why.
“Yes?” the prince addresses the guard.
“The king has summoned you.” The guard glances at me but says nothing else.
“Right,” the prince replies and his posture becomes rigid. “Please excuse me, Miss Shivani.”
I look at him, but he averts his eyes from mine. His expression is even, and the inch of warmth in his disposition dissolves so quickly, I wonder if it had ever been there. As I stand to move to the adjoining room, the prince calls after me one last time.
“Please do not wear my mother’s dress again.”