[ Asterion ] Book One, Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Again, Ocari’s staff were convinced their crystals were about to explode. Rumours abounded that the princess was gravely injured, though not dead; not dead because she had used Finley as a human shield, and now she was going to need a new foil. The frenzy increased, changing direction, when Finley was escorted back to her quarters by a Sinite knight with little more than a scratch on her face.

Finley headed straight to bed, but Yda convinced the knight to stay for food and drink. All there wanted to question them. The staff were more interested in their tattoos than malfunctioning crystals, which was a small relief. Still, they’d all be exhausted come morning and find a way to reignite their collective fear of crystals.

Ocari stepped outside a little before midnight. There was no point in telling the staff to get to bed. They weren’t children and Ocari couldn’t devote every last second of their day to the hundreds that lived in the winding anthill beneath the fox’s den of a palace.

It was cold outside, close to freezing. The worst of winter had passed but the snow would cling to the ground for weeks to come, and spring felt as wild a rumour as all else Ocari had heard, lately. They pulled their coat tightly around theirself and searched their pockets for a pipe.

Ocari wasn’t beyond ignoring what the groundskeepers cultivated in hidden corners of the palace in exchange for the occasional bribe.

Ocari inhaled, pipe alive with a glow that outdid the scattered stars above. The cloud of smoke was lost to the darkness. A short distance away, Ocari made out the silhouette of another person, armour-clad. A wayward guard, standing watch over a part of the palace that needed no protection. They were about to tell them to get back to work when the figure moved towards them, holding themselves far too well to be a mere guard.

A little moonlight escaped a drifting cloud.

“Ah. Sir Kiln,” Ocari said, knowing the knight by sight. “Didn’t think I’d see you around these parts, especially not at this time. Still, I’m not one to judge. Can’t say I haven’t snuck out myself. Can I do anything for you, Sir?”

Sir Kiln hummed, considering it.

“Please, Ocari. I’m sure you outrank me; I’m sure you outrank everyone, royalty included,” she said. “Like you, I’m sneaking out. But call me Amarata. I do not wish to be reminded of my knighthood right now.”

Ocari hummed, pulled on the pipe, and said, “Been a rough night, eh? I hear our Finley’s really earning her keep.”

Amarata frowned. Ocari had thought she was already frowning, but her expression deepened, more troubled than angry.

“The foil – this Finley – isn’t cut out for the job. She isn’t trained for it. She was shaking like a leaf when I found her and she could barely string two words together,” Amarata said.

“And yet she dealt with the crystals just fine, didn’t she? Our Finley’s a lot tougher than she looks and she’s dealt with horrors beyond an explosion or two. Besides, you know as well as I do that the princess is only going to dig her heels in about keeping Finley on if you suggest she find someone else.”

It drew a laugh out of Amarata. Ocari offered out their pipe and Amarata lifted her hands in refusal, shook her head, and a corrected herself a heartbeat later. She took the pipe, breathed deep, and did not cough.

“I heard an interesting rumour,” Amarata said, handing the pipe back.

“I’ve heard enough rumours for a lifetime this evening alone,” Ocari said. “But if you’re wondering, it’s true. I did give the princess an earful. That’s why you came to talk to me, aye? You didn’t turn up here by chance.”

Amarata did not deny it. She sighed, holding out an impatient hand for the pipe. Like Ocari, she had known Princess Alexandria she since she was a child, had watched her grow into the woman she was, the woman who had lost her throne. It was a shame their paths had not crossed more, though hardly unexpected.

Knights got all the glory, while the servants were hidden away downstairs, out of sight. Ocari had given thirty years of their life to the palace, to the Renshaw family, but their portrait would never adorn even the most insignificant of chambers.

“I don’t know what I can do. How I can get her to trust me,” Amarata said, in time. “We used to be so—we used to be friends, almost. She called me by my given name. She trusted me with her secrets. Now she would belittle me if I got between her and an arrow. She won’t stop pushing me, testing me, and nothing I do is good enough.”

Ocari hummed. The wind picked up and they cupped a hand around their pipe.

“Since we’re on a first-name basis here, let me get this out there: you did betray her pretty damn thoroughly.”

If Amarata tensed, her armour and the dark hid it.

“It wasn’t so simple as that.”

“Not glory-hunting, then?”

“Is there a higher glory than slaying the Labyrinthine Beast?” Amarata asked wryly.

Ocari laughed, smoke rushing from their nostrils.

“Listen. If the princess didn’t want you around, you wouldn’t be here. Let her torture you until all the unpleasantness is out of her system and you’ll both be right as rain again.”

“And how long will that take?”

“Oh. Maybe five, ten more years,” Ocari said, grinning into the darkness. “But I’ll tell you what, Sir. Any time you feel like complaining, sneak on down here. I’ve got a half-decent whiskey in my office and plenty of whining about our princess to do.”

*

Finley dreamt of a mask of bone.

It clung to her face as if protruding from her own skull. Her breathing, shallow and rapid, warmed the space between flesh and bone, and she felt her way along the mask, not to tear it off, but to understand its shape.

Two large, hollow eye sockets she could not see out of. A narrowing of bone stretching down to long, curved teeth that would not fit in her own mouth. When she inhaled, she tasted salt, air thick with it.

Finley tugged at the bone mask, feet shifting in the sands of whatever desert trapped her, and awoke gasping, sweat-drenched.

It was not yet seven. The memory of crystals splitting rushed back, fear and exhaustion with it, but Finley knew she would not fall back to sleep. She pressed her hands to her face and found it was her own.

Yda was already hard at work. Finley slipped into the kitchens, not hungry for breakfast but not eager to stay in her bed and let her mind wander, either. She found Yda pulling her apron over her head, grinning around the good news; she’d called in a few favours and had the morning off, too.

They headed into Sunspire arm-in-arm. Finley was grateful to be out of her new uniform; she was scarcely comfortable wearing it in the princess’ chambers and could not stand the thought of being seen by all the city dressed so finely.

Finley and Yda trekked a half-hour through the city, going over yesterday’s exploits once more. Yda told Finley how Rydal had stayed in the servants’ hall after she’d gone to bed, drinking and playing cards, the centre of attention despite how little they said. Finley thought it was a shame she’d been so exhausted, that she’d fallen asleep so early. The whole evening sounded so normal, and normalcy had been in short supply of late.

They stopped outside a small, familiar house on the outskirts of the city. It was squeezed between two identical buildings on a narrow, cobbled street, door opening directly onto the pavement, but had a small garden of its own at the rear. A stout, grey-haired woman opened the door, curious expression soon melting into the smile.

Finley embraced her tightly. She did her utmost to visit Willow’s mother at least once a week, but it never felt like enough. The woman imparted no guilt and did not ask that Finley come more often, or sigh over how empty the house was; rather, she was the closest thing to a mother Finley had ever had, and Finley hated to think of her alone in the city.

“Yda, my darling,” Heather Rhodes said, urging Yda closer. “What a wonderful surprise! How did you both manage to sneak out so early in the day?”  

Yda, who had known Heather all her life, kissed her cheek and said, “I pulled some strings. You won’t believe all the things we have to tell you.”

“I bet! Make yourselves comfortable, girls. I’ll have tea ready in just a minute. It’s a shame your folks are out, Yda, else we’d have a real get-together going on,” Heather said, tilting her head towards the wall she shared with her neighbours.

The living room was small. Smaller now Finley had spent consecutive days in royal chambers, though far more welcoming than any room that had recently engulfed her. Finley settled into her favourite chair while Yda followed Heather into the kitchen, basket on her arm, and plied her with goods from the royal kitchens.

Heather admired all Yda’s offerings, assured her they were too good not to show off, the neighbours would get their fair share, and returned to the living room with a tray of tea. She knew exactly how Finley and Yda took their drinks. Finley accepted hers with a smile, drinking half the cup in one go.

“I’ve been hearing such awful rumours from the palace. They say there’s been explosions there, magic gone haywire, and that the Sinite prince was half killed,” Heather said. “But people do like to tell tales about the palace, don’t they? I expect the prince took a tumble, skinned his knee, and the story grew in the telling.”

Yda grinned. Finley reached for a biscuit, letting her share the truth.

“For once, the rumours aren’t doing it justice. There was an explosion, out in the royal gardens. They were putting on a show for the prince but one of the crystals lost control of itself. Knocked him clean down and tore him up something rotten,” Yda said. “The second one would’ve killed him, had a certain someone not thrown herself on the crystal.”

“Well, I never,” Heather said, eyes wide.

Finley shuffled into the corner of the armchair, trying to make herself smaller. Heather realised what Yda was hinting at a beat later and turned to Finley. Surprised, impressed, and more than that, fearful of what hadn’t happened.

The biscuit was dry in Finley’s mouth. Her supposed act of bravery did not feel like such a courageous thing when paired with the worry in Willow’s mothers’ eyes. A belated sense of shame crept upon her. Why had she thrown herself so thoughtlessly into danger, as if there wasn’t someone who relied on her weekly visits?

“Finley? No,” Heather said, shock subsiding, awe taking its place. “You didn’t! Finley Yael, saving the prince of Sine! Fancy that. I hope they rewarded you with your weight in gold.”

Finley felt the warmth of the tea through the mug once more. She took another sip, allowing herself to smile. For all she’d lost, Willow’s mother did not need to be coddled; she needed Finley to be herself around her, to share all the peculiarities of her days.

“She’s got enough of a pay rise,” Yda said. “To go with her fancy new job.”

Heather looked between Yda and Finley, then stared at Finley expectantly.

“While they’re still trying to work out why crystals are exploding, I’m Princess Alexandria’s personal foil,” Finley heard herself say.

And how absurd it was. The last time she’d sat in this room with Willow’s mother, she’d been telling her that the Sinite delegation had just arrived and she hoped to catch a glimpse of them when they toured the gardens. Finley brought news about her plans for next spring’s flower beds and talked about the pond fish drifting below layers of ice. She shared gossip about the maids and tales of Yda’s latest culinary exploits when Yda was too busy to join them.

Finley might work for the palace, but she had nothing to do with those that lived upstairs.

“The princess? Well! I never. Next door aren’t going to believe a word of this,” Heather said, puffing herself up with pride. “Princess Alexandria! I’ve heard this and that about her, but Willow always liked her, didn’t she? That’s all I need to know.”

Finley smiled. Really smiled. She was grateful Willow had spoken with her mother about the princess, grateful the Willow of so long ago had tethered herself to this very moment.

The three of them spent the next few hours deep in conversation. Heather wanted to know every detail about the princess’ days, her chambers and wardrobe and royal duties alike, but had plenty to tell about her neighbourhood, too. She’d always kept herself busy, before and after Willow’s death, and Finley would be adrift without her.

They left at noon, giving themselves time to get back to the palace. Princess Alexandria would want Finley there once she decided to unlock her chambers and let the workers put right all the destruction the crystals had strewn.

As she hugged Heather tightly on the doorstep, Finley murmured, “I went riding, the other day. I went back to the stables—well, Princess Alexandria dragged me there. But it felt good to be on horseback again.”

Heather leant back, cupping Finley’s face. Her eyes shone with tears and Finley felt a sharp sensation engulf her vision, an undeniable urge to rapidly blink.

“Oh, Fin. She’d be so pleased with that,” Heather said, kissing her forehead. “I hope the princess keeps at it. I never wanted you to lose that.”

Finley nodded her agreement, mouth dry. She waved over her shoulder as they headed back to the busier streets, and Heather rocked on the balls of her feet, eager to run and tell her neighbours all about Finley’s sudden promotion.

Yda put an arm around Finley’s shoulders, chatting cheerfully as they made their way through Sunspire, city bustling with its never-ending business.

Finley arrived at the princess’ chambers as Luna was leaving. She did not recognise either of the guards stationed outside and was met with an awkward demand to know why she was there. Luna caught her in a quick, casual embrace, wished her luck, and hurried into the palace she practically floated through.

The workers appeared soon after. There were a dozen of them, each wordlessly choosing a corner of the room or swathe of destruction to work on. There was a good amount of hammering, but a lot of the work was quieter, though no less demanding: floors were sanded, carpets patched over, upholstery replaced, walls plastered and papered over. Finley could not tell there’d ever been a scuff in the royal chambers though she had seen the shards of crystal fly.

One of the first things replaced was the vanity mirror. While Princess Alexandria directed the repairs, hovering over the workers, Finley took a real look at herself. The best she usually got was catching her reflection in a distant window or the rippled surface of a pond. She was startled by what she saw, certain she had not always been so pale, so thin.

Once the workers were finished, an hour after the princess’ usual dinner time, Finley could not comprehend how different the chambers looked without the clutter of discord and once ever-present crystals. While not all had been so prominent as the one by the bedroom doors, the crystals had been as decorative as they were useful, studding the room like mere ornaments.

There were crystals for light, bright in the chandelier, dimmer and warmer close to the princess’ desk; crystals to keep back unpleasant scents and freshen the air, though the balcony doors remained closed all winter; crystals to keep the room warm, and those to cool it when summer came; crystals to stop sound leaving the room, should anyone wish to eavesdrop on the princess and her guests; more crystals than Finley could fathom the purpose of, all of which had never once touched any aspect of her life.

“Well,” Alexandria said, admiring her flawless, almost bare, chambers. “It’s a little too late to get to work now.”

But there was time for work as soon as Finley arrived the next morning. All of Alexandria’s meetings were to take place in her chambers, some of them comprising up to a dozen people, for even the open familiarity of the library felt uncomfortably like a threat.

The only refuge either of them got was their daily trips to the stables and an hour of hard-won riding.

Finley’s extended duties included asking all those who came through the princess’ doors, be they members of court, politicians, wealthy merchants, or palace servants, to remove any crystals they were wearing and place them in a box by the chamber doors. It was a very nice box, all things considered, made from a deep mahogany wood and lined with velvet, but those of higher rank still sneered at it.

“Make them think you can sense crystals. Raise your brow and stare right through them,” Alexandria suggested, after a courtier’s crystal pendant, hidden under her shirt, had started to hum in the princess’ presence.

And so Finley mastered the art of tilting her head in the general direction of a person’s torso and clearing her throat knowingly, until said guest remembered to remove a crystal ring they wore for their health, conveniently hidden by their flowing sleeves.

The fire burnt pleasantly throughout the winter days. A week in and still Alexandria muttered to herself that the candles were sure to fall and set the whole room ablaze. Finley ignored her and continued with whatever book she was working her way through at the time. She was there to mute magic, not put out fires, and the princess was meticulous when it came to ensuring no candles were within elbow-reach.

“God wept. Look at this, Finley,” Alexandria said into the silence, one afternoon where there were no meetings scheduled for an entire hour.

Finley looked over the back of her armchair to find Alexandria at the window, nose almost pressed to the glass. She reluctantly put her book aside, untangled herself from a blanket that had appeared on the back of her chair one morning, and joined the princess at the window.

Snow still covered much of the grounds, though it had not fallen in days. Finley hadn’t expected to find anything so exciting as exploding crystals but had hoped to see something other than Luna and Rydal, making their way along one of the wider paths at a slow, easy pace.

The pair were deep in conversation. Or Luna was talking and Rydal was listening attentively.

“Okay?” Finley said, hoping Alexandria would reveal a better reason for having dragged her from her seat.

“She shouldn’t be dangling herself out like that. She knows better,” Alexandria said, clicking her tongue. “Really, being seen in public with a Sinite? Alone with a Sinite? I need to speak with her.”

Finley shrugged. If Alexandria was worried that the royal witch might spill valuable Thisian secrets, it was probably a good sign that she was seen in public with a Sinite, rather than sneaking around hidden corners of the palace. She clearly had nothing to hide.

“She likes Rydal,” Finley said. “That’s obvious. Let her have her fun. The Sinites won’t be here forever, right? Maybe that’s why it is fun.”

Alexandria turned from the window, looking down at Finley with a deep, displeased smirk.

“Why, Finley. What on earth have you been reading of late? What scandalous ideas are you filling your head with?”

“Uh—The Maw of Broken Thorns?” Finley said, glancing back at discarded book.

“Goodness. And where did you procure such uncultured filth?”

“From your personal collection, princess,” Finley said.

“Well. Do put it back once you’re finished,” Alexandria said, clearing her throat.

And so the days went. Not slowly, not exactly, but without a fumbling sort of haste. Candles and firewood aside, the princess’ routine had returned to something like normalcy, and being confined to her chambers but to ride did not seem to trouble her. Luna visited each day, part business, part to fall on a settee and complain about whatever it was the queen had her working on now. She brought a small crystal with her, the size and shape of a duck’s egg, polished until it shone, and placed it on Alexandria’s forehead, focusing some magic through it.

For a week, there was little in the way of trouble, save the occasional flutter of light.

Then, one morning, the crystal began to hiss before Luna could press it to Alexandria’s skin, as though steam was desperate to escape through the smallest crack in the crystal’s surface. Luna drew it back, alarmed, and Finley was by Alexandria’s side before she registered getting to her feet. Slowly, with Finley there to negate any danger, Luna brought the crystal close to Alexandria again.

It did not hiss. It did not crack. It simply crumbled in Luna’s hand, turning to nothing but tiny fragments of sparkling dust.

Luna tried with another crystal. That one sang, then fell into three useless pieces.

“Is it possible,” Alexandria began, slow and serious, “For one to become allergic to crystals?”

Luna was bemused enough to consider it.

“I’ve never heard of anything like this. There’s one sort-of explanation I can come up with, but you’re not going to like it. Or how we have to go about proving me right or wrong,” Luna said, holding back most of her grin.

“Get it over with,” Alexandria said, waving her hand to hurry the explanation along.

“There’s a chance that you’re not exactly the problem. The crystals could be reacting to another crystal, either hidden in your clothes, or—” and here Luna paused, wincing. “Under your skin.”

Alexandria folded her arms over her chest and leant back.

“That’s absurd. Either Rosa or some washer woman is stitching crystals into my clothing, or someone has managed to render me unconscious and perform a procedure on me without my knowing it, so they might—what? Kill me in an accident, rather than when I was at their mercy?”

“I didn’t say it was a good theory! But you took it one step too far. I was thinking that perhaps something did hit you, when the first crystal exploded. A tiny, tiny fragment that got stuck in your skin and now has a mind of its own,” Luna said.

“Then your theory means that the initial explosion was entirely unrelated to me, leaving us with as many mysteries to solve as we now do.”

“Yep! I said you wouldn’t like it,” Luna said. “Now, shirt off!”

Finley spent the next twenty minutes diligently staring at the chamber doors as Luna inspected the princess. Alexandria complained all the while, scolding Luna for having cold hands, claiming her handling was already leaving bruises, and falling deadly silent whenever Luna began giggling.

Finley waited until she was certain Alexandria was dressed once more to join the conversation.

“What an utter waste of time. And do stop looking as though you enjoyed yourself quite so thoroughly as you did,” Alexandria said, idly tugging at her hair.

“Oh, Lexi, you’re a terrible patient! How is anyone supposed to help you?”

“I have been more than obliging, and what is my reward in the matter? Absolutely nothing. Here I am, living like a foil in a cave, about to set myself on fire at any moment, and you have no answers for me,” Alexandria said, but did not protest when Luna slumped against her side. “Clearly, I am a fourth sort of person.”

Luna looked amused before she’d got an explanation, used to Alexandria’s wild speculation.

“A fourth sort of person.”

“Indeed. Type one: a witch, able to both use magic and benefit from it. Type two: normal people, unable to use magic but able to benefit from it. Then there are the foils in third position, naturally, able to mute magic, but neither able to use it nor benefit from it. Which leaves me, in a category of my own: neither able to use magic, nor benefit from it without exploding—and what’s more, I cannot even silence the confounded crystals with my presence alone.”

Luna laughed, knocking her forehead against Alexandria’s temple with terrible fondness.

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Stop sulking and thinking you’re so special, Lexi. You’re one of those normal people, I’m afraid! Only not normal, because you’re a princess and a hundred people have a thousand reasons to target you.”

The days grew shorter, after that. Alexandria had less patience for all her meetings, rushed them to their conclusions, and spent long hours hunched over her desk. Finley looked up each time she clicked her tongue, rolling her shoulders back. Alexandria began pacing the room, sometimes for a mere loop of it, other times for twenty or thirty minutes.

She had less to say. She began to poke at her meals. Often, she seemed deep in thought and did not always hear Finley’s answers to her questions. Had it been the first week Finley worked for her, she would have assumed the princess was merely being short with her, indulging in the royal privilege of being rude to any who dared cross paths with her, but now that she called her by her first name, something felt off about it.

Finley could not put her finger on what.

But the shorter days often worked in her favour. Alexandria would dismiss her, locking herself in her chamber, sometimes as early as two or three in the afternoon. Finley made sure to visit the temple, though she never saw Rydal there, and had more time to spend with the other servants. She kept up to date on everything that was happening downstairs and ensured she had not started thinking so well of herself that she could no longer tolerate the low ceilings of the servants’ hall, the bare floors and walls, the scratched and dented table.

Winter was a quiet time of year, bringing a heaviness with it that drew Finley towards comfort. That heaviness often manifested as extra socks and thick blankets and dark skies that did away with the idea of being productive. When she had an afternoon to herself, she would head into Sunspire and help Heather around the house. They both pretended they wanted speak about something other than Willow, but conversation always found its way back to her.

“I don’t know. It’s strange. I thought I’d hate it, but it’s been kind of… nice?” Finley said, holding a bowl of soup close to her chest for warmth. “I expected to go mad, not being able to work outside, but I think I’ve been enjoying getting to sit around and not do much more than read. Plus, I get to eat all the best meals.”

“I’m so glad, Finley. You’ve needed to rest for a long, long time,” Heather said, smile deepening her wrinkles.

Finley shook her head.

“I did nothing but rest for eight months. Eight months after the funeral,” she murmured, finding, inexplicably, that she could speak with word funeral without sobbing. “I didn’t do anything. I barely got out of bed!”

“That wasn’t resting, darling. That was grieving, and that’s hard, heavy work,” Heather said, and Finley could not argue.

Who else knew that as well as she did? Who else shared that pain with her?

“That’s what Yda said,” Finley muttered.

“And then you went straight back into your gardening, breaking your back from sunrise to sunset. If I ever met that princess of yours, I’d shake her hand.”

But the princess grew less personable by the day. Any dregs of amicability that had existed between them had been whisked away along with her crystals, and Alexandria struggled to maintain a sheen of professionalism. Luna visited daily, but her visits grew shorter and shorter, ever chased off by a sharp remark or wall of silence.

Alexandria began cancelling meetings. She had wine brought with her dinner. She rolled her shoulders back, muttering irritably to herself.

Finley dared to ask her if she was alright only once. Alexandria demanded to know what it was she wanted, why Finley was interrupting her, and Finley did not breathe another word that evening.

At the end of two weeks, the princess’ apparent bad mood and rapidly declining commitment to her duties culminated in a bottle of wine with lunch. Finley was not offered any. She spent the afternoon trying to form a question with more nuance than Are you alright?, something sincere and open and not too forward to ask a princess, and constructed useless conversation in her head until the sky darkened.

“Finley,” Alexandria asked suddenly, staring at the nothing beyond her reflection in the windows. “Why did you become a gardener? Is it because you like flowers?”

Finley near-enough leapt at the first chance to speak openly in days, and did most of her talking with her hands, though she faced the princess’ back.

“A lot of reasons. I like to be busy, for one, and I’m good at physical work. Gardening isn’t just about being strong, though it helps; it’s about knowing how to use what strength you have, how to use a shovel to move a boulder without breaking your back. That kind of thing. But I like it because of the regularity. The routine. It never goes away. It never stops. There’s that saying, right: get a garden and you’ll never rest a day in your life. And it’s true!

“I like how the seasons are so distinct, yet they blend into each other. Winter and summer are complete opposites, but they’re both so still. Nothing seems to happen during those months: they just feel like they’ll last forever. Then you have spring and autumn, where everything is happening, even if it’s in opposite directions.

“The whole world, it just—it follows its own rules, and you have to figure out what they are. You have to work out the secrets, and sometimes you have to wait years to see if you’ve got it right.”

No answer. Alexandria continued staring out the window. She rolled one shoulder back, exhaled heavily enough to fog up the glass, then placed a hand on her neck.

“Sorry. What did you say? I was a hundred miles away,” Alexandria said, glancing back at Finley.

“You’re right,” Finley said. “I like flowers.”

Alexandria nodded, glad to have the confirmation. Before she could ask any more questions she would not listen to the answer to, her chamber doors swung open. Finley watched her expression cycle between irritation, pure fury, and the poor consolation of excitement; Sir Kiln had been standing watch outside the chamber at least every other day, those past weeks, and Alexandria would get to yell at her for letting someone into her chamber without explicit permission, if nothing else.

“Ah. Cousin,” Alexandria said, mastering her expression into something wincing and neutral.

Queen Briar stood in the doorway, looking around the chamber as though she no longer recognised it. Finley did not think it was the recent removal of crystals that had created the discordance with whatever memory she’d clung to, so much as the enduring passage of time, slipping away from her.

“Alexandria. I hope I’m not intruding,” Queen Briar said.

Her voice was quiet, though not particularly soft.

Alexandria stood straighter, hands clasped behind her back.

“Of course not. Dinner is not for an hour yet and I’m sure Finley would be willing to sacrifice her portion.”

When Finley said nothing, Alexandria took a step to the side and jabbed the small of her back.

“Absolutely, Your Majesty,” Finley said, bowing.

“That’s very kind, but it won’t be necessary,” the queen said.

She took a step deeper into the room. Sir Kiln closed the doors behind her, but Alexandria held out a hand, stopping her cousin.

“Finley. If you would,” she said.

Finley turned to her, shooting a frustrating, pleading look over her shoulder, and said, “I’m sure Her Majesty doesn’t—”

Alexandria clicked her fingers in rapid succession.

“Today, Finley, please. This is what I pay you for,” Alexandria said. “Again, we don’t want a two royals, one crystal situation.”

Finley had no desire to disobey Thisia’s princess, but she was even less eager to insult its queen. Especially not when she had the distinct feeling Alexandria was using formalities to create distance between herself and Queen Briar, to belittle the woman in her own palace.

Stuck between the two royals, Finley bowed from the waist.

“Queen Briar. Would you please remove any crystals you have on you before approaching Princess Alexandria?” she asked in her steadiest voice.

Finley held her breath. The queen tilted her head to the side, scrutinised the utter seriousness of Alexandria’s expression, then sighed. Amused, tired. Willing to bend to the princess’ whims, so long as it got her the conversation she had clearly come for.

“I made certain to not bring any crystals with me,” the queen said. “My own foil is outside, if you wish to confer with him.”

Finley bowed for a third time, hoping it would suffice in place of speech.

Alexandria gestured for the queen to take a seat on one of the settees, then sat opposite her. It wasn’t quite as intimate as the settee facing the fire and the only distraction between them was the empty wine bottle.

When Alexandria caught Queen Briar eyeing it, she said, “Do you want some?”

The queen was not given the chance to answer. Alexandria was on her feet, looking through a cabinet of dark drinks in extravagant bottles, before the Queen could open her mouth. Alexandria returned with two small glasses and something considerably stronger than wine.

“Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from the Queen of Thisia herself?” Alexandria asked, drinking her own glass of the honey-brown liquid in one easy, burning mouthful.

Queen Briar frowned. She took her drink but did not sip it. She merely rolled the small glass between her hands, neither looking at nor away from Alexandria.

“Must your foil be here? I rather wished to speak with you in private,” Queen Briar said.

Finley shuffled towards the door, eager to wait outside with Sir Kiln, the queen’s foil, and whatever knights she had brought with her for protection in her own corridors.

Alexandria scoffed.

“Cousin, please. I can assure you that Finley does not care a jot for whatever it is you have to tell me. Already, she knows more royal secrets than any gardener before her,” Alexandria said. “Ignore her. It’s easy; she takes up little room and rarely makes any unexpected noises.”

Queen Briar stared at Alexandria. She lifted her drink to her lips, took a sip, and could not quite stop herself from shuddering.

Sighing, Alexandria waved a hand and banished Finley to an armchair in the far corner.

“There. It is just us two, as alone as any royals truly can be. Now, will you do away with anticipation and tell me why you’re here. What have I done wrong this time? Which ignoramus have I insulted most recently?” 

Queen Briar placed her glass on the coffee table. Finley could see only a sliver of her face from her armchair, but her expression held more remorse than irritation. She could not see Alexandria’s face at all but knew from the arm slung over the back of the settee, the impatient tap of her foot, that Alexandria knew exactly why her cousin was there, but wished to drag it out of her.

“Surely you know what day it is,” Queen Briar said, in time.

“The fifteenth,” Alexandria said, artificially bright.

“Alexandria. Do not pretend it has passed your notice. Four years, Alexandria. Our father has been dead for four years.”

Finley understood why the queen had wanted her to leave the chamber. She was there to be a person, a daughter, not the monarch of the most powerful nation on the continent.

“Is that so? Then I shall pour myself another drink in memory of my father and your uncle-slash-step-father.”

The queen’s face darkened. Finley did not know what would happen if she saw Queen Briar cry. Would she be expected to swear an oath that she would never tell another living soul what she’d witnessed?

“Why do you insist on being like this? He raised me from childhood. He was our father, no matter what technicalities you invoke. Really, Alexandria. It’s not only childish, but cruel.”

“Our father?” The glug of the bottle tilting, the splash of unfathomably expensive liquid hitting the glass and spilling over the sides. “We needn’t share him, really. You’re welcome to the man. To the ghost. He put you on that throne, Briar, which makes you right; you are his true daughter. His heir!”

Queen Briar snatched Alexandria’s drink from her hand the moment before it could touch her lips and drank it in one go, head tilted back. She did not wince, or cough.

“Is it going to come back to that forever? Our father made a difficult choice, an impossible one. He made the only choice he could, and all for the good of Thisia. He hated himself for doing that to you, Alexandria, he took that shame straight to the grave, and I did not ask for this. But it was the only way. You know this as well as I do. Better than I do,” the queen proclaimed.

Alexandria tilted her head against the back of the settee. Having had this conversation a hundred times over, she only groaned.

“I don’t know why I came here. I don’t know why I convinced myself that you could be reasonable, that you could speak to me like a person you had a modicum of affection for,” Queen Briar said. “My mother is distraught. How could she not be? I did not wish to take my grief to her, but I let that grief delude me into thinking that you might have a sliver of human feeling somewhere in your body. Well. Now I know better.”

Alexandria pinched the bridge of her nose.

“You made this exact speech last year.”

“And each year I foolishly believe that you might learn some compassion. He was your father, Alexandria! He taught you everything, gave you everything. He loved you,” the queen pressed.

Finley turned in her seat, watching the confrontation by the reflection in the vanity mirror. The corner of her current book dug into her knee, but she could not open it, could not pretend to be absorbed by the uniform print of the perfectly spaced words without risking the spine creaking and reminding the queen and princess that she was there, overhearing every word that passed between them.

“I don’t see why that is my problem,” Alexandria said. Shrugging, she pulled the bottle close to drink from directly. “I thought his death would get rid of him, but he is more omnipresent than ever.”

Queen Briar could endure no more. She rose to her feet and seemed to draw all the air in the room into her lungs, making herself taller.

“Do you know what the worst part of this is, Alexandria? God, don’t answer. Be quiet. The worst part is not my continued, displaced trust in you, or the theatrical lengths you go to in order to give the impression that you do not care. It’s that you don’t care. You don’t have the capacity for it, and so you treat my pain, all the world’s pain, as some great joke,” Queen Briar said with all the cutting judgement of a person who had known the princess her entire life.

Alexandria blinked up at her cousin. If not wounded by her words, she was certainly stunned into silence.

Queen Briar marched across the room, opening the doors for herself.

“And do not think I am unaware of how many meetings you have cancelled, of late,” the queen called, slamming the doors behind her.

The room was silent. Sir Kiln knew better than to knock and ensure that everything was well within the princess’ chambers.

Alexandria sat cross-legged on the settee, rolling the spirit bottle between her palms. Whatever internal conversation she was in the throes of animated her face, alternating between raised brows and slow, begrudging nods. Every now and then, she lifted the bottle, drinking deep from it.

Very slowly, Finley placed her book on the floor and got to her feet. She made it all the way to the coffee table, and still the princess had not noticed her.

“Do you want another glass?” Finley asked.

Alexandria did not start. Her eyes flickered up, then fell back to the bottle. She did not consider Finley enough of a threat to do anything about; she did not consider her at all, not really. What did it matter to the princess if her foil told stories about her? All the servants did and she could not control who believed such nonsense.

“Might I defend myself?” Alexandria asked, in time. “Do I not have that right, at least?”

Finley could not offer the princess any sort of permission. She didn’t dare answer either way.

Alexandria took the answer she wanted from it and pointed Finley into the seat the queen had so recently filled.

“And I say this to you, Finley, an upstanding individual with terrible parents. I say this to you, my foil, who was abandoned to the whims of an orphanage, simply because you were an inconvenience to your parents, and—”

“What? No, it was because I’d got sick, and—”

“Oh, shut up. Don’t be dense. You’d be surprised to learn that it doesn’t suit you. If you have not gathered after thirty-five years on this planet that your parents gave you up because it was too much trouble to light a candle, to open the windows on a hot day, then you cannot be helped. Be serious, Finley. All children get sick and it is terrifying whether or not magic can fix it. Magic is no promise, no guarantee. Look at your fiancée, at Rhodes. She was no foil, but crystals did nothing to help her,” Alexandria said, as though the words had occupied her mind for days.

Finley felt every muscle in her body tense, trying to make a shield of flesh, searching for a way for the mere meat she was to protect the spirit within, and wished she had the bottle in her hands.

“That’s not—”

Alexandria waved her words away.

“Let me say my piece. I say this to you, Finley, because of your terrible parents. For mine, you see, were just as terrible. Well, my father, at least. I cannot blame my mother for dying, I suppose, though it has been a great trouble to me. Very thoughtless of her. What was I saying? Oh, yes. My father was a bastard. Him being my father does not negate that, nor does it obligate me to mourn him in any real capacity. And this is not merely because he denied me my throne; he was an awful person. Have you seen the legislation he pushed through? It has taken me the four years since his death to begin untangling the worst of it! You have no idea what he wished to do to Thisia, much less Sine. Honestly, it is a blessing he died when he did.”

What could Finley say to that? She had not known King Nicolas; she had met Queen Briar twice, both for a matter of minutes, and that was more than she could say for the old king. She could not tell Alexandria she was sorry, for the princess did not want sympathy. She did not want pity.

She wanted someone to listen. Someone to understand.

“I…”

“Oh, for god’s sake, Finley. I’m not going to have you beheaded for stating an opinion,” Alexandria said, rolling a shoulder back.

“I think you’re upset, or angry. So whatever Queen Briar said, whatever she wanted from you—I don’t think you were the right person to come to,” Finley said, in time.

Alexandria snorted a laugh.

“Quite. You heard her: I do not have the capacity for sincere feelings.”

“No,” Finley said plainly. “I don’t think that’s it. I think you have a lot of feelings, even if you don’t express them all. But I don’t think it was very kind of Queen Briar to come here and talk about someone she knows hurt you. You said yourself it had happened before; she should know better by now.”

At that, Alexandria’s shoulders fell. She loosened her grasp on the bottle in her lap, but whatever the words evoked within her, whether vindication or yet more anger, was clouded over. Alexandria shuffled in her seat, grimacing, and Finley understood what she had been seeing those past days.

There were no longer crystals in the princess’ chambers, and Luna’s daily visits were a thing of the past.

Magic no longer flooded the room, constant and soothing.

The princess was in pain.

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