Stray (9 page)

“If you fail her, then you have failed me,” Adviser Lennard added, quiet and calm. He did not blink. “And if you fail me, then you have failed the Path. Do you understand?”

Aislynn swallowed. “Yes, Adviser.”

“Very good.” He gestured for her to kneel. “Now it is time for your covenant.”

The stone was hard against her knees. Crossing her wrists over her chest, Aislynn bowed her head and tried not to flinch when Adviser Lennard placed his hand on the back of it.

“Repeat after me,” he said. “I pledge my loyalty to the Path and all who tend it.”

“I pledge my loyalty to the Path and all who tend it.”

“I vow to protect the purity of Monarch Princess Linnea until she is Contained in marriage.”

“I vow to protect the purity of Monarch Princess Linnea until she is Contained in marriage.”

“I shall guide her steps, never allowing them to falter as mine did. Ever after.”

“I shall guide her steps, never allowing them to falter as mine did,” Aislynn whispered, shame drying her tongue. “Ever after.”

It struck her how similar they were, fairy godmother and adviser. Servants to the greater good, they both lived a life that required devotion and sacrifice. Like fairy godmothers, advisers never married, spending their lives in counsel to others.

Yet they were not equal.
The Path
said that an adviser carried his knowledge like a lantern, one that illuminated the way to ever after. While he led the way, the fairy godmother remained a step behind. If a young maiden stumbled or doubted her journey, she need only look back to see what she would become if she did not follow the Path. Adviser Lennard was a guide for the monarch princess; Aislynn was a warning.

With a flourish, Adviser Lennard gestured for her to sit again. “Well then,” he said, smoothing down the front of his suit and adjusting the handkerchief in his front pocket. “I shall now take my leave. Good day.”

With a graceful bow to the headmistress, he left, and the room settled into silence, interrupted only by the soft scratch of ink on parchment. Aislynn waited awkwardly as the room grew stuffier and her uniform grew itchier.

Finally Madame Moira put down her quill and opened one of her desk drawers. She withdrew an empty glass jar with a white label covered in thick black writing. “Now,” she said. “We'll need to remove your loving heart.”

Aislynn's entire body stiffened. With an impatient gesture, the headmistress indicated for Aislynn to stand, but her legs seemed to have grown roots, and she was now part of the chair, part of the floor.

“It's a necessary sacrifice.” The headmistress crossed the room with measured steps, her long robes brushing the ground. “We are servants of purity. Our loving hearts are a luxury and easily corrupted. Only by ridding ourselves of such vulnerability can we properly assist and protect our wards.”

Aislynn prayed that her legs would hold her as she stood. She wanted to be strong and brave. She wanted to be devoted. But her pulse quickened. Should she say good-bye? Could she? Was her loving heart something to be mourned, something to be missed? Or was it, as the headmistress said, a luxury and a danger, and therefore something that would be forgotten once it was gone?

Madame Moira raised her hand in front of Aislynn's chest. “I dedicate your sacrifice to the protection of our sisters. May you turn away from the love of men and keep your Path clear.”

Aislynn squeezed her eyes shut but felt the spell as it hit her. A chill spread through her, frost dancing across her ribs. Her body became as thin as air, and she felt something like a hand pass through her, its fingers curling around her heart. It tugged. Then tugged again. And then, as if it had plucked the bloom from a flower, it withdrew. Aislynn's body was solid once more. The cold slid down from her chest and settled into her hands, crystallizing her fingerprints. She looked up.

Madame Moira held the glass jar aloft. Inside was a glowing orb, pulsing and blinking like a firefly. Its bright blue light filled the room. The headmistress quickly sealed the jar and, with a ring of keys, unlocked one of the doors in the wall. She placed the jar inside, the glowing thing that had once been a part of Aislynn swiftly locked away.

Aislynn waited for pain. She waited for a sense of loss, of unfathomable sadness, but nothing came. She felt the same. Had it worked? She glanced over at the apple on the headmistress's desk. The heat that had been there earlier when she had thought about Thackery was gone. She thought about Everett too, and there was no twinge, no ache. Her heart beat steadily on, no longer stopping at the thought of him.

It felt wonderful.

“Y
our schedule revolves around the monarch princess,” said Madame Moira as she led Aislynn out of the study.

Aislynn placed her palm against her chest and felt a gentle, normal pulse. She could feel the chill from her fingers through the fabric of her uniform. Her heart was there, but it was different. It was a misleading description, she decided as she followed the headmistress. Having one's loving heart removed didn't feel as though anything had been taken from her. Instead, it was as if her heart had been frozen, that the part of her prone to foolish fantasies and swooning daydreams had been stilled, mid-beat.

That wasn't the only thing that felt different. Even the jagged longing she felt when she thought of her parents and Tahlia was now muted. The scent of her mother's perfume, the sound of her father's laugh. Her memories of them felt faraway, blurry and half recalled. As if they were a poem whose words she had memorized but no longer understood. Her heart felt cold, like a block of ice in her chest, the chill inching gently through her body.

A proper fairy godmother had no need to remain connected to her past life. She would be grateful being freed of such unnecessary distractions. But Aislynn remembered what Tahlia had said to her that last night in the kitchen; that she should not let them take what she was not willing to give. Recalling those memories was like chasing a fading dream, but she couldn't help herself. Not completely. Not yet.

Madame Moira took her through the academy's quiet main hallway until they reached the bustling kitchen. The air smelled of butter and tart apples. A servant was whisking a bowl of cream into soft peaks of sweetness, while another sliced strawberries into glistening red triangles. Oven doors swung open and slammed shut as other servants removed freshly baked scones and replaced them with sheets of uncooked dough. All of it was a dance more intoxicating than any ball Aislynn had ever attended.

The appearance of the headmistress caused everything to stop. Madame Moira's eyes swept the room. She beckoned to the servant who had let Aislynn in the night before.

“This is . . .” The headmistress's hand gestured vaguely at the servant. It took a second for Aislynn to realize that Madame Moira was trying to recall the girl's name.

“Brigid,” said Aislynn. Both heads pivoted toward her. “I th-think,” she stammered.

The servant girl gave a barely perceptible nod.

“Brigid.” Madame Moira pursed her lips briefly before continuing, “Brigid has been helping the monarch princess since her arrival. For a servant she is quite . . .” She paused, seeming to search for the right word. “Satisfactory.”

If Brigid was insulted, her expression didn't reflect it.

“We thought it best for the monarch princess that Brigid assist you during this time,” Madame Moira said as they left the building through the door where Aislynn had first entered. The pale light from the early morning sun made Aislynn aware of how long the day ahead of her would be and how little sleep she'd gotten. Hiding a yawn behind her hand, she caught a glimpse of Brigid, who was doing the same. The ground was dewy and sparkling, and tiny droplets of water clung to the hem of Aislynn's robe.

“You will be in charge of the monarch princess's wardrobe; of helping her dress in the mornings and evenings, attending to any necessary cleaning or mending. Of course, your role is of extreme importance when it comes to balls; you will be in charge of the gown that she will wear, from measurements to execution. All of this will be discussed in greater detail in your fairy godmother courses, which you will attend while the monarch princess is focusing on her own studies.”

Needlework, flower arrangement, calligraphy, dancing, singing, riding, and flirtation. Aislynn remembered her former classes well. She could only hope that she'd prove to be more successful at her fairy godmother lessons.

Having now passed through the well-manicured grounds below the grand ballroom, Aislynn and Brigid followed the headmistress through a small gate tucked into a tall hedge. On the other side were several buildings, including the stables. To their right was a large garden, overflowing with roses and surrounded by trellises bursting with morning glories, their bright purple faces open and turned toward the sun. Next to the garden was a tiny cottage—and standing in front of it, his arms full of roses, was Thackery.

He dipped his head respectfully as they approached. But his polite smile faded as his gaze climbed from her uniform to her face, his eyes flashing with recognition. He said nothing, turning instead to place the roses on a long table in front of the cottage. Unlike last night, when he had been dressed like the other peasants at the township, he now wore the ash gray of a servant. Along the side of his neck, from ear to throat, was a raised and puckered scar that she had not noticed in the dark of the inn.

Aislynn felt nothing except a detached curiosity. No wobbly knees, no damp palms, and no heavy thud in her chest. She felt light and clear, no longer muddled by Thackery's green eyes and tousled hair. And she felt no need to search for
these
missing feelings, no need to draw them back to her.

“This is our gardener . . .” Madame Moira paused again, clearly unable to recall the names of any of her servants.

“Thackery,” said Brigid quietly.

“Ah yes. This is our gardener, Thackery.”

It seemed strange to just stand there, so Aislynn dipped in a small curtsy. Instead of bowing in return, though, he thrust a bundle of red and orange roses at her. She took them in confusion.

“Every morning you will deliver fresh flowers to the monarch princess. There is a vase in her room specifically for these.” The headmistress continued to talk as Aislynn examined the roses, which were tied with a red ribbon around their thornless stems. Each flower was perfect.

“Thank you,” she said, raising her eyes to Thackery. His dark eyebrows were slanted downward in a frown. He was angry, Aislynn observed with her new sense of detachment, but that couldn't be right. If anything, he should be embarrassed. After all, she remembered his rant about spoiled royal girls.

Why was he angry? Aislynn realized she was curious, but there wasn't much time to dwell on it because the headmistress was already turning back toward the castle.

“Hurry now,” Madame Moira said with an impatient jerk of her hand. “We must not keep the monarch princess waiting.”

Aislynn looked back at Thackery, but he had already turned away.

Upon entering Linnea's room, the first thing Aislynn noticed was how different it was from her own. Brigid pulled back the curtains, and the morning light revealed the luxurious suite. Aislynn's room seemed even smaller and darker, more like a box than a place to live. Even her old quarters at Nerine Academy paled in comparison to the beautifully decorated space. The walls were a buttery yellow, the furniture a rich mahogany, and the girl herself was luminous as she sat up in bed, her copper hair bundled up in ribbons. The monarch princess yawned delicately as Brigid helped her into a red dressing gown.

“Your Majesty.” Madame Moira curtsied deeply, and Aislynn imitated her. “I'm sorry to disturb you so early.”

“Not at all.” The monarch princess smiled, looking as if her night had been filled with nothing but sweet dreams. Her blue eyes were bright and her skin like fresh milk. Gliding across the room as if she was walking on silk, Linnea stopped in front of Aislynn. “I assume you're my new fairy godmother.” Her voice was as light and high as a little bird's.

“I am, Your Majesty.” Aislynn bowed again, thinking how odd those words felt in her mouth.

“You're very tall,” Linnea said, coming closer. The young princess barely reached Aislynn's shoulder, her diminutive height only adding to her doll-like appearance.

“Thank you,” Aislynn stammered, unsure what the proper response should be. The monarch princess merely lifted an eyebrow and moved to sit at her vanity, where Brigid joined her and began unwinding the ties from her brilliant red locks. Aislynn stood awkwardly next to the tall dresser against the wall.

Madame Moira cleared her throat. “I'll take my leave,” she said.

When the door closed behind the headmistress, Linnea's chin popped up like the lid of a pocket watch, and she swung around to face Aislynn, her eyes narrow.