Spindle Fire (Spindle Fire #1)(3)

Aurora pauses, listening to what sounds like a heated exchange. It’s very rare for the council to be meeting this late, particularly when such important guests are expected at any moment.

She tucks her dress and robes around her legs and crouches just beneath the oriel, peering in.

“They were supporters of Malfleur, I’m sure of it,” one of the men is saying.

Another scoffs. “Nothing but peasants and petty thieves. A horrible accident, and that is all.”

“It’s not the time to analyze the attack! We are in a state of emergency!” cries another, slamming down hard on a table.

A horrible accident? Attack? A state of emergency? What could possibly have happened? She inches slightly closer to the base of the window, straining to hear.

“This is more than an attack; this is a political maneuver. It’s a diplomatic crisis.”

“He’s right. It’s an act . . . an act of war. This has to be Malfleur’s doing. And without Aubin on our side, we are sunk.”

“Aubin still needs us as much as we need them. Their royal coffers are dry—we know that. Their precious war overseas has seen to that.”

“Before we come to any conclusions, we must reconcile ourselves to the murder of the two princes and decide upon swift and immediate action.”

At this, Aurora loses her grip and falls several feet to the damp stone floor of the wall walk. The fall doesn’t hurt—of course—but the news rings loud and harsh in her ears. The murder of the two princes.

It cannot be true.

Philip is no longer coming to marry her.

He and his brother, Edward, are dead.

She must have misunderstood. She needs to go in there and confront them, find out the truth. But even as she thinks that, she realizes how silly it sounds. Aurora, confronting the council? It’s unheard of. In the past she’s made vain attempts to write her thoughts down with ink on vellum, copying the beautiful script found in the books she loves to read. But the council members have only responded with blank, befuddled stares. In fact, most of them are illiterate and find it simply unimaginable that a woman could have taught herself to both read and write.

The murder of the two princes. The words keep repeating themselves, tumbling over one another in her mind even as she scrambles up the tower toward her sister. She wishes once again that she could call out to Isbe. But with no voice, she is left to climb, higher this time, desperate to find her, to convey what she’s heard.

The dome is slick and cold. She reaches the top of the tower and clings to the curved roof, inching her way toward the outer-facing side. She thinks she sees Isbe, just around the—

A gust of wind blows Aurora’s veil into her face. As she tries to shake it free, she senses her shoe has become heavy. It must have soaked up some of the unmelted snow, which means . . .

Her foot slips.

She gasps, her balance giving way, then flails, losing her grip with one hand. Panic flies through her lungs, leaving her mouth in a silent scream.

The murder of the two princes, the wind sings back to her, and she knows. She is going to fall.

A shout pierces the darkness.

Isbe’s face, torch lit, hovers above her. She has firmly caught Aurora’s sleeve and yanked her back against the tower. “Aurora . . . I heard you. I’m here!”

Aurora’s pulse races in her throat. She is shaking, marveling at her sister’s ability to hear even the slightest skid of shoe against ice.

Slowly they move to safety, one chapped hand before the other, until they are just above the wall walk, where Isbe leaps down first and reaches up to assist Aurora, whose heart is still pounding so powerfully she fears she may faint.

But as her dizziness clears, all she can think is what she must communicate to Isbe. The princes.

Both of them. Murdered.

“Oi! What are you doing up here?” Two night guards are approaching.

Aurora frantically tries to grab Isbe’s hand, but the guards rush them from either side and yank them apart.

“Told youse to stay off here!” one guard grumbles.

“Let us go!” Isbe cries as they are both dragged roughly down the steps.

“Escaped yer cage again, eh?” says the other to Aurora. She’s thankful that Isbe can’t see the sneer on his pocked face.

Isbe juts out her chin. “We were just trying to—”

“That’s ’bout enough of that,” one growls as they haul the girls through a passageway, up another set of stairs, and into the king’s tower proper, where they are presented before the twelve gathered councilmen and -women.

“Sorry to barge in. But we caught ’em climbing the towers again. Princess almost took a bad drop,” the older and fatter of the guards says. “This one was scampering up and down like a goat.”

Before Aurora can so much as shake her head in protest, Isbe clears her throat, squeezing Aurora’s hand tight. “He’s right. It was all my fault, not Aurora’s.”

Meanwhile, Jules de Villeroy, the chancellor, tugs at his collar. “This is a most, most inopportune moment.”

Aurora desperately taps into Isbe’s hand. The princes. Dead. Philip’s dead. She can’t tell if her sister has registered the message.

Old hotheaded Humphrey bangs his fist on the arm of his chair. “Dammit! Endangering the princess? At a time like this? I’ve had enough! All of our plans. The whole alliance . . . up in smoke in a moment if something were to—” He cuts himself off and takes a breath. “If we don’t handle that one,” he finishes, pointing fiercely at Isbe, “then I personally will.”