A Wicked Thing (4 page)

Rodric plowed on over the silence. “It will come back,” he said firmly. “Now that you're here. And it will do all the good things I said. I mean . . . why else—why else would you be here?”

Her hands shook. The spoon rattled against the side of the bowl like a drum roll, and the loss rushed up inside her, squeezing her chest until she could barely breathe. No home. No family. Just empty promises of true love and the idea that she would restore something that should never have existed at all.

She stood up. Her chair fell back with a scrape and a thump. “I have to go,” she said. “I'm not hungry.”

Every step jolted her knees, and suddenly she was running to the end of the banquet hall, her feet pounding the floor. Outside the room, a window hung open, and she pressed her hands
against the stone frame, letting the cool breeze brush her face. She gulped down the fresh air, eyes closed tight.

“Princess?”

Rodric. She kept her eyes closed, her face lost in the breeze. He seemed nice. A bit hapless, a bit unsure, but nice. Yet he was a stranger, a strange, ungainly boy who claimed her as his own, and she did not know what to do. She had nothing else, no one else, and the threat of loneliness tore at her stomach until she almost swayed from sickness at the thought. She could not leave. But she could not stay here, with his presence so near, his awkward eyes seeking out salvation in her own. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I would like to be alone.”

“Princess, I am sorry I upset you.”

“I am not upset.” She forced herself to take another breath and opened her eyes. “This place—it is foreign to me. I don't belong here.”

“I know. But—here we are, Princess. Fate.”

She flinched. Fate. “Why do you keep calling me Princess? That is not my name.”

“I know, but—it's what everyone's called you for so long. The Princess. That or Sleeping Beauty.” He smiled shyly. “And it really was true. You are beautiful.”

“My name is Aurora.”

Silence. He nodded, head slightly bowed, pink burning his nose and cheeks.

“I really would like to be alone.”

“Please,” he said, offering the crook of his elbow, “let me escort you back to your room.”

She smiled, a tight, shivering, broken smile. “Don't worry,” she said. “I know the way.”

She did not sleep that night.

When she tried to close her eyes, her breath caught in her throat, leaving her lungs gasping and empty. Her heart raced, and her limbs itched. A mishmash of a person, forced into a space where she did not belong.

She paced back and forth, her feet beating a steady rhythm against the smooth stone floor. She sped up with each lap of the room, walls pressing in closer and closer with every breath. If she stopped moving, even for a moment, she might melt away, vanish like everything else in her life. So she walked around the room, staring at the foreign walls and her familiar hands, her mind running over everything that had happened.

Every now and again, it would strike her, like a punch to the stomach, that this was real. That her family, her whole life, was gone. She would pause in her pacing, knees bending, stomach caving, her breath stolen away. But the certainty slipped away within moments, too impossibly huge to grasp for long. It would slip back into the realm of fiction and dreams, and she would continue to pace, until she thought, so casually, of whether her father would visit tomorrow, and it would strike her all over again.

And so she spent the night.

MIST TRAILED IN THROUGH THE OPEN WINDOW
at dawn, wrapping around Aurora's clammy, feverish skin as she leaned against the sill. She ached all over, in the insides of her elbows and the backs of her knees.

The city below was gradually coming to life. The buildings seemed to climb on top of one another, far into the distance, until they met a large wall, as tall as the castle at least, dotted with towers and flags. Women hurried along the cobbled street below Aurora's window, baskets balanced on their arms. A couple of carts passed too, slow things hauled by donkeys, half-full of grain or bursting with cloths.

The door creaked open. “Aurora, dear. I'm glad to see you're awake.”

The queen stood in the doorway. Even at this early hour, she looked the picture of royalty, her eyes clear and bright, her black hair braided around the crown of her head. Aurora caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the glass on the wall: beyond pale, with lips like bruises amid a tangle of golden hair. Sleeping Beauty indeed.

“I do hope I haven't disturbed you,” the queen said as she swept into the room. “I thought we might have breakfast together.”

Aurora fought the urge to step back against the window. “But I am not dressed, Your Majesty.”

“That is no matter,” she said as she beckoned in a servant with a wave of her wrist. “We are all women here, aren't we? Besides,” she added as the servant set a tray of fruit and tea on the table, “I wished to speak with you before the day grew too late.” The queen was smiling, all politeness and ease, but something sharp nestled in her eyes and in the points of her cheekbones. “Shall we sit?”

Aurora nodded. She got the feeling the queen wasn't someone you refused. The queen sat, carefully, sweeping her skirts out of the way with one smooth motion. Aurora balanced on the edge of the other chair, her stomach tight.

The queen poured herself a cup of breakfast tea. “I am sure you must be excited,” she said. “About the wedding. I am afraid
I must disappoint you. I know you will want to be married as soon as possible, but my advisors have informed me that the best time will not be until three weeks from today.”

“Three weeks?” They planned to marry her in three weeks. Twenty-one days.

“I know,” the queen said. “I was quite upset as well. But our best dressmakers are away in Fellbridge, the stewards tell me that we do not have enough food for an adequate feast, and we must declare it a holiday, of course. . . . I am afraid to say that you have caught us quite unawares.” She sighed and sipped her tea. “However, we shall have an engagement ceremony in eight days, which is what I wanted to discuss with you. The people already love you, but it never hurts to be prepared—”

“Your Majesty.” The queen paused, her cup of tea suspended halfway to her lips.
I have to stop this
, Aurora thought. Her lungs were squeezed in a fist, her heartbeat little more than a tremor in her chest.
I have to speak.
“It's so soon,” she said. “I don't—I mean . . . I hardly know him.”

The queen frowned. “The wedding has been prophesized for a hundred years,” she said. “Surely you know him enough.”

“But . . .” She stared at her hands.
Say it,
she thought.
You have to say it.
“What if I don't want to marry him?”

The queen placed the teacup on the table. The clatter of porcelain sliced through the air. “This is why I wanted to talk to you now, dear. It would not do for others to hear you speaking this way. Prewedding jitters are perfectly natural, but in the end,
we cannot let these silly fancies take control of us. You know it is for the best.”

“No,” she said. “I don't know. I don't mean to hurt Rodric's feelings—”

“Oh, I do not mean Rodric, my dear. Everyone is going to be talking about you, and if you do not marry him as soon as possible . . . do you not see how dangerous that would be? You spent your whole life in the castle, is that right? You have never seen the outside world. So tell me, Aurora. Do you know what happens to valuable resources when they remain unclaimed?” Aurora forced herself to look the queen in the eyes. She could think of no reply. “You mean so much to so many people. Everyone will fight to control you, to lock you up and use you for their own ends.”

“Everyone?” Aurora said. “Who is everyone?”

“It is enough to say that many people, ruthless people, want to gain control of this kingdom, and many will see you as the key to doing so. If you do not take your rightful place here . . . well, I dread to think what will happen.” The queen raised her two perfectly arched eyebrows into a look teetering between admonition and concern. “Do you want to be the cause of war in the kingdom? Do you want innocent people to die because of you?”

Aurora dug her fingers into the arms of the chair. Once, when she was very young, she had broken into her father's library and stolen a book of stories. In one of the tales, a girl had wished for
beauty that would enchant everyone who set eyes on her. So many men fell in love with her that they began to fight, chopping off one another's heads and running children through with swords. When the men surrounded the girl, they all grabbed a limb, a piece of clothing, a scrap of hair, and pulled, until she was torn into enough pieces for everyone to share. Aurora had had nightmares for weeks, of hands grasping her out of the darkness, pulling her left and right, snatching every second of her life away. And that was just for beauty.
They will hurt me
, she thought,
if I do not do as they say
.

“Well?” the queen asked. “Do you?”

“No,” she said softly. “No, I don't.”

“No,” the queen said. “And we cannot protect you until the marriage takes place. Do you see?”

Aurora saw. The king and queen would not help her until she confirmed that she was theirs. “Yes,” she said. “I see.”

“I knew you would understand. I know I was terrified before my marriage to John, but we are women, Aurora. We can be strong.” The queen still watched Aurora, her forehead dented by the smallest of frowns. “The wedding will be in twenty-one days. You should not concern yourself over it. Smile. Curtsy. Be quiet and predictable. We can practice, if these things are beyond you.”

“No,” she said tightly. “I can manage.”

“Come along, then.” The queen clasped Aurora's chin and
tilted it upward. “Give me your best smile.”

Aurora attempted a sickly whisper of a smile. The muscles in her face shook. Her eyes stung.

“It will do.” The queen released her chin and stood up. “I must go and speak to Rodric, set the preparations underway. But this was a good talk, Aurora. It is important that we see eye to eye on these matters.”

Aurora nodded. She stood up, mirroring the queen's movements automatically.

“And do me a favor?” The queen took Aurora's hand in her own. Rings pressed cold against her bare skin. “Do not leave this room until you are sent for. As much as it pains me to say it, things are not completely safe for you. We only want to protect you until the marriage is secure.”

“I understand,” Aurora said.

“I will have some books sent,” the queen added. “Things you might find of interest. Some stories, some bits of history. I understand that you used to like reading.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” She forced herself to raise her chin, her hair falling back so she could look the queen in the eye again. For the first time, her smile was almost natural. “Yes, I did.” Perhaps the answers would come, as they always did, from the pages of a book.

“Excellent. Then I hope you enjoy yourself. It was lovely talking to you, my dear.”

“Yes,” Aurora said. She slipped into a curtsy. Her hands were numb. “You too, Your Majesty.”

“Please,” the queen said. “Call me Iris.”

As promised, the queen sent Aurora a large chest of books. They were stylish volumes, wrapped in leather, with neat, uncreased spines. Aurora lined them up on the bookshelf, studying each cover as it came to the top of the pile, letting her thoughts fade away into the steady rhythm of bend, stretch, and place. Once all of the books were unpacked, she organized them by title, and then again by genre, constantly moving, constantly shuffling, unable to let herself sit still. When she could think of no other way to arrange them, she sat back on her heels and ran her hand along the spines.

She only recognized one of the books: a history about the first days of Alyssinia, so long ago that it felt more fantasy than truth. When she was younger, she had thumbed through her own copy so many times that the pages had fallen out, and she had scribbled her thoughts in the margins like a diary of her growing up. It must still be on the table beside her bed, up at the top of her tower, like the rest of her life from before. Almost untouched by a hundred years. For a moment, she considered going back, collecting it and her other books. But the thought made her stomach twist. She could not return to that place. Could not see the way the dust had gathered on the stairs, proof of the decades that had crept past while she slept. She could not
move her things out of there and into here, like this bare room was her home now. Like she was accepting this.

She pulled the new copy off the shelf. Aurora had begged her parents, her nurses, everyone, to tell this story, the story of Alysse, over and over, in a million different ways, filling in every known detail of her life. Alysse, the namesake of Alyssinia. The beautiful princess who saved everyone, despite her youth. The girl whose kindness and empathy allowed her to understand their new land when they first fled from the magicless kingdom across the sea. Alysse the Good, who ruled after her father, wondrous fair and beloved by everyone who knew her. After every telling of the story, from when she was five until she was seventeen, Aurora had run to the window of her tower and peered out, desperate desire bubbling inside her. One day, she would be like Alysse. Wonderful, beautiful, and loved.

Now Aurora sat on the bare floor, the new volume heavy in her hands. According to the stories, Alysse had vanished into the forest a few years after being crowned queen, and so Aurora had pictured her as eternally young, as beautiful and delicate as a cobweb after a rainstorm. It seemed nonsense now. Alysse must have grown old, and Alysse must have died, just as Aurora's parents had grown old and died, and the faces she saw every day, and even the kingdom that had surrounded her as she grew up. Aurora was the only one stuck in a kind of forever.

She tossed the book to the ground, a bitter taste in the back of her mouth.

When the queen returned a few hours later, she strode into the room without knocking. “They're awaiting you in the throne room,” she said. “Come along, quickly. It sets a poor example to be late.”

“The throne room?” Aurora said. She stepped backward. “You said we weren't to be married for three weeks.”

“Why would we marry you in the throne room?” she said. “My husband is holding court this afternoon. He requested that you attend.”

“The king is holding court?” Aurora asked. “What does that mean?”

The queen shook her head almost imperceptibly. “He is hearing grievances, rewarding the worthy, punishing the guilty. You will not be expected to participate. Remember what we discussed.”

Smile. Curtsy. Be silent and beautiful. Her presence would add wordless legitimacy to everything that the king said, but her input itself was unwanted.

Two guards stood on either side of huge brass doors. They bowed as Aurora and the queen approached. Through the doors was a large chamber, bursting with people. Nobles stood in rows and groups. The threads of their clothes echoed the finery fastened to the walls: golden swords and shields, standards and spears. A row of guards in red cloaks lined the wall behind the crowd, and between them, a set of oak doors stood open, reaching from floor to ceiling. When the queen crossed the threshold, the courtiers
moved as one, bowing and curtsying her into the room.

Two thrones had been placed between the crowd and the brass doors. The king sat in the larger one, and the queen floated toward the smaller one, her head held high. She waved Aurora to the side with a flick of her wrist, to a spot where Rodric stood.

“Now that the princess and my dear wife have joined us at last,” the king said, “we can finally begin. Bring the first petitioner in.”

The guards led a tiny woman with stringy blonde hair into the room. When she knelt before the throne, her shoulder bones jutted out, visible through her dress. Her husband had died, she told the court, her wide eyes fixed on the ground, and she had been unable to find work or food since.

“He were a good man, Your Majesty,” she said. “Worked too many hours and didn't eat near enough. A story you've heard many a time, I know. But it's been a long winter, Your Majesty, and any help, any at all . . .”

“We may have a position in the kitchen,” the queen said, “if you are willing to work. And swear your loyalty.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. I swear. That is very gracious of you, very kind.”

“I will have you sent down to my head cook, Marie. She will see what can be done with you.”

“Oh thank you, Your Majesty. Thank you so much.”

The woman curtsied at least five more times as the guards led her out the door.

The next petitioner was clearly a noble. His clothes were tidy and neatly made, and his boots gleamed like new. Some of the courtiers murmured behind their hands as he entered, and no one greeted him with a smile. An infrequent visitor to court, perhaps, or else an unpopular one.

“Sir Gregory,” the king said. “What an unexpected sight. I haven't seen you since I last visited Barton. How long has it been—two years? Three?”

“I believe nearly three now, Your Majesty.”

“And you've joined us to celebrate our princess's return? It is a long journey.”