A Wicked Thing (2 page)

HER FINGER ACHED. SHE PRESSED THE TIP INTO
her palm, squeezing the pain away, but that boy, that prince, was still standing there, still watching her like he could never have believed she would be here, and had no idea what to do now that she was.

“There is no story of me.”

“Oh, but there is, Princess.” Rodric took another step forward. Eagerness radiated from him, as though this was the moment, this was when everything would become clear. “Everyone loves you. You can't imagine how wonderful things will be now that you're awake.”

“Awake?” She pressed her hand against the wall to steady herself.

“We tried to awaken you before, of course,” Rodric said quickly. “Lots of people tried over the years. But it didn't work. Before today.” His cheeks were pink. “I didn't think it would be me. I mean, I'm glad it is, but . . . I'm not usually big on the whole heroics thing.”

Over the years?

“How long was I asleep?” she asked in a careful, measured sort of voice, like it wasn't really an important question at all, like she already knew the answer and merely wanted to check.

“We tried,” he said again. “But it's—it's been a while.” He stuttered over the words, dragging them out of some cautious, uncertain place. “Longer than we hoped. Not forever, but . . . a while.”

Not forever. A while.
He said the words the way her father did, when he first locked the door to her tower and told her she could not wander around the rest of the castle any longer. It wasn't safe. She needed to stay inside, for her own protection.
For a little while,
he said with a slight frown and an evasively comforting smile.
Just a little while.

That had been eight years ago. And then she had fallen asleep.

“Tell me,” she said. She stepped toward him. “Tell me how long it has been.”

He looked away. The silence stretched between them. “One hundred years.”

“One hundred years?” She repeated the words in her head, trying to make them stick, but they didn't seem to mean anything at all.

“Well—one hundred and two.”

But everything looked the same. Her book was still propped open on the table. Her candle stood half-burnt, wax frozen in a drip down the side. Every ornament was in the same place as yesterday, every detail identical to the day before her eighteenth birthday, when she had brushed out her hair and tried on her new dress and celebrated the fact that soon she would be able to go out into the world. Yesterday.

“No,” she said. She shook her head. Her hair brushed against her neck. “You're lying.”

“Princess—” He reached for her again, and she jerked away.

“You're mad,” she said, but she did not believe it. The air tasted heavy and old. She stumbled to the door and tugged it open.

The landing beyond looked like an abandoned ruin. Dust coated everything in the small circular space, from the little table opposite to the staircase that spiraled down out of sight. Rodric's footprints led to her door, and thicker patches trailed beside them, as though other people at other times had made the same trek. Spiderwebs hung from the corners, and her favorite tapestry, the one of a rearing unicorn in a forest of light, was moth-eaten beyond saving.

“Princess . . .”

She let go of the door. It swung closed with a creak. Impossible. It was impossible. A trick. She stepped back again, and again, then turned and hurried toward the window, desperate for a breath of fresh air, for the reassuring sight of the forest.

It was gone. A city sprawled into the distance, as far as she could see. The sun bounced off red roofs, houses all jumbled together between weaving stone roads. The air hummed with the sound of chatting and laughter.

An entire world, sprung up in an instant.

“Princess?” Rodric said. “Are you all right?”

She did not reply. Her fingertip throbbed. Everything was gone. Everyone . . .

“Where is my family?” she said, forming each word carefully, like they might explode if disturbed. “Did they sleep as well?”

Silence, unbroken except for the hum of the city. She continued to stare at the view, watching people scurrying along the road below. She did not want to touch the question again, did not want to ask, but the silence dragged on, each second heavy, and the truth hardened in her stomach.

“Rodric.” She dug her fingers into the window ledge, pressing until her knuckles turned white. Forcing the pressure down, away, out of her body and into the stifling stone. “Where is my family?”

“I'm sorry, Princess,” he said. “They're—they died. A long time ago.”

“They died,” she repeated. Meaningless words, really. How could your family, your whole world, vanish while you slept? It wasn't death, with aging and sickness and pain and grief, when they were simply gone. Lost decades ago, while she remained young and unchanged. She slid her hands off the windowsill and stared at her pale skin.

Was it the sleep, or the shock, or just her own weakness that made her feel numb, like she was in a dream still? She did not scream. She did not cry. A small part of her curled up in her chest, and when she looked up, the light burned her eyes.

“I'm sorry,” Rodric said again.

She did not reply.

“Should we go downstairs?” he asked. “Everyone is waiting.”

“Everyone?”

“Some of the court. My family. Not as many as you might hope, but . . .”

She turned, her hair trailing across her neck. He had a gentle face. He seemed to mean well. “Your family?” she said.
My family is dead.

He smiled, a hopeful little smile. “They can be your family now too.”

She stared at him.

He blushed. “Shall we go?” He held out his arm.

“Yes,” she said slowly, carefully, clinging to the word. Her legs shook, so she placed her hand on the crook of his elbow, as
lightly as she could. His doublet was soft under her fingertips.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.” It was all she could say.

Rodric ducked his head. “This way.” As if she needed prompting.

Dust settled on her lips and between her eyelashes as they walked. It coated everything, rising up in a cloud every time Aurora took a step or brushed her hand against the banister. It scratched her throat, the lines behind her teeth, and she coughed.

They walked down the stairs, around and around, until Aurora's head spun. The staircase became neater with every turn. The dust thinned. New tapestries hung from the walls. In one, a golden-haired girl kissed a prince under a wedding arch. A few steps farther down, the same girl slept in a huge bed, lit only by the glow of a thousand fairies. Then she was sitting before a rickety spinning wheel, a single finger raised. Aurora stopped and brushed the same finger down the cloth. Her nail caught on the rough thread. “These are of me?”

“Yes,” Rodric said. “They were gifts. In honor of you. I don't—I don't know from whom.”

Aurora looked back up the spiraling staircase, straining to make out the wedding picture. Her promised future, captured on the wall for all to see.

They walked on, until the decay began to seem almost artistic. Cobwebs hung from some corners, but they did not block the stairs, and there were no spiders in sight. The stones only had
a light coating of dust, and a few torches lit the way. “Someone has cleaned here,” she said.

“No one's used the tower in years,” Rodric replied. “But people visited sometimes.” He spoke quickly and a little too loudly, his voice reaching out to fill the silence. “Not to—not to try to wake you, of course. That—that was only princes and—and people like that. There is a bit of a superstition, actually,” he added. “About entering the tower. Only the boy who goes to awaken you in his eighteenth year can climb the stairs. Everyone else must wait below. If he is accompanied, or if anyone else disturbs you, you will never wake up. But some people still got a glance. At the tapestries. And the stairs.”

Aurora stared at her feet. A thousand tiny needles prickled inside her head. She could think of no reply.

A heavy wooden door waited at the end of the staircase, blocking out all sound from beyond. Aurora stared at it. She had not walked through it in years, not since her father decided that even the rest of the castle was unsafe for her. It was longer than years now. Lifetimes. The door had marked the way out, the way to freedom, for her whole quiet little life. What was it now?

Rodric's hand hovered over the brass knocker. The moment lingered, and then he nodded, once, and pushed. The door slid open, just an inch, wobbling as though uncertain whether to swing forward or slam shut.

“Well?” A sharp voice cut through the gap. “Is she awake?”

“Yes,” Rodric said. His voice cracked on the word. “Yes,” he
repeated with more conviction. “She's awake.”

The door was torn open. Aurora blinked, raising one shaking hand to cover her face.

A woman stood before them. She had a long bony face, brown skin, and sleek black hair tied in an elaborate knot at the back of her head. She stared at Aurora, mouth open, cold eyes scanning her, as though searching for some flaw, some sign she wasn't real. “It's true,” she said, as though she did not quite believe it. “The princess is awake.”

A pause. Then chatter, growing louder and louder, the voices running over one another and rattling in Aurora's head. A crowd stood beyond the door.

Aurora had not been around more than ten people at a time in her whole life. Her parents, her guards, her maid, plus the occasional foreign visitor when she was younger, before her father grew too afraid. They were all dead now.

The woman grabbed Aurora's hands and pulled her forward, over the threshold of the tower, into the corridor. Aurora tugged back, trying to slip her hands out of the woman's grip, but she did not let go.

A tall and portly man stood beside the door. He had a thick brown beard, and his smile seemed to cover half of his face. Men and women filled the corridor behind him. They huddled in small groups, whispering behind hands and golden-feathered fans. They all wore brightly colored silks and rich velvets, and the women were dressed in sweeping sleeves and high-waisted
dresses. Jewels glinted around their necks and between the twists in their hair. The whispering stopped as soon as she appeared. Every one of them stared at her.

“Presenting the Princess Aurora,” the woman said with an imperious trill. Her hand tightened on Aurora's wrist, and when she spoke again, it was so quiet that Aurora could barely make out the word. “Curtsy.”

Aurora grabbed her skirts and bent her shuddering knees, bowing her head and letting her hair fall across her face. She could feel every eye boring into her, judging every inch of flesh they saw. Aurora kept her head low. So many strangers, all staring, all evaluating her like she was some exotic, impossible creature. She squeezed her hands into fists around the cloth.

“Oh, don't waste time on formalities,” the jovial man said. He had a booming voice, more that of an actor than of a ruler, but his golden crown declared that he must be the king. “You will soon be family, my dear!” Before Aurora could stand up again, he pulled her into a bone-crunching hug that stole the air from her lungs. She stood limp in his arms, her face flat against his chest. He smelled of sweat and heavy perfume. “We are so happy to have you here!” When he released her, she swayed backward, and her hand slammed into the wall to steady herself.

Perhaps if she could sit, if she could close her eyes, this would all fade away like a bad dream, and she would be home again.

“Now, now, John,” the woman said, her voice light but as
thin as a needle's point. “Let's not smother the girl.” She rested a hand on his arm.

The king chuckled. “Of course, of course. I am just excited to meet our future daughter-in-law in person.”

“Pardon me,” Aurora said. Her voice sounded far off. Even those two polite, meaningless little words exhausted her. “But I don't know who you are.”

The woman started, a slight frown forming between her eyebrows, as though surprised that Aurora had spoken. She stretched her lips into a thin smile, but the king beamed. “I am King John the Third, ruler of Alyssinia for the past ten years, and this is my wife.” He gestured vaguely at the woman, who bobbed her head.

“You may call me Iris.”

Aurora nodded. Her hair tickled her cheek.

“My daughter, Isabelle, is the young thing hiding over there,” the king continued. “Isabelle?”

“Don't be shy, dear,” a woman said. “Greet the princess.” She pushed a small brown-haired girl forward. The girl blushed. She looked eight or nine years old. When she curtsied, her whole body shook. “And of course you've met our son, Rodric.”

Rodric bowed, his hair flopping about his face.

“Well,” the king said. “Now that we're all acquainted, I think we had better make the announcement, don't you?”

The queen looked Aurora up and down, taking in her dust-covered feet and the blood spotted across her hand. “I am
sure the people will forgive you, my dear, if you are a little less than pristine. Just this once. You have come rather a long way to join us.”

“Oh, I think she looks lovely,” the king said with a grin. “Quite quaint. Come along then, come along. Sir Stefan,” he said to a man beside him. “Please send out the heralds. A little extra pomp and circumstance, if you please. It is hardly a normal day.”

The man bowed stiffly and set off down the corridor. The king followed him, and then the queen, snatching Aurora's hand again as she passed. Aurora stumbled forward, trying to keep up with the woman's hurried pace. The courtiers fell into step behind, and the whispering began again, a surging rush that pressed against the inside of Aurora's skull and shoved her thoughts aside. The queen held her hand so tightly that it throbbed.