All That Burns (8 page)

“I’ll go and find you a bandage,” Richard clears his throat. “Mend it up.”

It’s not the blood that stings. Not the cut that needs a bandage.

But because he’s Richard—because he’s mine—I let him.

“D
o you think I’m making a mistake?” Anabelle asks as she glides across Windsor Castle’s Grand Reception room. So many flowers pour from her arms I can barely see her. Entire bouquets of orchids, carnations, and lilies of the valley.

“Shouldn’t the florist be doing that?” I ask as she wrestles the arrangements to a corner table.

Once the princess is sure the vase is secure, she turns, hands on her hips. She’s dressed down today: a tailored button-up and indigo jeans, hair pulled back in a French plait. But Anabelle has a way of making these look like the height of elegance. Even if she is wearing flats.

“I was checking the flowers”—Anabelle’s voice fades, a cross between a sigh and a hush—“to make sure they’re safe. This is the coronation ball, Emrys! We can’t afford bad press. They’re already abuzz that we’re having it here at Windsor instead of in London. One paper called it a ‘wretched breach of tradition.’ And that was after Mum
gave me a two-hour lecture on the subject.”

“The flowers are fine. Eric and Jensen have already checked them. Three times,” I tell her.

But the princess is on to other subjects. “What if people think Windsor is too far? What if no one decides to come? What if
too many
people come?”

I shut my eyes, try my best to empathize, but the feelings don’t surface. Instead I’m rubbing my temples, trying to fight the dull throb of my skull. I know it’s because I’m not getting enough sleep. I manage only two or three hours a night before I jerk awake, drenched in sweat, my arm oozing from freshly split scabs.

It’s been two whole weeks since the Labyrinth of Man, but the dream keeps coming. Each time it’s the same. Breena stands with her back to me, facing the clouds. Ravens crowd at my feet and my ears flood with the same, relentless syllables:
RE-MEM-BER
. Over and over. The mist clears and Arthur’s kingdom burns. Guinevere appears, shrieking riddles—insanities into my ear.

And always, the final fall.

It happens every single time I close my eyes, start to drift. So I’ve stopped closing them. Lived on cups of black coffee and pulled all-nighters helping Anabelle piece together the final coronation details.

The princess is still staring at the flowers, listing off everything that could possibly go wrong. “What if all of this falls apart?”

“You’ve done an amazing job,” I tell her. “We chose Windsor so our magical guests could attend more easily. If the press doesn’t understand that then good riddance.”

“We need the press on our side, Emrys. They have power. They make quite a nasty enemy.”

She’s right, but I don’t think it matters. The press has made their side quite clear. Every morning, there are new headlines. Choppy, alliterative punches to the gut. Things like:
DRAGGING US DOWN TO THE DARK AGES
and
BRUTAL BLACK DOG BITE BRINGS OUT INTEGRATION PROTESTORS
.

“Well, you’re not going to get stood up. Half of Parliament is already here for a tour of potential reforestation sites. And Titania plans on arriving this evening.” I can’t keep the strain out of my voice when I say the Faery queen’s name.

The dreams have kept me up at night, yes, but it’s Titania’s silence that’s weighed on me. The utter lack of news. With every messenger sparrow, every youngling Fae fresh from the Faery queen’s court, I hold my breath and hope
for something which might point to the escaped prisoner. But Queen Titania’s notes come to me empty.

Every time I think of asking I hear her words: clean and hard as steel.
This is no longer your battle.

And then there’s Richard. Who pretends that everything is fine, that he didn’t pull away. Who pecks me on the cheek between meetings and says he isn’t afraid.

But he is. I see it in his eyes when he thinks I’m not looking. I feel it in the way he doesn’t kiss me deep. There’s so much space between us, even when our bodies are pressed together.

I’ve given up everything and it’s still not enough.

“I just can’t help worrying. I can’t . . .” The princess shuts her eyes. The circles under them are so dark they could be ink stains.

She’s pushing too hard. Just like the rest of us.

“Belle, are you all right?” I step closer to the princess. She’s breathing hard, her face pink.

“F-fine.” She opens her eyes. There’s a smile on her lips, but I still see how they’re shaking.

“You’re not fine.” I reach out for her shoulder. “You’re about to have a panic attack. Sit down.”

It happens all at once. A whirlwind of sound and shatter. The vase behind us becomes fragments by our feet.
Blossoms spread like leftover confetti, stewing in a pool of water.

Anabelle stares at the mess with wide eyes.

My hand is suspended, still halfway reaching for the princess’s shoulder. All the hairs on my arm are alert, humming.

“I—it must have—” The pink in her face deepens to a sunset shade. “I must not have placed it right.”

She kneels down in the puddle, starts scooping up shards and petals. I look at the corner table, note that it was far wider than the vase. All the windows in the room are closed, shielding off any wind.

I look at Anabelle, fishing fragments out of the water with panicked fingers.

“Belle . . .”

She looks up when I say her name. Eyes as messy and shiny as the puddle.

“Did
you
do that?” My question hangs, uncertain. Trying to ask without really asking. The tremble in her lip, the shattered vase . . . the barest whisper of a spell.

There are shiftings in the earth. Old powers waking.

Old powers. Like the royals’ blood magic.

“I—” Anabelle blinks and stands, jeans dripping. “Of course not. I wasn’t standing that close.”

Had I really felt something? Or was it all just a mirage? Phantom pains of magic lost? The way an amputee still feels the twitch of his toes.

“It was an accident.” The princess wipes her hands over the wet of her jeans. “That’s all.”

She’s so convincing when she says this. So solid and sure. I look down at the puddle under my feet. It’s already soaking into my ballet flats. Pieces of my reflection waver off its surface.

I stare at my arm again. The gooseflesh is gone, but the scabs from Guinevere’s nails remain. Red and still soft. Barely sealed from last night’s dream fall.

Manic dreams and phantom magic. Is this what the seeds of insanity feel like?

Is this how it began for Guinevere?

I try to push these thoughts away as I bend down, use what little magic there is inside me to form a mending spell and make the vase whole again.

For all of Anabelle’s fretting, the coronation ball is well attended—by visitors from far and wide. Countless languages drift about the room, tickling the dreamy edges of Faery light chandeliers and nonpoisonous floral arrangements (which Eric and Jensen have checked yet again).

I stand in the corner of the room while the guests arrive. Their coats fall away, revealing tuxedoes and gowns. They grab champagne flutes, gather in herds to talk about politics and prose.

“Is that the king of Tonga?” Richard lingers beside me, studying the newest arrival—a slender man in a suit full of sashes and medals. “It is, isn’t it? Oh, drat. What’s his name again?”

I watch as Anabelle—who’s already trotted nearly a kilometer in her heels, flitting from group to group with a graceful grin—greets the newcomer.

“I’m not even really sure where Tonga is,” I tell him.

“Me neither. But don’t tell anyone.” His warm breath prickles the edges of my ear. Makes me wish he was closer. “Geography was one of those classes I always considered optional. I was supposed to study that massive guest folder Anabelle put together for me, but I haven’t had the time.”

Richard’s sister is glaring at him—
Get over here now or else
spelled out by fierce brown eyes.

“Looks like I’m about to fail a foreign relations test.” He sighs and places a hand on the small of my back. Lightly, lightly. These are what his touches have been since that night: careful, never too close. Torturous and aching in the worst of ways. “Care to join me?”

I know I should go with him. Stay by his side and smile until my cheeks go numb. But there’s a reason I’m watching the door. Waiting.

I can’t do anything about the dreams or Richard’s unspoken fears. But Titania’s silence—that I can fix. And I plan to, as soon as the Faery queen makes her grand entrance.

“I’m going to stay here,” I say.

“I see how it is.” His hand falls away. Not that it matters. His touch so barely there I can’t even tell the difference.

I think of the pages in the binder I helped Anabelle put together. The one Richard was supposed to study. “His name is King Tupou.”

“What would I do without you?” I don’t even try to answer as he walks away.

More faces flood through the door. Page after page from Anabelle’s binder brought to life. The prime minister of Canada and his wife. Lord and Lady Winfred. The president of France. Richard’s mother, Queen Cecilia.

“Expecting something to happen?”

“I’m sorry?” I turn at the voice and there they are. Eyes bluer than blue. Like the aqua wash of a curled neon sign.

“You’re looking at the door as if it’s going to spontaneously combust.” Julian Forsythe smiles, and though his face is handsome, the expression looks all wrong. Painted like a clown’s grin. “Though I must say it wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Fortunately for you I have better things to do than blowing up doors.” I look away from the politician, back to the door.

“I see you don’t appreciate my humor,” he says.

“That’s rather difficult to do when one is called a ‘monster’ and a ‘siren ginger.’” I keep my voice as chilled as the champagne in my glass. The one I’m gripping with whitening knuckles.

“Ah yes. The article.” I hear the frown in Julian’s voice, but I refuse to give him the privilege of a glance. “I was . . . upset . . . when I said that. After all, we’d just been attacked. Elaine is still having nightmares. She was even too upset to come tonight. Especially considering that the creatures’ queen is supposed to make an appearance.”

Creatures.
Just the way he says it—so silky and snide—boils my insides. “As a politician I’d expect you to be a bit more careful with your words.”

“We don’t have to be enemies, you know,” Julian says. “In fact, I’d rather not. The way I see it, you and I have a common goal.”

“I highly doubt that,” I manage through gritted teeth.

“We both want King Richard to make wise choices.”

I know his words are a trap, but I hardly care. “What part of pushing Britain toward unlimited free energy doesn’t fall into that category?”

“Perhaps I should rephrase that. We both want King Richard to make
safe
choices.” His
S
uncoils long and slow, snakelike. His chin jerks up to the Faery lights. “You don’t give up power to get it. That’s not how the world works, Lady Emrys. I know what your queen is up to. Electricity is her only weakness and our only defense. It doesn’t take a genius to solve that equation. She’s using you and King Richard to strip us bare, before she moves in.”

“You’re wrong,” I say.

The rising-star politician shrugs and takes a sip of his champagne. “I’ve been told that Faery queens are the cruelest creatures alive.”

His comment is better timed than a summoning spell. The room changes as soon as Queen Titania enters. The hum of the mortals’ conversations dies and for once the hushed awe isn’t directed at me. The Faery queen doesn’t even notice the hundreds of stares as she glides—cool and calm—through the door.

It’s the Frithemaeg behind her who look shocked. Many of them are nobility—old Fae who haven’t interacted with mortals for centuries. They file behind Titania in a V formation, eyes wider than those of a child thrust into the middle of a candy shop.

The world’s most powerful men and women part for the Faery queen, keep a safe distance. I can’t tell if it’s from respect, fear, or both. Her path ends only steps away from Richard.

“Your Majesty.” Her voice holds the same cool silver as her aura, but she curtsies nonetheless. All of her attendants do the same.

Richard bows in return. “Welcome, Queen Titania. I’m honored you could make it.”

The two aren’t speaking loudly, but their every word echoes through the ballroom’s stillness. Even the music has stopped: the violinists gawk from their corner, too stunned by the Faes’ entrance to keep playing.

Lord Winfred is the first to recover. The prime minister clears his throat and holds out his hand. “Queen Titania. I’m Laurence Winfred. The Prime Minister. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you face-to-face.”

Titania stares at his hand, eyes narrowed. Handshakes are reserved only for oaths in the Fae’s world. I want to
curse myself for forgetting to explain this to Britain’s prime minister.

The Faery queen’s head tilts. Slowly her hand edges out, pale fingers meeting Lord Winfred’s sturdy handshake.

As soon as they touch it’s as if a spell has been broken. The great silence of the room lifts. People fall back into their conversations. The violins return to their sweet-strung ballads. Waiters start to circulate again, offering silver platters of Anabelle’s hand-selected delicacies.

“You’ll be at the coronation, yes?” All of Lord Winfred’s attentions are wrapped up in the Faery queen. His eyes are lit the same way they were when he pointed out the Faery lights.

Titania’s hair glitters and shines as she nods. “I should be able to withstand London for a few hours. Given the proper precautions.”

“We’ve allotted a special Lights-down the night before so Queen Titania can attend the ceremony,” Richard reminds the prime minister. “And she’ll spend most of the day with Princess Anabelle. My sister’s blood magic should energize her. Help stave off the sickness.”

“Good, good,” Lord Winfred rumbles. “It’s an important moment for integration. The press will be watching;
we must put our best foot forward.”