Chapter 20
W inter arrives in a flurry of overnight snow and frost. Mock snow, Mossgardians call it. Thick enough to fall from the sky but melted to nothing by the time it reached the swamp. It never settles, but it is enough to chill the air.
I awake to a cold room, my breath turning to mist in front of my face. I blearily look through the window and see fat, heavy snowflakes falling. Already, there is a layer of snow forming along the windowsill.
I groan and throw my head under the covers, curling into the smallest ball I can. I instinctively make a checklist in my head of tasks to do—I need to save the swamp reeds from a hard frost and check the house for holes and drafts to stay warm inside. It takes me until the sixth task on the list before I quietly realise I do not need to do any of these things. I am not home. I have not been home for months .
I peek my head out of the covers to test the temperature again. It is chilly, but compared to the bitter cold of my father and I’s home, it is bearable. Particularly with the thick, soft duvet wrapped around me.
“Good morrow, miss.” Inez knocks at the door before entering with a breakfast tray. The smell of hot saffron tea and fresh bread wafts my way, luring me further from my warm cocoon.
“Good morrow, Inez,” I greet her. I have not spoken a word of the secret tunnel I found to anyone. It is too important, and though I trust Inez, I cannot risk the information getting to any of the guards.
She places the tray on my lap with a smile. New breakfast foods have appeared—warm honey cake, hot cocoa alongside the tea, and strips of salted marsh rabbit. Food to keep you warm. My mouth waters as I inhale deeply, but the memory of last winter chews at me. My father and I would often go to bed hungry as not much grew in the swamp during winter. If we could not hunt the swift marsh rabbits or sparrows, we would be resigned to the dregs sold at market. Often, we only had enough money for a bruised pond apple or two.
I push the memory deep, deep down and start my breakfast. As usual, I split it with Inez, who sits at my bedside and eats with me.
“I will need to dress you today, miss,” she tells me as we feast. “The prince has asked for you to accompany him on a walk this morning.”
“A walk?” My heart thunders.
“Around the castle, miss,” Inez clarifies before taking a bite of buttered toast.
“Oh.” I gnaw at my bottom lip, excited to see the prince again but unsure of where in the castle he plans on taking me. There is also a nagging sadness in the back of my mind that I should not be enjoying such luxury as warmth and comfort when I know it is the condition of my imprisonment.
“What is it, miss?” Inez asks. Her eyes watch me keenly.
I sigh and push the tray away.
“Do you think me weak-willed, Inez?” I ask. She raises her eyebrows.
“Of course not, miss.”
“You can be honest. I will not be cross,” I tell her earnestly.
“I am being honest,” she replies, shaking her head. “There is not one person who has met you who would think you weak-willed. Probably many other unflattering terms, if you ask some of the guards, but not weak-willed. What makes you ask?”
I gaze out the window, watching the snow fall. I remember standing on the windowsill three months ago, ready to risk my life just at a chance to escape. And now I am sitting in my cage, enjoying cake and tea.
“I have become complacent, Inez,” I murmur, not looking away from the window. “I have stopped fighting.”
She places her warm hand over mine.
“No, miss,” she says. “Fighting does not always mean throwing punches or flinging yourself out of windows.”
I shoot her a sideways glance, wondering how she knew, but say nothing. She leans in.
“Sometimes fighting is just surviving.”
I look down and smile. The snow hare scurries through my mind, limbs outstretched and eyes wide.
“You are right.” I breathe deeply. “I do wonder, though…”
Inez looks at me expectantly, nibbling on her toast.
“If there was way a way to leave, would you?” I ask, keeping my tone light.
She blinks. Once. Twice. Three times. The toast remains in her hand.
“Leave, miss?”
I gesture around us.
“The castle. Would you leave?”
She opens her mouth once and closes it. Opens it again.
“This is my home,” Inez says finally. “I do not know anything else.”
“But to get away from the king would be worth it, no?”
“We can never get away from him, miss.”
The words fall from Inez as casually as if she were telling me about the weather, but they cause a deep fissure across my heart. We can never get away from him.
I want to cry for her, for all of them, for me, but I do not. Instead, I rearrange my face into something resembling neutrality and close my hand over the top of hers.
“It was purely hypothetical anyway,” I say with a smile and Inez visibly relaxes, her shoulder sagging. “No point in discussing it any further.”
“Quite right, miss,” Inez replies brightly and reaches for a slice of honey cake.
Later, once we have finished our breakfast, Inez dresses me for my morning walk with the prince. Despite staying indoors, she insists the castle is too chilly to walk around in the simpler dresses—without a lit fire, the cold seeps through the brick.
She bundles me up in a pale blue dress with thick fabric, long sleeves and a soft, warm lining. I don thicker shoes underneath. It is not as practical as the queen’s red dress, but it will keep me warm.
“This colour looks lovely on you, miss.” Inez beams as she tucks my long hair under the collar. “What a pretty picture you are.”
I blush and give a shy smile.
“Thank you, Inez.” I twirl for her, but the heavy weight of the dress means the skirt barely lifts. Inez claps regardless, delighted .
“It is no wonder the prince is so smitten with you,” she says before adjusting the buttons on my bodice. My heart flutters at her words, but I do not want to let it show.
“W-What do you mean?” I ask. I try for a casual laugh, but it comes out nervous and shrill. Inez gives me a knowing look.
“I see more than you think,” she says coyly.
“Well.” I sniff, trying to hide the secret thrill in my chest. “I think you might have the wrong end of the stick. The prince is most assuredly not smitten with me.”
“Oh, I believe he is.” Her expression turns stricken, her face tight. “Many girls have passed through this room. But this is the most he has ever requested their presence.”
I frown and lower my eyes, my mouth twisted to the side. I pluck at the frilly trim on my bodice.
“Do not misunderstand me,” Inez continues. “He made sure they were well looked after and tried his best to shield them from the king and himself. But since…”
“Since what?”
“Forgive me. It is not my tale to tell.” She stands back to admire her handiwork. Before she dressed me, she had taken the time to wash and oil my hair so it shone like onyx. I must agree with her—the pale blue suits me, stark against the darkness of my skin. I wonder if the prince will like it too .
We sit with more hot tea until there is a knock on the door.
“I shall leave you to it, miss.” Inez stands and curtsies.
As she leaves, the prince steps in. He inclines his head in greeting, hands clasped behind him and back straight.
“Good morrow, Miss Shivani.”
He is dressed in emerald green velvet, complimenting his tousled brown hair and fair skin. His eyes match the steely grey sky outside. When he sets them on me, all the thoughts leave my head. He looks at me expectantly, and I realise I have not replied.
“O-Oh,” I stammer and give a hasty curtsy. “Good morrow, Your Highness.”
A playful smile tugs at the corner of his lips. His gaze briefly travels down my dress before snapping back up—I almost think he is about to say something when he half-turns away and gestures to the door.
“Shall we?”
I stifle my disappointment and nod.
“Yes. Let’s.”
Despite my warm outfit, Inez was right—the castle was cold. As soon as I leave the warmth of my chambers, the air hits my face. Regardless of the chill, I find myself enjoying it. The air is crisp and cool, fresher than anything I have breathed in a long while. I inhale deeply.
“Do you enjoy winter, Miss Shivani?” the prince asks. I turn to him and see him watching me with kind eyes.
“No,” I admit. “Not usually.”
The prince contemplates this and extends his arm. After a moment of hesitation, I accept it and wrap my hand around his elbow. Even through my gloves and his thick sleeves, I can feel the firmness of his arms, solid beneath my fingers. I try not to think about it.
We stroll through the corridors leisurely, blanketed in comfortable silence. The guards stayed mostly out of our way, standing at attention against the walls. Their uniform has changed to a wintery white and blue, with thick fabric under their armour and comfortable gloves to protect their hands from the cold.
The prince leads us around a corner and another until we reach a steep set of stairs.
“Apologies, it is quite a climb,” he says, gesturing for me to go ahead of him. “Have you quite healed?”
I instinctively touch my side, but the pain is almost entirely gone.
“I am,” I reply, eyeing the stairs. “But will the climb be worth it?”
“It will.” He smiles, his eyes twinkling.
I huff my way up the stairs, grabbing the top of my skirts and lifting them so they do not tangle around my feet. The prince patiently climbs behind me, stopping when I stop and going when I go. By the time we reach the top, my face is so flush, I no longer notice the cold. We meet an old wooden door marked with age.
“Very well, then,” I gasp out, one hand on the stitch burning my side. “Show me.”
I am reassured by the prince also being out of breath, his cheeks tinged with pink. He slides past me and twists the doorknob. I peek around him, but he moves in front of me, obscuring my view.
“Ah.” The prince grins and wags a finger. “A surprise, remember?”
“Is this not it?”
“Almost, but not quite.” He turns to me. “May I cover your eyes?”
I glance behind me at the narrow, spiral staircase where he led us. My throat is suddenly dry.
“Yes,” I reply hoarsely.
He gives me a reassuring smile and places a hand over my eyes, moving behind me as he does so. His skin is smooth and warm, his touch gentle. I lean into him instinctively.
“Forward,” he says softly in my ear. “A few steps.”
I do as he instructs, tentatively taking a step and then another. His hand appears on my waist, halting me. Even with my eyes covered, I sense his presence close behind me. His chest brushes my shoulder blades. My breath hitches.
“Are you alright?” Concern laces his voice. “Is it your rib? ”
“No,” I breathe. “I am well.”
His hand squeezes my waist at my answer. I am almost disappointed when he moves in front of me, keeping his hand over my eyes. I hear the squeak of a door hinge before a wall of warm, humid air washes over me.
“Okay,” the prince says, removing his hand. “Here it is.”
I blink at the sudden light. As soon as my vision clears, my jaw drops.
“Oh,” I gasp softly. “Your Highness, it is beautiful.”
We stand in a room made entirely of glass, circular and tall, with a domed ceiling. I am struck by the warmth and the smell—earthy and fragrant. Several terracotta pots of various sizes sit in various places, housing some flowers I recognise and some I do not. Towering ferns grow up one side, a wall of ivy lines another. A large table sits in the middle, laden with lines of small, square tubs. Each of them is filled with rich soil and dotted with vibrant green sprouts. A watering can sits in the corner next to a rake and two spaces, one short and the other tall. Morning sunlight filters in, drenching the flowers in a honey glow. I inhale deeply.
“Thank you,” the prince replies, shutting the glass door behind us to keep the warmth in. I step in further, admiring a tall flower with velvety red petals. This is where the flowers come from , I think to myself, recalling the castle corridors filled with strange plants.
“Did you grow everything here?”
“I used to,” he tells me, standing near the door while I wander. “I am sad to say I have neglected this place for a while, leaving the work to the servants. But…I have recently rekindled it.”
I feel his eyes on me. I turn to look at him and catch his gaze once more, intense and warm.
“I have you to thank for that,” he says.
“Oh.” I find my mouth is suddenly dry. “You are welcome, then.”
There is a beat of silence before he abruptly crosses the distance between us. I nearly take a step back but resist, squaring my shoulders and raising my chin instead.
“How are you finding your art room?” he asks innocuously, as though he could not have asked from the other side of the glasshouse.
“Yes, it…” I consider a curt, formal response but the prince is standing so close and watching so intensely, I cannot formulate one. I think of him dozed on painkillers and speaking candidly to me. I decide I do not need lavender tonic to do the same. “It has been a true sanctuary for me, Your Highness. I fear I would have lost my mind in this cage otherwise. You have my sincere thanks.”
The prince looks at me for a long while before taking another half-step forward. Now he is close enough for me to smell the soap he used this morning—sweet and earthy—but also something dark and pleasant underneath. It is the smell of him, I realise. My heart sets off at a gallop as he towers over me. All sense of dignity leaves my body.
“Even though your father is a prick,” I blurt out. Horrified, I clap a hand over my mouth. The prince’s eyes widen, and his mouth parts slightly. There is a moment where I do not know what he will do.
And then his face breaks into a grin, and the glasshouse rings with his delighted laugh.
“Well said, Miss Shivani.”
He turns to one of his plants and strokes the leaf tenderly. A fierce warmth radiates from my face, but I make an attempt to recover quickly, moving the conversation along from my strange outburst.
“This is your version of my art room, I suppose?” I ask, stepping away to squint at a squat, spiky thing.
“That feels accurate,” he replies. “Although there is a tree which I like to visit also.”
I recall the tree outside my chambers I tried to use to escape. The prince’s presence there suddenly makes sense.
“It is quiet there,” he continues. “The guards do not often patrol around it, so I am free to read in relative peace.”
“Until someone decides to fling themselves off the windowsill. ”
The prince catches my eye, and I give a sheepish grin.
“I am only glad I was there to help,” he says, ever the gentleman. “Shall we continue on?”
We spend the rest of the morning in the prince’s greenhouse as he shows me his favourite flowers and the history behind each exotic plant. Their names roll off his tongue easily as he recants obscure plant knowledge with little effort. The part of me that thirsts for knowledge is in awe, and I find myself listening with eager interest.
We end up in a small gap between flowers where we can stand and look out through the glass. I blink at the view. We have climbed high, to the highest point in the castle. Snow coats the flat surfaces of the walls and catches on the ledges. The sky remains a hard grey but the snow has ceased falling. The prince points out a part of the castle walls where a tree pushes its way through the brick.
“I caught you…” He points. “Right there.”
Even though I already know, the memory comes to me in a rush, like a harsh, cold wind. From this view, I can see the distance between the ledge I stood on and the tree. Whether it is real or a trick of the season, the branches of the tree look especially fragile. I swallow hard, trying not to think of what would have happened to me if the prince had not been there and I had truly jumped. My eyes trace down the ledge to the hard brick beneath. I picture my mangled body there, having undoubtedly missed the tree or fallen through the branches. I blanch.
“My apologies, Miss Shivani.” The prince breaks me out of my spiralling thoughts. “I should not have shown you.”
I inhale quickly, trying to dislodge the unpleasant images.
“It is quite alright, Your Highness. I-I made a jest of it first.” I blink rapidly and look away, catching the prince’s eyes. He takes my gloved hand in his, and my heart stutters.
“No, it was a dark time for you, and I do not wish to remind you of it. I can only imagine how much you have worked to…make the most of your situation here.” He takes a deep breath. “I wished to take you to my favourite place in the castle, but I should not have mentioned the tree. I apologise.”
I search his eyes and find only sincerity.
“Accepted, Your Highness.” I incline my head, and he smiles, relieved. He turns to look at the plants, and, to my delight, his hand stays in mine. I try to steady my heartbeat and listen to him.
"The guards do not climb this high,” he tells me. “It is the only true place I am able to find some peace.”
I think of my art room and the peace it brings me. To be alone and unwatched in a sea of hostile guards and observing eyes. I started to understand the prince knew the value of that and wanted to give it to me unprovoked. Purely to share something he knew was important. A sanctuary.
“You have a kind heart, Your Highness,” I tell him and squeeze his hand. He turns to me and I realise how close we are, nearly touching. The humid air is so tense I cannot remember how to breathe.
He raises his hand and nearly reaches for my cheek but hesitates. Instead, he slides his arm around my back and pulls me in. His face nestles at the nape of my neck. He holds me tight, hugging me as though I am a life raft in an unforgiving sea. After a beat, when I realise what is happening, I reciprocate. I wrap my arms around him and let myself melt against his chest. He is firm and solid—he brings me such a feeling of safety. I realise the art room is not my only sanctuary here. The prince is, as well. I do not know how long we stay that way, but neither of us wants it to end.
Eventually, the prince pulls back with a dazed expression.
“I…” he starts, but the words seem to stick in his throat. “I am due to turn tonight.”
“Oh.” I am unsure what I expected but it is not that. I clear my throat and take a step back. A flash of disappointment straightens my spine.
“I would appreciate your company during my recovery,” he continues .
“I always accompany you, Your Highness.”
“Regardless, I do not like to assume. You are always free to change your mind.” He reverts to his usual formal position, hands clasped behind his back. His face has fallen into his accustomed neutrality except for the pink tinge in his cheeks. My mouth curves into a smile.
“Thank you, Your Highness.” I chew my lip for a moment. “Has it…always been a regular occurrence? Your turnings?”
The prince sighs and rubs the back of his neck.
“At first, it was. Or so we thought. But soon, it would happen sporadically, sometimes even in my sleep. I became a danger to everyone around me.”
He draws himself back as we both notice the resentment in his voice.
“I suppose it would not be a curse if it was easy to manage, would it?” He dips his gaze with a sad smile. There are a few moments of quiet while I process this.
“Your Highness,” I say. “I am sorry you must suffer this curse. Especially…”
He brings his eyes back up until they are fixed on mine, boring into me in a way he does so easily. I take a deep breath and continue.
“Especially from your mother,” I finish, keeping my voice soft.
He says nothing, but his eyebrows push up together in the middle, and his eyes shine with tears, glinting in the firelight. He looks so mournful, I cannot bear it and reach across for his hand, grasping it tight.
After a long moment, he speaks.
“I do not even hate her,” he whispers. “I just wish I knew what I had done to make her hate me.”
Tears begin to spill, sliding down his fair cheeks and falling from his jaw. He makes no move to rub them away, and so neither do I, allowing him this sadness.
“You were a child,” I tell him. “A baby. You did not do anything, Your Highness. Do you blame me for my father selling me like I was a load of bread?”
He blinks at me.
“O-Of course not.” He shakes his head. “Your father is a foolish, gambling, low-life cur, if you will pardon my language.”
His sudden burst of fury on my behalf makes me smile despite myself and he gives a sheepish grin back.
“Sometimes, Your Highness, we are a victim of other people’s choices. I promise you, you did nothing to deserve this curse,” I tell him, giving his hand an encouraging squeeze.
“My thanks, Miss Shivani.” He takes a deep breath and wipes the last of his tears away with the back of his arm. “My thanks for being a…”
He halts, his eyes moving from where our hands are bound up to my face. I blush under his gaze, but he does not finish the sentence. His lips remain parted but he has frozen, eyes uncertain.
“A friend,” I finish for him.
He moves as if to say something but hesitates.
“A friend,” he repeats eventually before releasing my hand.