A Wicked Thing (19 page)

Iris frowned. “The banquet is tomorrow, Aurora, and we have much to do. I am sure it can wait.”

“I wish to give him a favor,” Aurora said, clutching her skirt with her hand. From what she had read, it was precisely the thing a young princess would request. “I wish . . . to settle things. Before we marry.”

Perhaps it was her use of the word “marry,” the admission and acceptance of her future, that made the queen pause. “What is it you wish to give him?” she said.

“A book.”

The queen raised her eyebrows. “A book? That is hardly a traditional gift.”

Aurora's fingers twisted in her skirt. She forced herself to
look the queen in the eye. “No,” she said, “but I am hardly a traditional bride.”

She waited for Rodric in the queen's garden, sitting stiffly on the chilly wooden bench. The trees here were still bare, but a few brave daffodils had poked their heads free from the soil and burst into bloom, a spattering of sunshine against the shadows of the afternoon. The book lay heavy in Aurora's lap. She clutched it tightly and closed her eyes, trying to ignore the insistent footsteps of patrolling guards, trying to catch fragments of birdsong in the air.

“Princess?” Rodric stood in front of her, a concerned frown on his face. “Mother said you wanted to speak with me.”

She nodded and began to stand.

“No, please,” he said. “Let's sit. I do not want to walk with the guards trailing us like assassins may jump out of the bushes at any second.”

“All right.” She held out the book as he sat. The gold lettering glinted in the fading sunlight. “I wanted to give you this.”

The Tale of Sleeping Beauty
. Her thumb pressed over the golden spinning wheel engraved on the cover, right in the center. He did not move to take it.

“But . . . it's yours.”

“No,” she said. “No, it's not.” When he still did not move, she placed it on his knee. It wobbled, lurching toward the ground, and Rodric caught it with the heel of his hand.

“Why are you giving this to me?”

“I wanted you to have it.” It was all she could say. How could she explain? She wanted the story out of her room, the words and paintings mocking her every imperfection. How could she say that he deserved this dream version of her, that he deserved to hold the story in his hand, even if it could never materialize in her? This was the way things should be, the way things were fated to be, and maybe this was a denial that she could ever be the girl in the pages, but also a promise to him, that she would try her best. That their reality would not be this, but she was accepting, fully, finally, that it must be whatever they could make, together, or else everything would fall apart. That she was setting the story aside, so that she could try to put something like reality in its place.

He continued to stare at the cover of the book, running his hands along the leather binding. “It's a good book,” she added.

He opened it.
Once upon a time, when wishes still came true, Alyssinia was ruled by a beloved king and his gentle wife.
The illustration was dreamlike and elegant, a bearded king and a woman with hair like sunlight. It had been less than a month since Aurora had seen her parents in person, but she already felt the memory slipping, replaced by the blurry ideal of the paintings. Did her father have wrinkles around his eyes? What did her mother's hair smell like when she hugged her close? The more she thought, the more she tried to snatch at the memories, the farther they seemed to float, laughing, from her grasp.

Rodric turned page after page, lingering over every word
as though reading them for the first time. Finally, he reached a painting of Aurora, or someone like her, staring at an old battered spinning wheel, her finger outstretched. Aurora pressed her fingertip against the image, trying to remember, fighting to piece together the conflicting scraps left in her thoughts.
Why did you do it?
he had asked.
There's always a choice.
And maybe she did choose. Maybe this was her fault after all.

“It was forbidden,” she said, her voice shaking. It explained so much about her life if it was true. “That's why I did it. Because it was forbidden.”

“You remember?”

She trailed her finger across the painting, tracing the outline of the spinning wheel. “No. I don't know. I remember—I remember music, pulling me from my room and into . . . I am not sure. I remember going upward, but that's impossible. There was no up from my tower.”

“Celestine was powerful,” Rodric said. “She could do it.”

“Maybe.” Aurora closed her eyes. “There was a light, a beautiful, bobbing light, like a fairy, or—I don't know. I followed it up, higher and higher—” And it was as though she could feel the creaking wooden stairs beneath her feet, hear the haunting melody, now replaced by Nettle's voice, filling the air around her. “There was a dusty, round little room, but—but it wasn't like the painting. An old woman sat spinning. I had never seen a spinning wheel before, but I had seen pictures, and I think—I think I knew what it was. It was the night before my eighteenth
birthday, the very last day before the curse was broken, and it was like . . .”

A shiver ran through her, as if she were in the room once again, and suddenly she understood what people meant when they spoke of fate. It was a pull, an impossible lure, a sense deep in her stomach that this was the moment, the event she had been waiting for her whole life. “The woman looked up at me. I didn't ask why she was there. And she said, ‘Would you like to try?'”

Aurora opened her eyes. Rodric was staring intently at her, his mouth slightly open, as though absorbing every breath she sent his way.

“And I knew, I knew, that I shouldn't. I knew. But I had spent my whole life running from this. And I thought . . . what would it be like? The wheel spun so smoothly, and the needle glinted, and . . . I wanted to know. I was tired of being afraid.”

“You pricked your finger on purpose?”

“No,” she said slowly. “No. But I sat at the stool, and the woman showed me how to turn the wheel, so that the thread came out smooth.” She closed her eyes again, and reached out with her fingertips, as though the thread still ran across her skin. Maybe it had been a spell, maybe it had been her own exhaustion, but she thought she had felt the world fade as she sat there, guided by the strange old lady. She couldn't quite remember, but the sense of it lingered in the back of her mind, like a tale she had been told as a child and had since let slip away. It felt like truth.
“But I was clumsy,” she continued. “I was clumsy, and my finger slipped. It landed on the point of the spindle, the tiniest of pinpricks against my fingertip. It was cold and sharp. . . .”

“And?”

She opened her eyes, staring out over the path. The daffodils bobbed in the breeze. “And that's it. The next thing I remember is waking up. And even that isn't clear anymore. It's like I've been here my whole life.” Part of her yearned for a poetic end to the tale. A feeling of drifting off to sleep, a sense of finality, the thought,
Well, that is done
, something that would help connect this flutter of a memory with her present self. But sleep never worked like that. It happened all at once, and the final moments were as lost as if they had never been.

With a steady hand, Rodric turned the page. A princess slept in a grand four-poster bed, golden hair spread out over the pillow, a single red rose clutched to her chest.

“Did you dream?”

Aurora sighed. What difference would it make? She might have lived a whole other life in the century that had passed, lived and loved and died all inside her head. But no trace remained of it now. “I don't know,” she said finally. It was, after all, the truth.

Rodric turned to the final page, the painting of a beautiful princess, dressed in white, standing under an arch beside a handsome prince, as crowds looked on and doves fluttered above.
And we will all live happily ever after.

As Aurora stared at the picture, she felt a deep longing within her, not for the scene it portrayed, but for the
after
that it promised. She wanted to turn the page and see more words, more promises and guidelines for her trembling little life. Even if every syllable were a fantasy or a lie, there would be some comfort in being told
this is what you must do and this is how it will be
. Rebelling against an idea was better than having no idea at all.

“It's so soon,” she whispered.

“Is this what you wanted?” Rodric asked. “When you sat down at that wheel. Were you looking for your happily ever after?”

The thought had never even occurred to her. “No,” she said. “I don't know what I was looking for. I think—I just wanted to do something. I was sick of spending my life waiting.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “Are you glad you did it?”

“I don't know.” Doubt was beginning to creep into her stomach.

Rodric closed the book with a gentle thud. “Even if it weren't fate, I would choose you.”

“Do you love me?” She had to ask, had to hear the words on the air.

He did not look at her. “You are wonderful, Aurora. And we will make things better together. I know that.”

She nodded, all her suspicions confirmed. Yet the thought nagged at the corner of her mind, demanding to be voiced.
“But are you in love with me? Am I everything you would have dreamed of?”

“I do not think—”

She gripped his hand. “Tell me,” she said. “I want to hear you say it.”

“I care for you,” he said quietly, “but no. I am not in love with you.” His expression was one of genuine pain, as though terrified that his words might break her heart.

He was brave, she realized. He could say what she could not. He knew, unquestioningly, the right thing to do, and he did it without hesitation. He would make a good king. But that did not change the truth of her feelings.

“Me either,” she said. “I do not love you.”

“Maybe it will come,” Rodric said. “But I believe—we will do good together. That must be more important than true love.”

“Yes,” Aurora said. “Yes, perhaps.” She released his hand, letting her arm fall heavy against her side. “Please, keep the book.” It promised so much that she could not give.

THE FOLLOWING EVENING, AURORA ENTERED THE
banquet hall on Rodric's arm. She felt almost sick with nerves. An evening of smiling, of curtsying and saying precisely the right thing, awaited her.

Rodric's face looked pale, almost clammy, as though he too was nervous about the performance.

The ambassadors and courtiers paraded, one after the other, to greet their lost princess and give her their best wishes. She curtsied and bobbed her head so often that she felt slightly dizzy, as man after man clasped her hand, kissed it, and praised her beauty. “It is so wonderful to see you,” they would say. “Never
would I have imagined that, in my lifetime . . .” Aurora smiled at every one of them, playing the role of the demure, shy, loving princess for all that she was worth. It wasn't a difficult disguise to wear. The shyness, the reluctance to speak, were all too genuine, and she did not have enough energy to hold a large, bright smile, managing only an uptick at the corner of her lips that gentleman after gentleman described as elegant, mysterious, perfect. Yet she could not help wondering how many of them were performing, just as she was. As Finnegan had. What did they really think behind their spoken clichés?

Occasionally, very occasionally, someone would ask her a question, speak to her rather than at her beauty. One large man, wearing so many chains and jewels that Aurora imagined he must be dragged down into a permanent bow, asked her in a cheery voice how she was liking the new Alyssinia. “The innovations in the past hundred years,” he said, gesturing around at the hall as if the very stones gleamed with technology. “Could you have imagined? Life is marvelous now, is it not?”

“I could not have dreamed it,” Aurora said, despite the fact that the castle was mostly the same as before. The instruments, perhaps, the way the buildings hung over the streets and the lamps that lit the way around the outskirts of the castle—these things had taken her breath away, but they were outside, things she was not supposed to have seen.

Another man asked her why she clung to her old-fashioned dresses, instead of embracing the modern beauty that was being
created in this very city (recommending, of course, his wife as a master of design), but the queen stepped in before Aurora could reply, speaking of comfort and adjustment and waving over the fact that the outfit had been made new, by the queen, to emphasize the sense of other. Aurora had never worn a dress quite like it in her whole life before.

As visitor after visitor came, offering names she could not remember, Aurora's own thoughts slipped away, melting into this rhythm of courtesies and smiles. But she could not stop herself looking over the crowd, searching for a trace of Celestine. She could not shake the feeling that the witch was watching her, waiting for her chance to make her presence known. She was, after all, famous for her theatrics.

There was no sign of her.

Prince Finnegan was the last to clutch and kiss her hand. His voice was all politeness. “It is an honor to see you again, Aurora,” he said. “I hope I will be able to steal a dance from you later this evening?”

“Of course,” the queen said, before Aurora could reply. “She would be delighted.”

Aurora bowed her head in an echo of a curtsy.

“I am sure,” he said. “She is, as ever, the very image of politeness.” With a nod to Iris, he walked away.

“Enough of the formality,” the king shouted from the head of the room. “Everyone must be hungry. I know I am! Let us eat!”

As Aurora approached the king, she wondered how he could maintain such a mask of cheerfulness. He had killed every person in his dungeons only two nights ago, but whenever he appeared in public, he always seemed jovial. Perhaps it wasn't a mask. Perhaps he truly believed that he was the best ruler Alyssinia could have, and did everything in his power to ensure its stability. Perhaps he took no pleasure in people's misery. Perhaps.

Aurora found herself sitting at the center of a long table at the head of the room, sandwiched between Rodric on one side and Isabelle on the other. The young girl wore a simple dress with jewels in her hair, and she stared across the crowded room with rapturous eyes, too awed to speak. Aurora squeezed her hand under the table. The king and queen sat on Rodric's other side, and beyond them sat Prince Finnegan and his escort. At least she would not have to smile at him during the meal, or sit next to the king, knowing what he had done.

The servants brought out course after course, meats soaked in rich sauces and birds stuffed with creatures and nuts that Aurora had never heard of, and every time the wine cups began to empty, Prince Finnegan called for another round, until everyone around her was red-faced and laughing. She picked at her food, kept her head bowed over her plate, and listened to the mindless chatter. Occasionally, someone would ask her to tell them how life had been in her time, but she only smiled and commented that it was “incomparable to this,” and that was enough to spark another half hour of laughter and gossip that
was increasingly nonsensical, endlessly bawdy, and completely substance-less. Throughout it all, only Rodric and the queen remained quiet. The queen sipped at her wine, but never had an empty cup, and Rodric did not touch his at all.

“Do you remember the time,” John said with a booming laugh, “that Sir Merrick thought he had seen a dragon in the woods?”

“Man was so drunk he could barely stay on his horse.”

“He galloped and stumbled for hours in the wrong direction, convinced it was going to eat him and steal his family's treasure.”

“What happened to him?” Finnegan asked. Despite the fact that he kept calling for more drink, he seemed somewhat steadier than the others. Aurora was not sure she had seen him refill his cup once.

“Nothing, the fool. Just a fire in the woods, wasn't it? Started by a peasant, no doubt. Throw in the shadow of a baby deer, and he was trembling in terror.”

“Could it really have been a dragon?” Aurora asked.

“No,” Finnegan said. “Alyssinia is lucky. Dragons will not cross water, so they are my kingdom's treasure and menace alone. We had thousands of years without them, of course, but then they awoke and flooded the skies, as though the world had been waiting for them. Rather like you, now that I think about it.”

Aurora blushed, but any reply was cut off by the king's laugh. “Oh, such a fearsome thing, our Aurora. One smile, and the whole
world is on its knees.” The nobles around them joined the laughter, and Finnegan gave her a gracious nod.
Of course,
it seemed to say. “But let us not talk about such dire things. We are supposed to be celebrating! My dear, when will the music begin?”

“Soon,” Iris said. “The castle musicians became unfortunately ill this afternoon, so we had to seek a replacement. A somewhat unusual one, I must add, but—”

“I made the request myself,” Finnegan said. “I heard tell that a traveling musician we enjoyed in the palace at Vanhelm was in Petrichor, and of course I could not pass up the chance to be enchanted by her once again. It is not traditional music, I grant you, but this is all about merging the old and the new, is it not? Joining together and heralding a new age.”

“Indeed, indeed,” the king said. “But I wish this singer would make an appearance. It is not a proper banquet without music to serenade us. And the young ones must have their dancing!”

“She had to be sought out in the city,” Iris said. “I am sure it will begin soon.”

Another course later, a group of guards walked toward the king, a tall figure hidden in their midst. Only the black hair on her head was visible.

“Presenting the performer for tonight's festivities, Your Majesty.”

Nettle stepped out from among them, her black hair pinned into a twist at the back of her head. Aurora had not seen the singer since that evening outside the Dancing Unicorn, when
they had sat in the rain. It felt jarring to see her here, gliding into Aurora's prison world as though she belonged there too.

Nettle slipped into a graceful curtsy, her skirts flowing around her feet, and held it as the king surveyed her. She did not glance at Aurora.

“Well, stand up, my dear,” he said. “Tell me. What is your name?”

“They call me Nettle, Your Majesty.”

“That's an unusual name,” the queen said. “Where do you come from?”

“Eko,” she said with another bobbing curtsy. “A long time ago.”

“My darling Nettle,” Finnegan said, getting to his feet. “I am delighted to see you again. Promise me you'll dazzle these skeptics with your modern music, won't you?”

She raised her head slightly, and when she saw Finnegan, her smile seemed genuine. “I promise I will try.”

“Excellent!” King John said, clapping his hands together. “Then let us begin the dancing. Rodric, I am sure you'll want to take the first turn with your fiancée, am I right? I'm amazed we managed to keep the two of you apart for so long!”

Rodric danced as stiffly as he bowed, with one hand holding hers, and the other barely skimming her waist. He looked directly ahead, above Aurora, staring at nothing, and he steered her in a circle with clumsy steps. His forehead was screwed up in concentration.

“Are you all right?” she asked, after he stepped on her toe.

“Not really,” he said. “Everyone is watching.”

So she remained silent, letting him turn her around and around. She stared at a point over his shoulder, watching the colors on the walls spin together. Nettle's music swirled around them, a steady, waltzing beat, but wrong, somehow. Less honest and more restrained, like it too was stifled in the walls. Or perhaps Aurora was imagining it. She had heard this song before, but the notes sounded different now, too loud, too jarring against the rules and the formality of the dance. They were the sounds of mead and dust, lazy smiles and walks in the dark. Not of straight backs and awkward princes, rules and smiles that did not meet the eyes.

Over Rodric's shoulder, she glimpsed a servant carrying plates from the tables. Dark brown hair, rumpled in several directions. Tristan? Panic shot through her. Rodric spun her again, and she craned over her shoulder, trying to see, but the boy—if he had ever existed—was gone.

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

“Yes.” She settled back into his hold with a shake of her head. “I just—I thought I saw something.”

They kept moving through song after song, neither of them willing to break apart until an explicit signal was given. Rodric's hand took a firmer hold on her waist, but his palm was sticky with nerves, and Aurora began to feel slightly sick as her sleepless head and nearly empty stomach twisted around and around.

“Getting dizzy yet?” Prince Finnegan appeared behind them. “You've been dancing for a long time.”

Rodric released her hand, and she stumbled back slightly, forgetting, for a second, to hold herself up alone. “Yes,” she said, staring at the intruder. “He's my fiancé.”

“Of course, of course. Well, then I hate to interrupt, but I was hoping the princess would share her favor with me. Just for one dance.”

Rodric gaped at him, frowning slightly. Then he bowed. “Of course, Finnegan.” Dislike flickered in his voice, but if Finnegan noticed, he did not comment.

“Wonderful. My lady.” He snatched up Aurora's hand and pulled her away.

He was a better dancer than Rodric, skillful even, and he whisked Aurora around at a fast pace, making her skirts whirl in the air. He held her back firmly in his palm, pressing her close to him, and Aurora could not stop her jolt of excitement as their stomachs pressed together. She leaned back, standing as stiffly as Rodric had only moments before.

“So, Aurora,” he said in a low voice, under the fever of the music. “Have you had a chance to reconsider your decision?”

“I am not going to change my mind.”

“Even after what you heard?”

“Especially after what I heard.”

“You know it will not go as you plan,” he murmured, his breath brushing against the curve of her ear. “You know you
cannot stop him while sitting here, playing his game. You know it, and yet you continue to pretend that you don't.”

“It is the best chance I have.” The words vibrated in her chest.

They whirled faster and faster. The world behind his head blurred.

“So tell me, Aurora, what precisely is your plan? Keep pretending to be the person they all expect you to be? That's not the way to have power.”

“Maybe I don't want power,” she said. “Maybe you don't know anything about me.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But it seems unlikely. I know you.” He dipped her backward, letting her hair sweep across the floor. A couple of bystanders applauded, and when Aurora stood upright again, she felt breathless and dizzy. “It's adventure for you, dragon girl. Just try to disagree.”

Her face felt flushed, and the world spun slightly. “I am no dragon girl,” she said.

“Again, she lies.” His breath on her ear made her shiver. “How can you be who you were meant to be, when you cannot even be honest with yourself? You have power inside you, Aurora. Magic and fire. Use it.”

He dropped her hand. With a sweeping bow, he vanished back into the crowd. The room swayed, and when Aurora took a step, the floor was farther than she expected. She stumbled. One of the dancers knocked into her side, and she jerked away. Rodric was nowhere to be seen. Back at the main table, she
thought. Hiding from the dancing for as long as he could.

The walls seemed to press toward her, shuddering with color and light. The music stopped.

A guard placed a hand on her arm. “Another course is about to be served, Princess,” he said. “If you would . . .”

“I wish to thank the singer,” she said, slipping her arm out of his grasp. The air that filled her lungs felt hot and heavy, almost too thick to breathe. Nettle had been so kind, so wise before, and her songs . . . She picked her skirts up in her hands and hurried to the far end of the room, where Nettle was about to step out of the door. “I wish to speak to her,” she said to the guard who hovered by the singer's shoulder. “Alone, if you please.”