If the rumors are true, that is. Word has it Malfleur has been building up her army using secret techniques unknown to the rest of the world, in addition to practicing levels of magic not seen among the fae in centuries. Just thinking about it gives Aurora a chill.
LaMorte is the only kingdom ruled by a faerie anymore. It used to be that all the positions of power were held by the fae, but that was long ago. Aurora’s grandfather was part of the wave of human monarchs pushing the fae out, even as the faeries’ magic waned. Now most of Deluce’s aristocracy is human, though a faerie duchess or baron remains here and there. And while the fae allow females to govern alone (they pretty much have to, since female faeries generally outlive male faeries by many decades), humans do not. A human princess must marry to become a queen.
Aurora knows how important her upcoming wedding really is to the safety of her kingdom. But that doesn’t mean she can’t secretly hope that it will be more than tactical—that the prince will be her true love, and with that love, her whole life will change. That, like Ombeline from the story, she will finally be freed.
The veil on Aurora’s hennin dances wildly in the open air. Because of her lack of touch, she doesn’t feel pain. So while the princess can tell that it’s very cold out, the chill doesn’t really bother her. It’s just . . . there, a dim awareness like a heartbeat.
It’s always windy up on the palace wall walks, where she and Isbe have come to look out for the banners of the approaching princes and their retinue. Through the crenellated parapet, Aurora can see the vast expanse of the royal village and the lands to the south and west sides, the mouth of the strait to the northeast, all covered in the soft drape of evening. It’s especially blustery at this time of year and this time of day, when the sun has worn down to a crimson paper cut slicing sea from sky.
The wind is helpful, anyway, to her sister. It carries information—sounds and smells that tell her who is coming and how high the tides are, what will be served for dinner, and which of the soldiers guarding the front gates have bedded which of the housemaids.
Tonight, Isbe’s face is alive with curiosity, and for what is probably the millionth time, Aurora wishes her sister could see herself, even for an instant. That she could witness the way joy and sadness write themselves so boldly in her expressions. How uncontained her emotions seem.
As different as they are—Isbe’s features hard and wild and pale next to Aurora’s rosiness, her sun-colored hair, and gentle curves—Aurora likes to believe that something invisible, something deep inside each of them, is connected, forged from the same fire.
Isbe races ahead along the wall walk, which is lit by torches ensconced in the iron brackets atop the seven cupola-covered drum towers. Her form flickers between light and shadow as she passes by each of the parapet’s teeth. She is already climbing the stones of the southeast tower—the king’s tower, which is also the best vantage point—by the time Aurora reaches the wide southern wall.
Aurora wants to call for Isbe to wait, but of course she can’t. She just hopes they won’t get caught sneaking around up here. Four years ago, the plague killed both of her parents, King Henri and Queen Amélie. Since then, the council’s role has grown from keeping careful watch to issuing suffocating rules. And it’s even worse lately.
Because Aurora’s sixteenth birthday is tomorrow and the wedding to Philip will soon follow, the council has essentially kept her under lock and key within the lonely palace walls, even though Isbe is completely free to roam the ample grounds, romp through the royal forest, ride horses, snack on random pickings from the lower kitchen, and pretty much do anything she pleases. Everyone acts as if Aurora might collapse under a stray breeze—since she paid the tithe of touch as a child, she is constantly in danger of getting hurt and not realizing it. And it’s true she has burned herself too many times to be allowed in the kitchens or too close to the fire. She has embarrassing scars on her knees from various tumbles as a child that led to scratches that bled for hours before she noticed them.
Following Isbe’s disappearing form, Aurora hurries to the king’s tower and tries to get a foothold in the still-wet stone. Before she gets very far, the familiar voices of the council members float over her head. The king’s tower holds one of their meeting rooms, and with its jutting, thinly paned oriel windows, it is one of the easiest rooms to spy on, if you happen to be on the roof.
Aurora pauses, listening to what sounds like a heated exchange. It’s very rare for the council to be meeting this late, particularly when such important guests are expected at any moment.
She tucks her dress and robes around her legs and crouches just beneath the oriel, peering in.
“They were supporters of Malfleur, I’m sure of it,” one of the men is saying.
Another scoffs. “Nothing but peasants and petty thieves. A horrible accident, and that is all.”
“It’s not the time to analyze the attack! We are in a state of emergency!” cries another, slamming down hard on a table.
A horrible accident? Attack? A state of emergency? What could possibly have happened? She inches slightly closer to the base of the window, straining to hear.
“This is more than an attack; this is a political maneuver. It’s a diplomatic crisis.”
“He’s right. It’s an act . . . an act of war. This has to be Malfleur’s doing. And without Aubin on our side, we are sunk.”
“Aubin still needs us as much as we need them. Their royal coffers are dry—we know that. Their precious war overseas has seen to that.”
“Before we come to any conclusions, we must reconcile ourselves to the murder of the two princes and decide upon swift and immediate action.”
At this, Aurora loses her grip and falls several feet to the damp stone floor of the wall walk. The fall doesn’t hurt—of course—but the news rings loud and harsh in her ears. The murder of the two princes.
It cannot be true.
Philip is no longer coming to marry her.
He and his brother, Edward, are dead.
She must have misunderstood. She needs to go in there and confront them, find out the truth. But even as she thinks that, she realizes how silly it sounds. Aurora, confronting the council? It’s unheard of. In the past she’s made vain attempts to write her thoughts down with ink on vellum, copying the beautiful script found in the books she loves to read. But the council members have only responded with blank, befuddled stares. In fact, most of them are illiterate and find it simply unimaginable that a woman could have taught herself to both read and write.