The Broken Ones (The Malediction Trilogy 0.6)(17)
But instead of making me happy, the chance to spend time alone with her felt wrong: she wasn’t doing it because she wanted to, but because she had to. It made that short interlude where I’d thought that her feelings for me might exceed the bounds of friendship now seem like wishful thinking on my part. Love meant many things, and a kiss could mean nothing at all. The result was that all I wanted to do was run as far away from this meeting as the witch’s curse would allow.
Instead, I accepted her invitation to meet at the bridge nearest the falls, reading and rereading her short note explaining that she wished to embark on a quest to live her life the way she had always wanted to, and that there was no one she wished to accompany her more than me. The truth and a lie in one, because one might wish all of eternity for something and never take a step toward making it reality.
The weather on the Isle had grown cold, the spray of the waterfall misting as it met the air of the cavern, creating a fog that sparkled in the lights lining the bridge. The structure was new, a marvel of architecture made of pale stone and glass that created the illusion of stepping stones floating over the water. Pénélope stood at the highest point, hair hanging loose in a black curtain down her back. One hand was balanced on the railing, while the other reached out to catch the falling water.
At the sound of my boots, she turned, tiny drops of water clinging to her lashes like dew on a flower. Then she smiled, and every thought in my head disappeared: the waterfall, the lights, and the city all falling away, leaving behind nothing but her.
“It’s cold,” she said, then flung the water cupped in her hand in my direction.
Instinctively, I dodged, laughing. “I suppose that rules out swimming for entertainment?”
“Haven’t the nerve for it?”
“You tell me.” Lifting her with magic, I held her suspended in the air, the falls splashing her hair and face while she shrieked and laughed.
She grinned as I settled her back on the bridge, soaked hair plastered to the side of her face. “I will have revenge for that, rest assured.” Spinning on her heel, she skipped across to the other side of the bridge, seeming not to care as her heels skidded on the slick glass, then perched on the railing, feet dangling over the frothing rapids.
There was an energy to her. Not something new – rather, something that had always been there, caged, but now released. It was like seeing her again for the first time, different, but wholly and deeply familiar. I took her arms to steady her, my heart skipping an uneven beat as she leaned back against me.
Is this real, or is she only doing it to save her own skin? I forced the thought away, focusing on the feel of her wet hair against my chin, the faint scent of spice rising from her skin.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she said, gazing out over the city. “I don’t believe there is anywhere in all the world as beautiful as Trollus.”
I’d heard a human trader once comment that we could decorate our city as much as we wanted, but that it would still be a cage. There was truth to that, but… was it a cage if one did not seek to escape its confines? If it held everything one had ever wanted? If it promised a future worth fighting for?
Below us, the icy mist circled and swirled away, turning the glow of troll-light ethereal and mystical. Aristocrats and commoners alike strolled through the city streets, tiny globes floating in their wakes like swimming stars, and above it all, the moon peered through the hole in the rocky ceiling above, a portal to the world beyond.
“This is my favorite spot,” Pénélope said. “I’ve painted this scene a hundred times, but it’s never been quite right. It always comes out dark, but Trollus isn’t darkness, it’s light.”
I smiled into her shoulder. “Walk with me. I want to show you something.”
We took the path that paralleled the river, her arm in mine, and though I sensed the scrutiny of those we passed, it didn’t bother me. I bought her frosted cakes and sweet wine from a vendor, and we stopped briefly to listen to a poet recite a composition to a crowd. We talked about everything and anything, and I found myself with more words than breath, her eagerly nodding, our voices spilling over each other’s in enthusiasm until we were both laughing at the beautiful chaos of our conversation. And all I could think of was that this could be my life. With her, this is what my life would be like.
This is a farce. A scheme. It isn’t real.
But it felt real, and I never wanted to let it go.
“What are we doing here?” Pénélope asked as we skirted the walls of the palace, following a white-graveled path toward a gated entrance.
“You’ll see.”
“Good evening, my lord,” one of the guards at the gate said, swinging it open. “My lady.”
“But we aren’t allowed in here without a royal,” Pénélope hissed, her eyes wide as I led her into the glass gardens.
“Or a royal’s permission,” I said. “Trust me.”
As soon as I said it, it dawned on me what a ludicrous request it was, given we were both here with an agenda. Yet she only smiled and said, “I do.” Then, letting go of my hand, she trotted down a path, silver blue skirts floating out behind her. I trailed after her, content to watch a guild-trained artist delight in what was undoubtedly Trollus’s greatest artistic achievement, but one that the crown kept for its eyes only.