The murder of the two princes. The words keep repeating themselves, tumbling over one another in her mind even as she scrambles up the tower toward her sister. She wishes once again that she could call out to Isbe. But with no voice, she is left to climb, higher this time, desperate to find her, to convey what she’s heard.
The dome is slick and cold. She reaches the top of the tower and clings to the curved roof, inching her way toward the outer-facing side. She thinks she sees Isbe, just around the—
A gust of wind blows Aurora’s veil into her face. As she tries to shake it free, she senses her shoe has become heavy. It must have soaked up some of the unmelted snow, which means . . .
Her foot slips.
She gasps, her balance giving way, then flails, losing her grip with one hand. Panic flies through her lungs, leaving her mouth in a silent scream.
The murder of the two princes, the wind sings back to her, and she knows. She is going to fall.
A shout pierces the darkness.
Isbe’s face, torch lit, hovers above her. She has firmly caught Aurora’s sleeve and yanked her back against the tower. “Aurora . . . I heard you. I’m here!”
Aurora’s pulse races in her throat. She is shaking, marveling at her sister’s ability to hear even the slightest skid of shoe against ice.
Slowly they move to safety, one chapped hand before the other, until they are just above the wall walk, where Isbe leaps down first and reaches up to assist Aurora, whose heart is still pounding so powerfully she fears she may faint.
But as her dizziness clears, all she can think is what she must communicate to Isbe. The princes.
Both of them. Murdered.
“Oi! What are you doing up here?” Two night guards are approaching.
Aurora frantically tries to grab Isbe’s hand, but the guards rush them from either side and yank them apart.
“Told youse to stay off here!” one guard grumbles.
“Let us go!” Isbe cries as they are both dragged roughly down the steps.
“Escaped yer cage again, eh?” says the other to Aurora. She’s thankful that Isbe can’t see the sneer on his pocked face.
Isbe juts out her chin. “We were just trying to—”
“That’s ’bout enough of that,” one growls as they haul the girls through a passageway, up another set of stairs, and into the king’s tower proper, where they are presented before the twelve gathered councilmen and -women.
“Sorry to barge in. But we caught ’em climbing the towers again. Princess almost took a bad drop,” the older and fatter of the guards says. “This one was scampering up and down like a goat.”
Before Aurora can so much as shake her head in protest, Isbe clears her throat, squeezing Aurora’s hand tight. “He’s right. It was all my fault, not Aurora’s.”
Meanwhile, Jules de Villeroy, the chancellor, tugs at his collar. “This is a most, most inopportune moment.”
Aurora desperately taps into Isbe’s hand. The princes. Dead. Philip’s dead. She can’t tell if her sister has registered the message.
Old hotheaded Humphrey bangs his fist on the arm of his chair. “Dammit! Endangering the princess? At a time like this? I’ve had enough! All of our plans. The whole alliance . . . up in smoke in a moment if something were to—” He cuts himself off and takes a breath. “If we don’t handle that one,” he finishes, pointing fiercely at Isbe, “then I personally will.”
Aurora looks nervously around the room at the council: ten men and two women. The men all have bare, protruding foreheads—the style of the time, though Aurora can’t understand why—and wear high collars and deep frowns. The women, both financial attendants, look as shriveled as the pickled fish Aurora has watched servants eating in the kitchen. She can’t remember a time when these women were young.
These are the men and women who have, over the past four years, become the unwanted surrogate caretakers for her and Isbe. She knows none of them has any true affection for her. She is a mere item to be bartered.
It’s even worse for Isbe, of course. She is no princess, and she will be eighteen soon. So far, despite the council’s best attempts, no one has been interested in marrying the dead king’s blind bastard daughter.
Lord Ferdinand pushes his chair back from the table. Aurora can’t help but notice that the corner of the rotund man’s red robe is stained with either mud or gravy—more likely the latter, given how little he’s known to venture past the castle walls. “With the permission of my fellow councilmen,” Ferdinand says, “I see it fit we pursue our original plans regarding Isabelle immediately.”
“Plans?” Isbe asks as Aurora’s heart starts to beat faster.
“You are to be sent to a convent in the district of Isolé,” says one of the stern old clerics at the back of the room.
“But . . . for how long?” Isbe croaks.
“For the remainder of your life,” says the cleric.
“No!” Isbe tries to lunge forward; however, one of the guards keeps his fat hand around her arm, holding her back.
Aurora feels like she’s been strangled. Isbe. Leaving. Forever. It’s too much. Her knees are beginning to give out. Her sister shouldn’t have said anything. She shouldn’t have opened her big mouth, trying to be brave, trying to protect Aurora, like always.
Look where it’s gotten her now.
Maximilien, one of the younger members and perhaps the kindest of the council despite being the chief of military, nods. “We were going to wait until after the wedding, but we might as well make haste. Aurora’s safety and protection are of utmost importance.”
Aurora doesn’t know whether to be furious or devastated or simply afraid. Isolé lies at the southernmost point of Deluce, near the border of Corraine. That’s miles and miles from the palace!
She fumbles for Isbe’s hand again, but her sister pulls away.
“Why?” she blurts out. “Why are we to be parted if the wedding is no longer happening?” So her palm did understand Aurora’s hasty message.
Maximilien frowns. “I can see you have been listening in where you were not invited. Nevertheless . . .” He turns to Aurora. “You both may as well know that Princes Philip and Edward of Aubin are dead.”
Aurora’s heart plummets into her stomach like a bucket dropped down a well. Hearing it announced so bluntly is even harder the second time.
“I ask again,” Isbe says, jutting out her chin. “How will Aurora marry if the two princes of Aubin are dead?”
“Luckily,” another council member replies, “there is a third.”
4
Isabelle