All That Burns (2 page)

At least, that’s what I remind myself when we’re apart. When it’s just the jade and silver ring on my finger reminding me why I made this sacrifice. Why I chose this mortal life.

“Something. Anything. As long as we’re together.” I lean into him, savoring the closeness.

“Belle did a great job. You look amazing.” The heat of his body molds smooth into mine—the way a flame dances around a candle’s wick.

I smile up at him. It’s impossible not to, so close to his dusting of freckles and the laughter lines which crinkle his eyes whenever he sees me. “She’s good at what she does. Helene helped too.”

I glance over at the window, but the Fae has disappeared. Off to rejoin the perimeter of younglings who constantly guard the palace from Green Women, Banshees, Black Dogs, and all of the other dark spirits who prey on mortals. Soul feeders.

We’re alone now.

“It’s good to be with you.” Richard draws me even closer, buries his face in my neck. I hear him sigh and take
in the scent of me all at once. “It’s been a long few days.”

“A long few weeks,” I counter. “Where do you want to go?”

“Let’s just sit.” He drops his jacket on the floor, moves to the open window where a balcony looks out onto Buckingham’s lawns. Richard pushes himself onto its ledge, rests against a Corinthian column. “I haven’t just sat and done nothing in ages.”

I edge up beside him, and we rest together, looking out over the palace gardens. It’s October now. The leaves around us burst into a kaleidoscope of color: ambers, yellows, blushing reds.

“That’s better.” Richard nests his arm around the curve of my neck. His touch is as thrilling and bright as the leaves. I wish I could keep it, keep him with me always. That these meetings weren’t so rare.

“So the Reforestation Bill went over well?” I don’t want to remind him of work, but the issue is important. More trees—more forests—mean more magic. Fresh leaves and a fresh start.

“We only got through a small portion of the proposal. But I think there was a general agreement that Windsor is the first district where we should replant the trees.”

“That’s good. Herne the Hunter will be pleased.”

“I hope so. Though right now I don’t know what’s more terrifying: Herne or six hundred and fifty members of the House of Commons arguing in my ear.”

I think of Herne—the jealous spirit who guards the woods around Windsor Castle—towering over his army of Dryads and snow-white hounds. How his eyes smolder bright as coals and his horns twist endlessly into the night. How I never know whether the next word out of his mouth will aid or destroy. “Those must be some pretty intimidating politicians.”

“Everyone’s a little jumpy about Lights-down. It’s made things . . .” He hesitates. “Tense.”

“But the first one went so well!” I remind him.

“That was just a few hours. This next one will be a whole twenty-four hours. Not as many people will approve.”

“No one likes change at first. But we’re making progress. Soon Lights-down will be part of the routine. And once we start introducing magically infused technology, people will forget all about a few days without power.”

“I guess . . .”

“We’ve only been at this for two months and look how
far we’ve come! Lights-down is already starting. Titania’s court is coming up with prototypes and new methods to replace the machines. Our worlds are merging.”

“That part started a while ago.” Richard shifts. His face is only inches from mine; the warmth of his breath cuts the air between us. The nearness of him washes away all thoughts of high heels and politics.

It’s just the king and I. Wrapped in cool autumn leaves.

A soft wind tears across the gardens, into our window, kicking up color and threading every orange strand of my hair together. Richard brushes the tangle from my face, fingertips unbearably light over my cheeks. It reminds me—in a faint, aching way—of magic. The way a spell burned just under my skin. Swelling. Waiting to explode. This is what his touch does to me. Every time.

Our lips meet. I savor his perfect warmth and taste. Cinnamon and cider and apple turnovers. A silent, snowy evening spent by the hearth. Richard is better than all of these.

His fingers knit deeper into my hair, tug me close. My hands roam up his shoulder, his neck. Feel the sculpt of those muscles. The baby-fine silk of his hair.
Before—when I was brimming with magic—I would’ve been afraid. Terrified of splitting him apart with my spells. But all of that’s gone now.

And it’s just us.

Together.

The way things should be.

T
he night is young when I step out of the Rolls-Royce. My heels feel especially perilous on the soft garnet carpet which stretches to the dock. Fortunately, no one is looking at my feet. All eyes are on the dress Helene and Anabelle so painstakingly crafted.

Camera flashes burst like supernovas. Questions storm over, tangled and hurried. Reporters shout them with jousts of their microphones, practically clawing over one another to stretch past the barrier.

A microphone jabs out from my right. “Who was your designer?”

“How are you adjusting to life without magic?” someone shouts.

And another question, biting and unexpected. “What do you think about the people who’re saying you put King Richard under a love spell?”

I’m still dazed by the jags of light and shrill questions when Richard appears at my side. This afternoon’s
disheveled blazer has been replaced with a sharp tuxedo. He’s also wearing his paparazzi face: the smile that’s just a little too stretched. I try to copy it, give the cameras a show. But this isn’t such an easy thing to do when you’re navigating a carpet in four-inch heels.

“Need help?” Richard looks over when I start to sway. The press smile quirks into a fleeting real one.

I accept his hooked arm, since the carpet soon gives way to a ramp. It stretches out like the back of a sleeping dragon, connected metallic plates heaving at the will of the Thames.

My balance woes fall away as soon as I step onto the yacht. The boat is built of glamour and money. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think it was a house in Chelsea, brimming with furniture and art. There are even chandeliers hanging from the ceilings: fat jewels ready to be plucked.

The string of rooms is already full of tuxedos and designer silks. They laugh, chat, and shake hands. Dresses sparkle and slink. Most of the women look like dolls—painted lips and perfectly coiffed hair, ears and necks dripping with diamonds.

Richard and I step into the room and the chatter dims. The hush, I know, is not for the king. Many of these guests are members of Parliament. No strangers to
royalty. But it’s not every day people set eyes on a former immortal.

Their eyes are so many colors. Faery-pool blue, long-meadow green, dark like barrows. All of them are on me, searching for a glimpse of magic. Something
other
. Whatever it is, they’ll be disappointed. My choice was made. I’m one of them now.

“Your Majesty. Lady Emrys. Welcome!”

“Prime Minister. Thank you for having us,” Richard says, and gives Lord Winfred a hearty handshake. The warriors-clasping-wrists-before-they-plunge-into-battle kind.

I think back to the many etiquette lessons Richard’s sister drilled into me:
smile wide and graciously, compliment your hosts, wait at least five minutes before you start tucking into the hors d’oeuvres.

A platter of smoked salmon and chives drifts by. I ignore it and smile at the prime minister. “This is all very lovely.”

“Do you like the Faery lights?” Lord Winfred nods at the chandeliers, where dozens of
inlíhte
spells nest in the crystals: silver, aqua, mint, and glow. “Lady Winfred had them installed here and at Downing Street. She thinks they add to the ambience.”

The room looks otherworldly cast in the light of the Fae. It looks like
my
other world. My life before. I have to blink before I remember that these gorgeous women in flowing, long dresses are Parliament members’ wives. Not courtiers of the Faery queen.

“I, for one, am just astounded at the fact that they’ll never die,” the prime minister says. “At least, that’s what I was told by the Fae who created them. They’ll last forever if we want.”

I look back at the
inlíhte
spells, pick apart their threads of magic. They’ve been tied off—looped into themselves to create an endless cycle of energy. The lights will stay lights until someone decides to come unknot them. “It’s true. The spell feeds off of itself.”

“Remarkable. Self-sustaining energy. Sometimes I still can’t believe it’s in our reach.” Lord Winfred goes on, “I was hoping to find a way to substitute the yacht’s engine power as a demonstration this evening, but unfortunately that will take more than a few magic-fusion batteries.”

“Emrys tells me Queen Titania’s court has been experimenting with larger models,” Richard says. “Hopefully we’ll have something of note within the month—”

“More like three months,” I correct him. Looping
a spell is simple when it comes to small things—Faery lights, hair color, blocking spells to keep mortals from poking around places they shouldn’t. The larger the spell, the more complicated the knot. And when there’s electricity involved . . .

It’s akin to wrestling a giant squid and trying to tie its tentacles in a pretty Christmas bow. While you’re covered in ink. Underwater.

The prime minister nods. “Queen Titania—might she be able to come to London soon? I’d love to thank her for all the advancements she’s contributed.”

“The city is too dangerous for her at the moment,” I remind him.

“Ah yes, the sickness.”

“Lights-down has been helping,” I say. “None of the younglings have felt nauseated for at least a day. But Queen Titania is older. Fae her age are sensitive to metal and gears without electricity. The oldest ones couldn’t even stand the Industrial Revolution . . .” I pause, realize I’m rambling. “But Titania is resilient. Perhaps after a few more blackouts she can endure the city for a few hours.”

Any more and her sanity would be at stake. She would
end up just like her predecessor, Mab: swept away by the madness of the machines. A dangerous, all-powerful, unhinged spirit.

“I look forward to that day.” Lord Winfred smiles like he means it and raises his glass. “To our united kingdoms! A new Camelot!”

“May it be a bit more successful than the last,” Richard adds.

Britain’s prime minister moves on to greet more guests. The first thing he points out to them is the Faery lights. Their chorus of
oohs
and
aahs
threads through the steady hum of a live string quartet.

My feet are all pain. Tendon and bone ache against the cutting curve of my stilettos. “I’m going to go find our table and sit for a minute. These heels are vicious.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Richard eyes the shoes as if they’re poisonous toadstools. “Go and save your toes. There are a few people I’ve been meaning to talk to. Will you be all right on your own for a bit?”

“I’ve managed a number of centuries without you. It’s possible I’ll be able to last a few more minutes.” I wink and he smiles—in that amazing way of his.

“Point taken.”

“But you should hurry just in case,” I add. “I might vanish when midnight hits.”

“I thought that was Cinderella, not the fairy godmother.”

I smile as I wobble away.

I find our table close to the open doors of the yacht’s bow end, where London’s lights sweep by on a current of movement and night. Lord Winfred’s boat has been unmoored. It’s sliding under the blue cables of the Tower Bridge just as I sit down. The entire structure is lit up like the gates to some ancient god’s kingdom.

“Beautiful view, isn’t it? I can’t get enough of London at night.”

The voice comes from across the table. Its speaker is a young man, hardly older than Richard. His skin is pale and smooth—a perfect blend of milk and chalk. His eyes shine almost teal through the dimness: sharp and bright. Clever. The stare of a politician.

“It does have a certain draw.” I smile through the bright blossoms of the centerpiece. “Forgive me, I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

“Julian Forsythe. And this is my wife, Elaine.” The man nods to the seat next to him, where a dark-haired woman sits. The whole of her is so slim and pale she looks
like she just stumbled out of a crypt. Her dress is skintight, its fabric shimmering. All of this pulled together by a pop of red lipstick.

“A pleasure. I’m Emrys.”

Elaine’s eyebrows rise, like arched raven’s wings. The eyes under them are just as dark, and dewy. They look at her husband. “I didn’t know we’d be sitting at
her
table.”

I stare straight at the centerpiece: a whole towering cluster of birdsfoot trefoil. The color is so happy and yellow it makes my eyes ache. A lump grows in my throat. For one of the first times this evening, I feel like I don’t belong here. On this boat. At this table. By Richard’s side.

I swallow the feeling back. I think of how Anabelle would handle the situation: she would smile. Say nothing. That’s what I do. Elaine doesn’t smile back. Instead she stares and cocks her head, like I’m some sort of strange beetle that’s been doused in formaldehyde and pinned to a collector’s board.

“Strange choice of flower, don’t you think?” Julian calls across the table. He shows no sign that he heard his wife. “Where I come from it’s almost a weed. We called it ‘Eggs and Bacon.’”

“Aren’t those poisonous?” The chair next to me slides
back, and Richard finally takes a seat.

“They are, actually.” Julian Forsythe reaches out, pinches a blossom between neat fingers. The sunny petals crumple—a sad, quick death. “Just don’t let it end up in your salad. Seems like some rogue florist means to off half the government!”

“I wouldn’t joke about that.” Richard frowns and looks over his shoulder. “Jensen! Eric!”

Two officers from the king’s Protection Command—his human security—pull out of the crowd. They look like everyone else at this gala: tuxedo-sharp and slick. Only their earpieces and the slight lump of their holsters give them away.