Autumn Rose: A Dark Heroine Novel (34 page)

He finished his speech with his shirt framing the beginnings of a washboard stomach, sleeves hanging loose at his wrists, and the gaps between his toes catching the smallest pebbles.

“You’re blackmailing me!” I accused, pursing my lips and trying my best to not blush.

“It’s what my father would call diplomacy.”

I sprang forward, hands resting on each of his cheeks, and pressed my mouth to his. His eyelids shut, and he relaxed into my grip; I could feel his smirk against my lips. After a few seconds, I pulled back.

“I’m not really a negotiator,” I murmured apologetically to his contented expression, as the gradual realization that I had just experienced my first true kiss descended. “Did I do it right?”

Slowly, he opened his eyes and his smile softened. “Not quite.” Before I could become any more mortified, he tilted my chin up with a single finger, and I needed no more than that simple touch to feel the warm rush of magic and happiness in my veins, and the tingle of rising goose bumps along my arms. He kissed me much more gently than I had him, but began to part my lips with his tongue. My eyes flew open and wide but I complied, following his lead.

Eventually he pulled away, tugging on my lower lip with his teeth. The flesh slipped away and was released with a pop, and I could feel the warmth of the graze marks along the delicate skin on the inside of my lip.

“How was that for a six-hour-early introduction to womanhood?” he asked, smirking and glancing at his watch.

“My grandmother would approve greatly of me taking lessons from a prince,” I said, grinning myself and finding a home for my arms tucked in the folds of his shirt, palms flat to his back. “And Jo will stop badgering me to get together with you.”

He kissed my forehead. “I’m more than happy to tutor you in kissing, and more, when you’re ready.” Resting his chin on the top of my head, he wrapped me up in his arms, and I tucked my head into my favorite spot on his shoulder. “And we’ll invite Jo to court as soon as she breaks for the holidays, so you have an old friend in Athenea.”

He stroked the lace sleeves of my shirt, threading his fingers through the gaps. I was shivering; it was cold now the fire had gone out, and neither of us had dressed for a November wind.

“And my sister will be a friend to you. She’s a little younger, but she was always in awe of you . . .”

He carried on talking, whether about his sister or others I didn’t know, because I had ceased listening. An unease was creeping up from my feet, slowly but surely toward my heart.

My grandmother . . .

My hands fell away from his back and I stepped back.

What is stopping me?

“But you’re keeping it from me.”

“Autumn?”

“You know why my grandmother was murdered. Everybody knows, except me.”

He seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, and placed his hands on my upper arms, looking me straight in the eye.

“You already knew that. But in truth, it’s why my family are here. I lied to you about coming here to escape the press.”

I held my breath expectantly.
Am I about to discover the truth? The real truth?
I reached up and placed my palms on his chest, warm and scarred, and could feel his rapid heartbeat, slowing. There were so many things to endear him: his looks, his sincerity and humor, the way he wanted me, and the way he made me light up . . . his honesty . . .

“I was ordered to come here because the Extermino attacked. We came to keep you safe.”

I shook my head. “But that’s suicide, you’re royalty, why would—”

“It’s to do with your grandmother. But I can’t tell you why she was murdered, not yet.”

I jumped back. “Why?”

“I just can’t.”

Even I was shocked as my palms slammed back down onto his chest and sent him stumbling back a few paces. Two red handprints remained, one laced over his scars, turning them purple.

“Sthlancleen!”
I cursed, and his mouth fell open in horror as the most rotten word I knew hit him. “I thought relationships were supposed to be based on honesty!” He was only five or so feet away but I was screaming at the top of my lungs, and Edmund came racing down the beach toward us.

The prince didn’t even seem to hear past my curse. “Don’t you dare debase yourself with that word! It’s for your own good that we have orders not to tell you.”

Edmund was stalking toward us, and before I knew it, his thick arms had wrapped themselves around me from behind and his mouth was at my ear.

“Wash your mouth out, young lady, and start acting like a royal girlfriend,” he growled, intimidating enough to make my heart go cold without ever raising his voice beyond the subtle warning of a snarl. “I suggest you go home and think about what you have just said, and accused His Highness of, and come back to us when you’re ready to accept your situation.”

He tossed me aside and I scrambled for balance as my feet caught in the banks of pebbles. As I turned, my stance dropped and I hissed, knowing that my magic was flaring in the anger, making me primal. I started to swear again, but Edmund cut me off.

“Go home,” he ordered, and with one last muttered curse I stamped away and took off into the air, several Athan following me.

“No. Leave her to seethe. She needs to get over this gripe of hers,” I heard Edmund say, and then I shrieked in displeasure so loudly there was no way they wouldn’t hear me.

The cold air around me and the physical exertion of flying did nothing to ease my temper, and when I landed outside my house and had to endure the long security checks imposed on us, I tapped my foot impatiently, being as thoroughly uncooperative as possible. When they finally let me through, I vaulted the gate and opened the door with a blast of magic. It swung back and dented the wall inside.

Storming up the stairs, I caught a glimpse of Alya hurrying toward the living room.

Good, let her explain to my parents.

I threw myself facedown onto my bed and screamed into the pillow, utterly unable to contain the temper that I had been famed for as a child. That I had managed not to set anyone on fire was the only sign that I was five hours from a milestone birthday.

Stupid orders. Stupid Athenea.
They had no right to withhold information about my own grandmother!

It had to be about me being a seer. I was a glass ornament, as Fallon had put it. Had she known something about all of this? She must have done. She knew everything . . . perhaps how, in time, I would too.

Nobody came to disturb me, and so I stewed in my anger until midnight.

It was hollowly that I sang “Happy Birthday” to myself.

Autumn

I
awoke to the scent of my grandmother’s garden at the lodge. I rolled onto my back beneath the covers, taking a lungful of the fresh, slightly damp air. It was wonderful, light and refreshing sun warming the white covers of my bed . . .

It took me three breaths to realize my room shouldn’t smell like a spring day, and when I sat up and opened my eyes, I gasped. Every available surface was covered in gifts, and at their center was an enormous bunch of red roses.

Glancing at my bedside clock—or, rather, a bowl of tulips that I had to move aside to see the time—I realized it was nearing ten o’clock. Sure enough, I could hear the sounds of cooking downstairs, the low hum of a hair-dryer from my parents’ room, and the Sagean chatter of Athan outside.

I threw the covers back and padded over in my nightie to the roses, finding two cards hanging over the rim of the vase. The first was adorned with balloons and a birthday cake, and on its back was a message:

Hope you don’t mind me charming my way into your heart ;)

Happy Birthday, and lots of love,

Fallon

Jerk! If he thought flowers could ever, ever make me forgive him . . . I opened the second card, read it, and then burned it in fury.

Do not ever insult me like that again. That hurt. If it were up to me I would have told you weeks ago. But it isn’t.

H.R.H. Prince Fallon

What about my hurt at being lied to? At being kept ignorant like I was a little child!

I moved to the next bunch of flowers, these a mix of roses and carnations in muted gold and yellow surrounded by ferns. They were from Edmund, who had sent an ornate birthday card, which stood among several gifts, including a wooden shoe box wrapped in ribbon. In the box, I found a beautiful pair of shoes made of silk and adorned with glass jewels, perfect for wearing with a gown; I couldn’t help but laugh as I saw there was no heel to them whatsoever.

Next was a flowerpot filled with white flowers with yellow centers, shaped like tiny gramophones, which precariously clung to tumbling, ivy-like stems hanging over the edge of my desk. Dropping to my knees and reading the label, I found out they were from the entire Mortheno family, and that the flowers were called “convolvulus” and symbolized humble perseverance. Taking up a handful of the slightly sticky plants, I buried my nose in them and inhaled, admiring the way the stems spiraled and twisted around one another.

I moved to the brightest set of flowers, these a group of tall yellow roses in a clear vase, sent by the duchy of Victoria. Next to the vase was a hamper of goodies, chocolate and fresh fruit mainly, and wrapped in lilac tissue were sets upon sets of linen, golden and threaded with beautiful patterns that I thought might be a coat of arms, but I didn’t dare unfold the beautiful origami presentation to check. There were towels stitched with my initials, too.

By far the largest bunch of flowers were the roses arranged to imitate the duchy of England’s insignia, a mix of red and magically withered golden roses and fake Death’s Touch—a thoughtful gesture, given the humans in the household. They were too heavy for me to lift without the help of my magic, and it was with some twisting and turning that I found the attached card, stamped and sealed with a waxen Athenean coat of arms. Inside was a handwritten message wishing me many happy returns, and an informal invitation to sit on the council. It stated the flowers were from the entire royal family, but when I checked the signature, it looked like it was signed in the king’s own hand.

“Lords of Earth,” I finally breathed, taking a step back. I had known it was a Sagean tradition to shower a girl with flowers on important birthdays, but even I was shocked by the number and their senders. Continuing to work my way along the vases, I was puzzled at how the duchy of Milan, and Brittany, or the viscount in Bavaria even knew where to send them, or how to get past the security I was now encumbered with. When I found the orchid sent from the Sagean embassy in London and its attached, apologetic card, I got my explanation. But there were more: from the headmistress of St. Sapphire’s and other teachers; former school friends and not-so-former—as I found a necklace and single glass pink rose from Jo. Finally I found a pile of much more human gifts, these full of cheap makeup sets and gift cards from my friends; there were even birthday cards covered in “sweet sixteen” sentiments from aunts and uncles I didn’t know existed on my mother’s side.

With a long sigh, I dropped back onto my bed, feeling extremely ambivalent. On the one hand, I was angry and agitated about what had transpired the evening before, but I was also disappointed . . .Fallon had lied to me. Why hadn’t he just told me he came because of the Extermino? It made no sense, and beyond my suspicion that the rebellious faction were behind her death, I didn’t know what it had to do with my grandmother, but it was better than being lied to.

The pink tulips on my bedside table caught my eye. The white vase they had been placed in was circled with an equally shocking-pink ribbon, and beneath it was a card, slightly damp and imprinted with a circle of water from the vase.

I snatched it up and tore it open, feeling my heart sink as I saw the inscription on the front.
“To our daughter . . .”
Inside was a message written in my father’s hand but signed by both parents.

I threw the card into the pillow and let the ripped envelope flutter to the floor in two halves.

With the help of a little magic, I was showered and presentable in ten minutes, and followed my nose down to the kitchen, where I found my father loading two plates up with scrambled eggs; there was already a tomato-and-something concoction waiting for me. Unlike my bedroom, which was all chintz and floral patterns, the modern kitchen looked odd covered in freshly cut flowers—and covered it was. It looked like my father had harvested every flower still alive in our garden in the November chill. The scent, combined with the cooking, was divine, and I made a point of telling him so.

His head jolted around in several clicks as he lifted the pan off the heat, clearly surprised that I was initiating a conversation with him.

“Happy birthday,” he said a little awkwardly, and went back to his cooking. “Your mother is still getting ready. I thought we could do some presents before she comes down.”

“Sure,” I answered slowly, beginning on my food. I eyed him. He was at best a nervous man, but he usually had the good manners to face people when talking to them.

“So . . . the Mortheno girl told me you and the prince had a little set-to last night.”

Oh, so this is where he is going.
I had never been one for fatherly heart-to-hearts, and wasn’t about to start now, when freedom from the parental home was within my grasp. “A tiff. We’ll be fine. I’m still going to Athenea when I’m called.”

“You’re okay then? No cartons of ice cream and chick flicks needed?”

“I’m peachy,” I lied. “Why?”

He shrugged in a noncommittal way and added sausages to the pan. I had frozen, fork halfway to my mouth, waiting for his answer. When it eventually came, I let the cutlery clatter to my plate loudly.

“The prince dropped by this morning.”

“What?!”

He turned down the heat on the sausages and came and straddled one of the stools to face me. I very rarely got this close to him, except for the rare hug, and that did not afford me the opportunity to meet his gaze. I had never noticed before how much his eyes resembled my own.