All That Glows (27 page)

“Are you all right?” Richard’s hand steadies me. All the feelings, raging like a tempest set off by butterfly wings, fall still against his fingers. His touch is peace. Home.

The tears keep falling, despite the glassy stillness in me. They drop thick and fast, rolling down my cheeks. There’s so many of them that soon I cannot see.

Richard guides me to his desk chair and kneels next to it, hand looped fiercely into mine.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his thumb stroking the top of my hand.

“Just a rough night,” I say, and wipe the heavy dew from my eyes.

He knows there’s more I’m not telling him—the knowledge is scrawled all across his face. His mouth draws thin as he looks at my arms, the dozens of fine pink lines dug out by witch-claw thorns and vines.

“What happened? Who did this to you?” he asks, careful not to touch any of the raised, scarlet scabs. Righteous anger traces his voice.

“I was being a Frithemaeg,” I mumble. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

Richard sighs, disappointed. I know it’s because of my silence, but that’s the one thing I can’t break. It wouldn’t do any good for him to know how much danger we’re in, especially if he can’t do anything about it.

“I’m sorry—” I begin, but Richard’s head turns at a sudden sound. I look toward the window, my mouth falling into stunned stillness. There, on the crisp white ledge, perch three ravens, tar feathers glossing indigo under the sun. The birds seem smaller outside the walls of their Tower, but they’re no less formidable. Black eyes gleam and their claws scrabble strange symbols in the ledge’s paint.

I feel the tears swelling again, but this time they’re fueled by panic. Never in the four centuries since their first arrival to the Tower of London have the ravens set claw or feather outside its boundaries. It’s the worst of omens.

And I know, even before their large razor beaks open, that they’ve come to speak to me. Words of doom, inspired by their second sight.

“Listen well, sister, to what we have seen,” the middle raven, the oldest of the bunch, croaks.

The bird on the right squawks, its foot continues to scratch fragile lines into the wood. “The shadow is gathered. Her arm grows restless, her hand is moved. Two paths spring for Albion.”

“When all the silver face shows, the angered one shall strike. Beware the crown! Beware the crown!” the last bird cries.

“The Lord of the Wood is waiting. Seek the power in the blood,” the middle raven says as it flaps its wings. The feathers are still meticulously clipped, to keep the animal from flying. The ravens must have used their own strange magic to make this journey.

“Do you understand what they’re saying?” Richard whispers. Shock, white as the cliffs of Dover, washes out his face.

I squeeze his hand to quiet him, but the ravens have finished talking. They watch the king, a row of beady, unblinking eyes. Richard looks back, grows tense under their gaze.

“She is coming,” the middle raven says. “She’s coming for your crown and head.”

Richard shudders, his hand an earthquake in mine.

“Have you seen her?” I ask the trio.

“She is only shadow. Old, dark shadow,” the right raven shrieks.

“Beware the crown!” The left raven turns and hops off the window ledge. Its black wings flutter ineffectively—wind passing straight through its feathers.

“Have all of you left the Tower?” The question spills out, quick. The birds are getting ready to depart and the answer is one I can’t afford to lose.

“We leave. Others stay. The road is divided. Farewell, sister. We will not see you again.”

The last raven bows and follows its brothers to the closest patch of grass. I watch from the open window as they gather into a small ring and stretch their wings. As soon as all their wing tips touch, the birds vanish from sight. My breath is sharp as I stare long at the space: green and bare. The ravens are gone. Really gone.

“So we’re coming to the end,” I speak across the emptiness of the lawn.

“Is it true?” Richard’s voice drags me back to him. To his hand knotted tight in mine.

“Is what true?”

“The legend. Those were Tower ravens, yes?” He gestures toward the vacant window.

The prophecy of a failing crown and a fallen kingdom after the ravens’ departure. The legend typed into tourist pamphlets and minded by every mortal Beefeater who keeps the birds’ wings clipped. That’s what Richard means.

“It is. But they didn’t all leave. I think they still haven’t seen the end. The ravens’ sight only goes so far.” I can’t help shuddering. Even the fact that three chose to leave the Tower stirs fear in my blood.

“What did they tell you? I couldn’t make anything of it. Sounded like squawking to me.” Richard tries to laugh, but the sound is forced.

My fingers squeeze against his, offer him something firmer to cling to.

“They said that the Old One is coming for us on the next full moon. They want us to go to Windsor and seek Herne’s protection. They haven’t seen the outcome—only the two paths that this kingdom can take. One with you and one without.” I fall silent, musing over the rest of the ravens’ words, the ones that I don’t fully understand.
Beware the crown. Seek the power in the blood.
Who am I supposed to be wary of? Richard? Anabelle? Both seem very unlikely. As for power in the blood . . .

“We’ll go to Windsor then. I’ll call Lawton and have him make all of the arrangements.” Instead of moving to the phone, Richard steps closer to me. His hands rest on my hips, where they fit perfectly, and his forehead taps against mine. “We’ll be fine. It’ll all work out. You’ll see.”

I shut my eyes. His breath brushes warm past my eyelashes, rolls down my cheeks. I try to think of nothing, fighting off thoughts of last night, of the ravens’ message. I try to feel only Richard, to be content in his arms. But it doesn’t work. The thought of losing him is too heavy, strangling.

“There are five days until the full moon. I should go and warn Mab. She’ll be able to send Frithemaeg to defend the edges of the city. And if we’re in Windsor we can get the older Fae even closer. If we can convince Herne to protect us . . . we might even have a chance.”

Richard’s hands slide past my hips, dipping around to the small of my back and pulling me closer. “Do what you feel is best.”

There’s something he’s not saying. I feel it in the tension of his fingers, his voice. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you have to go to Mab? If we really only have five days left . . .” He takes a breath. “Emrys, I don’t want to be without you. Stay. Please.”

I’m tearing to halves in his arms.

It’s my duty to go to Mab, to offer this vital information in the flesh, so it arrives safely. But in five days, when the Old One finally reaches us, it won’t matter. It won’t matter if my warning was spoken word or ink on paper. All I’ll remember is this time with Richard, fitting so exactly against every divot and bend in his body. His arms holding me together, into him.

“Do you have a pen and paper?”

“Of course.” Richard digs across the already cluttered surface of his desk and produces a sheaf of paper along with his elegant fountain pen.

I etch the ravens’ words onto paper in blocky black script. They look so much more ominous and real when they’re strung together as letters. Those two lines still stand out, taunting me with hidden meanings. After scrawling my name, I fold the paper into fourths, seal it with magic so it can only be opened with Mab’s touch. When I feel it break I will know my message got through.

Richard watches me the entire time, his face washed blank. This quickly turns into a smile when he realizes I’m staring back. “I never thought my first few days as king would be so exciting,” he says glibly.

“Nor did I.” I don’t have the energy to pretend that things will be okay.

It doesn’t take long for the youngling to arrive after my summons. Our exchange is quick: she listens to my instructions with a never-ending nod and jets off into the hazy summer sky, soon swallowed by cotton-whipped cumulus clouds. They roll forward on furious wind, ready to cloak the city.

Twenty-Seven

T
he afternoon is perfect. A quilted sky, patched with aquamarine, sieves sunlight over Buckingham’s gardens. Everything is warm, yellow, and happy. As if our world isn’t about to crumble to pieces.

“We don’t have to go if you’re feeling too bad.” Anxiety scores Richard’s cheeks and squeezes his eyes with premature wrinkles, signs he’s second-guessing the pre-scheduled lunch with his sister.

“No, no. I want to meet her.” I pick at one of the larger knots in my hair, impossibly snarled and stubborn, and try not to think of how, very soon, I’ll be facing Breena’s dragon-fire contempt.

The picnic, complete with wicker chairs and a breezy linen tent, waits in one of the garden’s larger clearings. I half expect to see a croquet set leaning up against the folding table or a group of petticoated ladies sipping tea. But no one is under the canopy—Richard and I are the first ones here.

“So Anabelle will be able to see you now?”

I double-check my veiling spell. “She should.”

“Just a warning—she doesn’t open up to new people easily. Not at first.” Richard frowns, his eyes linger on the bloody reminders of last night on my arms, the bruises beneath them. “Is there anything you can do about those? Or should we come up with some excuse about a bad-tempered house cat?”

“Right. I forgot.” My dress is still in utter ruins as well: frayed lace and black. The mending magic threads it back together, new within seconds.

I mutter a few more words and watch the spell unknot my hair, wash my skin clean. I stare at my arms long after the scabs are gone, studying the light dusting of freckles and pinkish skin, how clean and unscarred they are, even after all I’ve been through. If only magic could fix everything this way.

Richard’s hand falls on my shoulder, fills me with shivers despite the warmth of the day.

“Are you all right?” he asks. “You don’t feel sick, do you?”

“I had a fight with Breena. She’s not going to like that I’m showing myself to Anabelle. Not at all.” I swallow, thinking of how the sickness might even be preferable to what I’m about to face. The thought of Breena glaring at me throughout the entire picnic makes me want to curl up under the table.

“I’m sorry—” Richard’s voice stops abruptly, replaced by the Morse code click of heels. “Belle!”

“Hey! Sorry I’m late.” Anabelle slides her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, her chocolate-brown eyes spring out to study me. Her gaze holds the same steel as her father’s did, as her brother’s does now. “Who’s this?”

My stomach drops at the sight of Breena, leaning in the doorway. Even several meters away her scowl is visible, loaded with condemnation. Her distance, her absence feels like I’ve lost a limb, not vital, but devastating.

Breena looks everywhere but at me, her nose slightly raised in the air.

“This is Emrys.” Richard turns me so that I’m completely facing his sister. “My . . .”

The sounds of the garden swell up—the hushed secrets of leaves and birds’ untranslated ballads. I watch as Richard’s face flushes pink. Anabelle’s eyes dart between us.

“Girlfriend,” I offer out of the tightness of my throat. “I’m his girlfriend.”

Richard loosens next to me. Beyond us I hear Breena’s indignant choke.

“Girlfriend?” Anabelle lets the word settle on her tongue. “I knew it! That’s why you’ve been acting so off lately!” She shoots her brother a knowing look, then gives me a triumphant grin. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

“You too.” I steal another glance at Breena’s corner. She’s unmoved, a cross-armed statue of disdain.

Richard gestures to our waiting meal. “Shall we?”

I want to hang back, force Breena into a confrontation, but Richard keeps an arm wrapped around my shoulder. We walk alongside his sister. The sight of Anabelle leaping in her heels, goatlike, through the lawn brings a real grin to my face. I catch that smile, preserve it. As distracted as I am by Breena and the whirlwind of events outside the palace, I need this meeting to go well. I don’t need the other major female in my life to hate me too.

Breena doesn’t join us under the tent. She lingers in patches of sunlight, standing outside of the canopy like the watchful Guard she is. I need to get her attention, tell her about the ravens. . . .

“So, where’d you guys meet?” Anabelle smoothes her salmon pencil skirt and settles into her chair. Richard’s right. She’s stiff and reserved in front of me, like a television reporter reciting lines for an interview. The swearing princess who leaps feetfirst into pools is nowhere to be found.

My mouth is a drought-struck river, dusty and dry as I scour for a convincing answer. Richard senses my panic, reaches across the table to lace his hand into mine.

“At a charity event,” he says. His free hand begins sorting through the picnic basket. “She was one of the coordinators.”

“Let the woman talk for herself.” Anabelle tugs the basket away from her brother. Every action, every word between them oozes familiarity. “You’re squishing the sandwiches. Let me do that.”

“I often think she should have been the oldest,” Richard mutters.

“Me too,” his sister says, looking back at me over the basket. “Funny that you organize charities. It seems like I should have seen you before.”

“It was my first one. I was rather nervous. I actually spilled champagne all over myself.” I manage a light, wind-chime laugh. “Richard was the only one who noticed.”

“Of course, that was a few months ago,” Richard offers. “She’s much less clumsy now.”

“Why’ve you kept her a secret this long?”

“So you wouldn’t torture her with Burberry catalogs and polo matches,” Richard teases.

The siblings begin to banter, but I don’t pay attention to their words. My focus returns to Breena’s storm-cloud stare.

Bree, I need to talk to you.

She doesn’t even flinch. I begin to wonder if the words got through to her.

What?
she snaps back.
Is it about your hot date? Or are you ready to explain why every soul feeder in London was at Buckingham’s door last night? Maybe you can tell me why Gwyn is dead.