A Wicked Thing (13 page)

He handed her one of the swords. It felt lighter than she remembered, but calming, somehow, to hold. She swished it through the air, her fingers tight around the hilt. “That's not quite—I mean, if you don't mind, Princess . . .” Rodric walked closer and rested his hand over hers. “Like this.” He adjusted the placement of her fingers. “If you loosen your grip, it'll be easier,” he said. “Think of it as part of your arm. You don't have to cling to keep it there.”

She attempted another swipe, and he smiled. “That's good,” he said. “You're better than you think. Not much force behind it, but you could be quick. Dangerously quick.”

He stepped back, opening up the space between them.

“Shall we practice?” Aurora said.

Rodric shook his head. “We shouldn't,” he said. “If I hurt you, I wouldn't—we should not risk it.”

“You said I wasn't that bad.”

“It's not your lack of skill I'm worried about.”

She turned away, letting the sword hang loose by her side. “I thought I'd be like one of the girls in the stories,” she said. “Swinging swords, fighting dragons, having adventures. But . . .” She stared down at the ragged old doll. “Nothing turned out as I thought.”

“For me, either.” She looked up. Rodric was staring into the air again, his lips pressed tightly together.

“What about you?” Aurora asked. She stepped toward him. “What did you want?”

“I don't know,” he said. “It always seemed that my future would be decided for me.”

Aurora looked at the sword in her hand. The little girl who had run around this room, slashing at ghosts and shadows, had never felt that way. The present was fixed, but the future . . . anything had seemed possible then.

“It must have been lonely,” Rodric said, still not looking at her. “Playing in this tower by yourself.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “I suppose it was.”

THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, AURORA WAS
summoned to the queen's private rooms. Light poured in through large, high windows, making the space seem cheerful and airy. The queen sat at a round table, staring at papers laid before her. Aurora's stomach clenched at the sight of her. Three older ladies waited behind the queen, their hair tied up in neat buns.

“Ah, Aurora,” the queen said, smiling her thin-lipped smile as though they had not argued the last time they'd spoken. “How lovely to see you. We were just looking at the design for your wedding dress. Come. Take a look.”

The dress was sketched out on a large piece of parchment, in
charcoal first, then in pencil, and finally, a version washed over with delicate colored inks. It was an ethereal thing, layers of gossamer floating outward from a tight bodice and reflecting every color of the light, like something from a dream. Old-fashioned yet fantastical, impossible to touch.

“It's lovely,” Aurora said. She ran her finger over the page, tracing each pencil stroke and splash of color.

“I am glad it pleases you, Princess,” said one of the women. She bowed as she spoke, a stiff jerk of her neck.

“These,” the queen said, standing up with a flourish, “are the best seamstresses in Alyssinia. They have come here especially for you and will be taking your measurements today.”

The women all bowed again, and one murmured, “Your Majesty is too kind.”

They wrapped tapes across every inch of Aurora, squeezing so tightly around her waist that she had to hitch in her breath. Once they had scribbled down every measurement on a long piece of parchment, they began to fuss with her hair, piling it on top of her head, twisting it around, inspecting her earlobes and wrists while the queen looked on.

“We will leave her hair loose,” the queen said. “For purity. But perhaps some garlands . . .”

“A line of flowers,” one of the women—the tallest one—said. She ran a finger from the middle of Aurora's forehead to the back of her ear. “Here.”

“No, no,” said the austere one who seemed to be their leader.
“A single lily, tucked behind her right ear. Beauty, purity, grace.”

The queen nodded. Aurora forced herself to stand still, her face carefully blank. No one asked her opinion. Finally, the prodding and poking ended. The seamstresses collected their piles of papers, covered in measurements and notes and little sketches of thoughts, thanked the queen profusely for her patronage, and promised, with a severity that prevented any sliver of doubt, that they would start work immediately and meet with the queen to discuss further details on the morrow. The queen dismissed them with a delicate smile. With a few more bows and curtsies, they departed, leaving Aurora and the queen alone.

“Now that went well,” the queen said, and her smile was broader than usual, as though she felt genuine relief at the proceedings. “These ladies made my coronation gown ten years ago, and they have only grown more talented with age. You will have a wedding dress that all the world will remember.”

“Yes,” Aurora said. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“I have told you to call me Iris,” the queen said. “We will soon be family, after all. Now, come.” She held out her hand. “Sit with me a moment, my dear. I wish to speak with you privately.” Aurora sat down carefully in a high-backed wooden chair. “I have been thinking of our last conversation,” the queen said. “I hope you have taken my words to heart.”

Aurora nodded. Her hair itched the back of her neck, and she longed to brush it away, but she did not dare move, in case she attracted more of the queen's attention. If she stayed still,
and silent, perhaps the conversation would end quickly, and she could escape from the queen's piercing gaze.

“Good,” the queen said. She settled in a chair opposite Aurora. “I do not do this to hurt you, Aurora. I hope you know that. It is the only way.”

“I know,” Aurora said.

“I am glad. But if there is some problem, it would be better to resolve it now, before it becomes too troublesome. So please tell me, my dear. How have things been?”

Aurora stared at her for a long moment. She could not imagine that the queen wanted an honest answer, or that she intended to help if she received one. “It is hard to sleep,” she said eventually.

“I imagine so,” the queen said, “when you do not even try.”

“I try,” Aurora said, the injustice forcing defiance out of her. “But it is difficult. I have lost everything.”

“What have you lost, my dear?” the queen said. Her expression remained neutral, but she raised her eyebrows almost imperceptibly as she spoke. “You have a home and a kingdom. And you have your true love.” Her tone made clear that she would accept no arguments on that point.

“I have lost my family,” Aurora said.

“Everyone loses their family in the end. And really, dear. Were they that good to you before?”

Of course
, Aurora wanted to say. She could not get the words out.

“But that is no longer relevant,” Iris said. “We cannot change
the past, and we cannot have it disrupting your beauty sleep. We don't want you to look too haggard during your engagement ceremony.”

No,
Aurora thought.
We would not want that.
No one would want to see her as she really was, confused and exhausted and grieving for a life lost. How terribly unfestive that would be.

Iris stood. “I will have more books sent to you, and I will suggest that my son lengthen your daytime walks together.” It sounded like a dismissal. Aurora stood as well, forcing her chin to remain high.

“Thank you, Iris.”

The queen smiled. “Don't you worry, Aurora. We'll tire you so that you'll want to do nothing but sleep until the wedding. You'll get your rest.”

Aurora bobbed into a curtsy. The drawing of her wedding dress lay unfurled on the table, the parchment curling at the ends. So delicate, so perfect, like a dream captured on the page. In her imagination, the walls lurched inward once again.

She was almost out of the room when the queen spoke. “Remember, Aurora. My guards are watching.”

As Aurora wove her way back through the corridors, shadowed by a guard on either side, anger pounded in her chest.

Someone darted into the corridor, a blur of silk at chest height, and Aurora was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she almost crashed into her. Isabelle jumped backward. “Sorry!” she squeaked.

“No,” Aurora said. “Don't be sorry. It was my fault.”

Isabelle was still scrambling away, tumbling over her own feet. She stared up at Aurora, and then paused, her cheeks pink. “What's wrong?” she said.

“I'm fine,” Aurora said. Her voice was a little quieter and less sure than she would have liked. “Thank you.”

Isabelle frowned. “You don't look fine.” She glanced behind Aurora, as though checking for any ghosts or goblins that might be looming behind her. “Were you talking to my mother?” she asked. Aurora nodded. “Sometimes,” Isabelle added, in a matter-of-fact sort of voice, “I get sad after talking to her too.”

The contrast between Isabelle's words and her practical tone made Aurora pause. “Why does she make you feel sad?” she asked.

Isabelle looked at her feet. They just poked out underneath her skirts. The dress was too long on purpose, Aurora thought. She remembered that trick well. It forced you to walk slowly, take tiny steps, like a well-bred young lady should. When no one was looking, she had picked up her skirts and run too.

“You don't have to tell me,” Aurora said. “Sometimes I didn't get along so well with my mother either.”

Isabelle looked up at her. “Why not?”

She had tried. She really had. But her mother had always watched her with careful eyes, picking out every little wrinkle in her dress and flaw in her stance. She had never been cold, not exactly, but a little bit distant, as though scared to get too
close. Her mother always spoke precisely, dressed precisely, lived precisely, and although Aurora missed her with an ache that squeezed her insides into nothing, her mother had never quite seemed to approve of her. She had always been one step away. “She wanted me to be more of a princess,” Aurora said.

“What did you do?”

“I became more of a princess.”

Isabelle bit her lip and nodded, as though Aurora had imparted some deep life lesson that she needed to absorb.
What a horrid thing to tell her
, Aurora thought. That she had to smile and curtsy and pretend. But it was the truth, as Aurora had lived it.

“I suppose—” Isabelle said, “I suppose it worked. In the end. Because now you have Rodric.”

“Yes,” Aurora said. “I have Rodric. But not because of that.” Not because of anything she had done.

“Mother says I have to behave better, since Finnegan is here.” It seemed like a strange change in topic, until Isabelle added, “She wants me to marry him.”

“Marry him?”

“When I'm older. She says it's the best thing for Alyssinia, and it would be my—my greatest achievement”—she spoke those words carefully, picking out each syllable—“if I got his support.”

Aurora could not imagine this sweet girl married to that arrogant, scheming man. Even if Isabelle were older, it would not be a match she'd want to think about. Then again, things
like compatibility and likeability would not matter to the queen, as long as it was best for the kingdom.

“You could achieve much more than that,” Aurora said, “with or without Finnegan.” She was not entirely sure it was true, but it seemed the right thing to say. Maybe if Isabelle believed it, it could become true.

“Isabelle!” The little princess jumped. “What are you doing?” A woman appeared in the doorway, hands on her hips. She seemed slightly out of breath. “Running away from me like that. You shouldn't be bothering the princess.”

“She's not bothering me,” Aurora said, but the woman ignored her. She stepped forward and grabbed Isabelle by the crook of her arm.

“Get back in here this instant.”

“Good-bye,” Aurora said softly. The woman hurried Isabelle away, and the corridor turned quiet again. Aurora stared at the closed door. It was like her past self had come to life, uncertain and hopeful and eager to do the right thing. Isabelle would learn, as she had learned. For some reason, the thought made her sad, and she quickly turned away.

Perhaps her own mother had been like Iris, Aurora thought as she hurried back to her rooms. Aurora seemed to disappoint both of them in the same way.

A memory bubbled up, long ignored and unwelcome. Her mother, the foreign queen, brushing through Aurora's hair as she stood by the window, just tall enough to see over the ledge.
Aurora had been chattering about something, about books and adventure and her impossible dreams. “I'm going to travel,” she said. “Like you, mother. See everything. Everywhere.”

“No, dear,” her mother said. “It isn't safe.”

Aurora craned her neck, ducking free of the tug and pull of the brush. “Not now,” she said. “After.”

Everything had always been before and after in her head. Cursed and free.

“Not even then,” her mother said. “Why go far away, when you can be safe and loved with us?”

Aurora stayed silent then, but she kept dreaming until the end. Planning, wishing, poring over maps and books, right up until her eighteenth birthday and the finger prick that ended it all. She had gotten her wish, she supposed. She was a story of her own now. But it was not as she had imagined. Still the rest of the world was locked away.

WHEN AURORA FINALLY SLEPT THAT NIGHT, SHE
dreamed in fitful snatches. A crowd chasing her down the street, Tristan pulling her along before shoving her to the ground. Hands snatching at her hair, her clothes, as she struggled to regain her feet.

She woke up drenched in cold sweat. She forced her aching legs out from under the covers and paced the room. She wanted to see Tristan. She wanted to escape from these walls, to drink mead, to forget who she was meant to be for one more night. But she couldn't. She knew she couldn't. She had been a fool to ever trust him.

She pulled the book he had given her from its hiding place at the back of the bookshelf and began to read, trying to remember the thrill of that night. Every word of adventure seemed tainted now. It all made her think of Tristan's face as he told her his secrets and of the brutal hero he thought he could be.

She grabbed the cover, ready to tear some of the pages away, but then stopped and tucked it back where it had been before.

“Goodness, Princess,” Betsy said, when she arrived with breakfast. “You look a sight. Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Aurora said. “Yes. I just had a bad dream.”

“Oh,” Betsy said. She ducked her head, as though suddenly remembering that they were not friends after all. “At least you've been getting some sleep.”

Aurora received no summons from the queen that day, and Rodric did not appear. She assumed that they were busy preparing for the engagement presentation the next day, that Rodric was learning a speech while his mother picked over every word choice, every intonation, every thread of his clothes. Aurora had not been invited. Why would she be needed, when no one expected her to say a word, when the queen could dictate the details of her every move? She picked up a book and tried to read it, but the words would not stick in her head.

Tomorrow, she would be officially engaged. She would stand before the crowd again, and they would cheer, and Rodric would smile, and happily ever after would begin. Tomorrow.

Someone knocked on the door. “Come in,” Aurora said.

The door creaked open, and Isabelle slipped through the narrow gap.

“Isabelle. What are you doing here?”

“Sorry,” Isabelle said quickly, almost tripping over her own feet in her hurry to back through the door. “I didn't mean to bother you. I just thought—”

“No,” Aurora said. She hurried to close the door before Isabelle disappeared entirely. “You just surprised me. Don't you have lessons?”

Isabelle looked at the ground. She definitely wasn't supposed to be here. “Only history,” she said quietly. “Mrs. Benson was going to test me.”

“Sounds like something you wouldn't want to miss.”

“It's boring,” Isabelle said. “I'd rather talk to you.”

“You don't like history?” Isabelle shook her head. “I thought you loved stories.”

“I love stories,” she said, energy appearing in her expression almost instantly. “Ogres and swordfights and romance and—and everything! But history isn't like that.” She tilted her head, watching Aurora closely. “Except you,” she added. “Without the ogres and swordfights. But you're not history. You're here.”

“Everything in history was here once,” Aurora said. “That's what makes it interesting.” Isabelle did not look convinced. “My favorite story is true,” she added. Or at least, it had always
seemed true to her, when she'd pored over the pages, soaking in every word. When she had pretended to be the great Queen Alysse, alone in her playroom. “Have you heard the story of Alysse?”

Isabelle sighed, that painful, world-weary sigh of an overburdened eight-year-old. “Alysse was one of the first settlers in Alyssinia,” she said in a dragging monotone. “She made the land hospitable and was a great queen.”

“Ah,” Aurora said, grabbing Isabelle's hands and pulling her toward the chairs in the center of the room. “But do you know the real story?”

Isabelle shook her head. Aurora nodded sagely and sank into her chair. Isabelle settled at her feet, her skirt forming a bubble around her. The book sat on her bookshelf with the others, perfect and unread, but Aurora didn't need it. She could still remember every word. “Long ago,” she said, running her fingers through Isabelle's hair, “the people of Alyssinia lived across the sea, in a land of metal and smoke. Once, the land had been beautiful and full of magic, but the wicked kings had choked its beauty, and the magic died away.”

“Like here,” Isabelle said.

“Yes,” Aurora said softly. “Like here. Disgusted by their rulers, and full of despair, a group of bold adventurers set off across the sea, until they saw land that seemed to glow with natural power. Enchanted by its stormy skies, wild forests, and glassy lakes, the adventurers decided to settle in this land, naming it
after their leader's beautiful young daughter, Alysse.

“But the land had a mind of its own,” she continued. “Cutting down trees seemed to turn the creatures against them, and the land seemed to need cajoling more than taming. If they did not figure out how to get Alyssinia on their side, the people would surely die, but no one, not a soul among all those men, knew what to do. But Alysse was different. She was just your age, you know, and when she walked in the forests, she said she heard the whispering of the trees. And she knew how to whisper back.”

“With magic?”

“A kind of magic, I suppose,” Aurora said. “She soothed the way for her people and led them deeper and deeper into the forest, pointing out each place where a few of them could live. Not in cities, not walled up and locked away. But little villages, and one castle, hidden among the trees, where no one else could harm them.”

As Aurora told the story, about the good, patient, kindhearted Alysse, who brought peace between the people and the land and made everything possible, the familiar words began to feel twisted and foreign. Like they did not quite fit in the air. Alysse had always seemed so strong to her as a child: a future queen, loved by everyone she met, an adventurer in a new land and the only one who understood it. She had been so
good
. So gentle. All the regal traits her mother had impressed on her, long ago.

“What happened to her?” Isabelle asked.

“She vanished. They say that one day, she was wandering in the woods, and she disappeared into the mist. The forest reclaiming its own.”

What nonsense
, Aurora thought.
She died.
Everyone died.

“Will she come back?”

“No one knows.”

“Maybe she's you,” Isabelle said, bouncing on the spot. “Everyone says you're going to save us. That you'll bring magic back!”

Magic
. For the first time, she heard the word and felt a twist in her stomach, a little thrill. Having that kind of power, that kind of influence . . . it was a wicked thing. Yet she could not deny the satisfaction she felt at the thought of it. At the idea of having importance, having true influence, the ability to do as she pleased.

It was impossible, of course. She was not a long-dead queen reborn, and she was as likely to restore magic as she was to see her parents again. But she could not crush Isabelle's dreams. She could not crush that feeling in herself.

“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe.”

That evening, the entire court gathered in the banquet hall for a pre-engagement celebration. A silk curtain hung across one end of the room, hiding a makeshift stage from view. Members of the court waited on slanted wooden benches, whispering
and joking among themselves. The benches formed a
V
, with two red-and-gold thrones in the center for the guests of honor. Aurora sat in the one on the left, her hands clasped neatly in her lap. Next to her, Rodric fidgeted with his sleeve. Neither of them spoke.

Finnegan sat to Aurora's left. She did not look at him, but she could feel his eyes on her.

A short man stepped around the curtain and addressed the crowd. “My company and I are honored to perform before you tonight. At our beautiful queen's request, we will be presenting a dumb show of a story that I am sure you all know well, reviving this old form of entertainment in honor of our princess.” He bowed at Aurora.

“Excellent,” the king shouted. “Let the play begin.”

The curtains slid open, revealing two figures, a king and a queen, covered in finery. The queen rocked a baby in her arms, and peaceful music rang out from a harp. Aurora pressed her hands into her lap. She should have expected this blind cruelty. They were going to perform her life back to her, as though it were nothing more than light entertainment.

Finnegan leaned closer, hissing below her ear. “Oh, good,” he said. “This is my favorite story. Don't you agree?”

She ignored him.

One by one, actors approached the woman and child, their faces hidden by masks. They each bowed or curtsied and placed a gift by the baby's feet. Then a drum rolled, echoing like thunder
off the stone walls, and another player appeared, dressed in black from head to toe and wearing a bird-like mask with dark feathers and red scales around the eyes. The figure pointed at the child, her chin thrown back in defiance as the music swelled. The king pulled out his sword and advanced, but the woman waved a hand, and the sword vanished. The audience gasped.

“The blade retracted through the hilt, of course,” Finnegan murmured. “It has vanished up the actor's sleeve. Ingenious, really.”

“Thank you for the explanation,” Aurora said, the words scraping through her teeth. “I would not have noticed it myself.”

“You are very welcome,” he said. “I know that illusions must be quite out of your depth, innocent as you are.” She jerked around to look at him, but he shook his head. “Shh,” he said. “Watch the play. I want to see how it ends.”

Onstage, the witch threw back her head and laughed. The music rose, and the room plunged into darkness. When the light returned, a young woman was standing on the edge of the stage, brushing her long blonde hair. Her golden mask only covered her eyes, and the actress's lips had been painted rose red. The court watched as the girl flitted about the stage, pressing a hand to her heart, tilting her head and reaching into the air. Every movement was graceful, every twitch of the lips delicate and refined. A flower of a girl, silent and pure.

“You know,” Finnegan said, “I think I like you better.”

The stage princess fluttered like a bird, dancing with an
imaginary partner, curtsying to no one. The music ached with loneliness, and then jolted, as the pretend Aurora turned to find the dark bird-masked woman behind her. The woman beckoned.

The strings shuddered in fear as the princess stepped back and shook her head, her hands reaching for help that was not there. The woman beckoned again, and this time the princess slid toward her.

Aurora closed her eyes. It was only a play. A story of her life, nothing like it had been. But as the strings shrieked in her ears, something flickered in her memory. Some kind of music, a bobbing light, and a pull—not like a trance, but like an urge, a need to follow her curiosity and face whatever lay beyond. Her fingertip burned at the memory, and she ran her thumb over it.

The lights flashed again. When Aurora opened her eyes, the princess was reaching for a spinning wheel, one finger outstretched.

Rodric slid his hand into hers and squeezed. She squeezed back, her fingers tightening around his knuckles.

The curtains closed, and after a brief interlude for applause, they opened again to reveal a new set of characters. A great king, his crown even larger than the last, his mask snarling like a bear. A queen, her mask an echo of the previous queen's. And a prince, wearing a red mask that only covered his eyes.

Rodric slid his hand out of her grip.

“It was my birthday,” he murmured. She could barely hear
him over the music. “I'd been dreading it for years. Disappointing everyone on my eighteenth birthday—not the best way to come of age.”

“It was your birthday?” Aurora looked at him. “I didn't know.”

“It's all right,” Rodric said. “I didn't tell you.”

Onstage, the prince approached the sleeping princess. The music swelled.

“Happy birthday,” Aurora said.

The fictional prince kissed the girl. She awoke and swooned in his arms. How much simpler things would be, if that were true. One kiss, and they would live happily ever after.

The play ended, the court applauded, and the king stood up. “Excellent,” he said. “Excellent! How quaint. After the wedding, I will have to ask you to prepare it as a masque for us. I'm sure the court would love to play parts, and Rodric and Aurora as well.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the lead actor said. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“What's a masque?” Aurora asked Rodric as they moved into a neighboring room full of comfier chairs and the smell of wine. “A new type of play?”

“Yes, Princess,” Rodric said. “It's a bit more elaborate. There's singing and dancing, and big speeches, and of course everyone wears masks. I dread them, if I'm honest with you. But you'll be wonderful.”

“Why do you dread them?”

“Because we all have to be in them. We don't have lines, but they always want us to dance. I'm not a good dancer.”

“If everyone wears masks,” Aurora said, “then it doesn't matter. How will they know that it's you?”

“I know that it's me,” he said. “That's bad enough.”

Aurora stuck close to Rodric's side as the court buzzed around them, commenting on the play, expressing their delight, always speaking at them instead of to them. Aurora nodded as they spoke, the back of her hand brushing against Rodric's. No one cared that she was not in love with her future husband, or that she had shown little sign of being their savior. But for the first time, she knew that Rodric was trapped in this too. She felt it like a fist clenching beneath her ribs. The play had misrepresented them both.