Stars Above (The Lunar Chronicles #4.5)(47)

In the years to come, it would not be the blood or her father’s dead eyes or the guards rushing past her that Winter would most remember.

It was her stepmother. The queen. Wracked by such heartbroken sobs that Winter thought they might never stop echoing in her head. Those wails would haunt her nightmares all her life.

At nine years old, Winter had begun to realize that it wasn’t normal for a queen to be married to a guard. She had begun to understand that there was something strange about such a match, even embarrassing.

But hearing her stepmother’s cries that night, she had understood why Levana had chosen her father. She loved him. In spite of the rumors and the glares and the disapproving frowns, she had loved him.

From that night, Winter had started to fear the thaumaturges. They were not honorable members of the court. They were not her friends or her allies.

She would never be one of them, no matter how much praise her gift brought her.

*

Winter gasped awake, her stepmother’s sobs still echoing in her head, leftover remnants from the nightmare. She was drenched in cold sweat.

It had been years since her father’s murder, and months since she’d dreamed of it, but the shock and horror felt the same every time.

Not bothering to wait for her pulse to slow, Winter pushed herself from the bed. She fumbled around in her wardrobe for a pair of soft-soled slippers and pinned back her wild curls before slipping into the corridor.

If the guard who stood watch at her door was surprised to see her up in the middle of the night, he didn’t show it. It was not a rare occurrence. There had been a time when she sneaked down nearly every night to the palace wing where the guards and their families lived, back when the nightmare had plagued her in earnest. Those nights when she and Jacin would fix themselves mugs of melted cream-and-chocolate and watch stupid dramas on the holograph nodes. When he would pretend that he didn’t notice her crying as she pressed her face against his shoulder.

This night, though, she did not make it all the way to the guards’ private wing.

Rather, as she approached the main thoroughfare of the palace, she heard chatter bouncing off the windows. The clomp of booted feet. A pair of maids whispered sadly in an alcove, startling and curtsying when they noticed Winter in their midst.

She followed the commotion and found it centered in one of the libraries.

Thaumaturge Aimery Park stood near a window. He was wearing his crimson coat, even though it was the middle of the night. “Your Highness, what are you doing awake?”

Winter did not like Thaumaturge Park, though she was smart enough not to let it show. She couldn’t even pinpoint what it was about him that set her nerves to vibrating when he was nearby.

He always smiled when he saw her, but it was the smile of a vulture.

Not wanting to mention the nightmare, Winter answered him, “I thought I heard something.”

He nodded. “Something tragic has occurred, young princess. You do not need to see.”

He looked back out the window, and despite his warning, he didn’t stop Winter as she made her way to another window, where two guards were looking down toward the gardens.

Winter gasped.

A body was sprawled out in the fountain beneath the window. Blood filling the basin. Limbs turned at odd angles.

She knew, though it was too far to see for sure, that it was the servant woman. The one she’d saved years ago, when she was only a child. The one who Winter had been feeding happiness to for more than half her young life. At least, she thought she had.

Winter stumbled back.

“She was ill, Princess,” said Aimery. “It is terrible, but these things do happen.”

Unable to speak around the emotion clogging her throat, Winter turned and rushed from the room. Walking at first, then faster, faster. Behind her, she heard the familiar clomp of boots as her guard chased after her. Let him run. Let him chase.

She ran as fast as she could, arms pumping, feet barely touching the cool floor.

When she reached the wing where the guards lived, she passed Jacin’s father, Sir Garrison Clay, on his way to start his next shift. He was a palace guard, like Winter’s father had been. They had been in training together years before and had been friends from the start—which is how she’d known Jacin all her life too.

“Highness,” said Garrison, eyes widening when he saw her and took in what must have been a look of shock. “What’s wrong?”

“Is Jacin awake?”

“I don’t think so. Are you all right?”

She nodded and whispered, “Just another nightmare.”

His expression was understanding as he turned and headed back to the apartment he shared with Jacin and his wife, along with two other guards and their families, all in about the same amount of space as Winter’s private chambers. He let her inside with a fatherly squeeze of her shoulder before leaving—it was not acceptable for a guard to be late for duty, even if it was the princess herself who came knocking on his door.

Jacin was still asleep, but he was a light sleeper, and his eyes snapped open the moment Winter creaked open the door. His mother’s heavy breathing could be heard from the cot on the other side of the room. “What is it?” he whispered, pushing himself upward.

Winter took a step forward, but hesitated. For years, it would have felt like the most natural thing in the world for her to crawl into bed beside him. After all, he had comforted her more times than she could count after her father died.