Spindle Fire (Spindle Fire #1)(4)
Aurora looks nervously around the room at the council: ten men and two women. The men all have bare, protruding foreheads—the style of the time, though Aurora can’t understand why—and wear high collars and deep frowns. The women, both financial attendants, look as shriveled as the pickled fish Aurora has watched servants eating in the kitchen. She can’t remember a time when these women were young.
These are the men and women who have, over the past four years, become the unwanted surrogate caretakers for her and Isbe. She knows none of them has any true affection for her. She is a mere item to be bartered.
It’s even worse for Isbe, of course. She is no princess, and she will be eighteen soon. So far, despite the council’s best attempts, no one has been interested in marrying the dead king’s blind bastard daughter.
Lord Ferdinand pushes his chair back from the table. Aurora can’t help but notice that the corner of the rotund man’s red robe is stained with either mud or gravy—more likely the latter, given how little he’s known to venture past the castle walls. “With the permission of my fellow councilmen,” Ferdinand says, “I see it fit we pursue our original plans regarding Isabelle immediately.”
“Plans?” Isbe asks as Aurora’s heart starts to beat faster.
“You are to be sent to a convent in the district of Isolé,” says one of the stern old clerics at the back of the room.
“But . . . for how long?” Isbe croaks.
“For the remainder of your life,” says the cleric.
“No!” Isbe tries to lunge forward; however, one of the guards keeps his fat hand around her arm, holding her back.
Aurora feels like she’s been strangled. Isbe. Leaving. Forever. It’s too much. Her knees are beginning to give out. Her sister shouldn’t have said anything. She shouldn’t have opened her big mouth, trying to be brave, trying to protect Aurora, like always.
Look where it’s gotten her now.
Maximilien, one of the younger members and perhaps the kindest of the council despite being the chief of military, nods. “We were going to wait until after the wedding, but we might as well make haste. Aurora’s safety and protection are of utmost importance.”
Aurora doesn’t know whether to be furious or devastated or simply afraid. Isolé lies at the southernmost point of Deluce, near the border of Corraine. That’s miles and miles from the palace!
She fumbles for Isbe’s hand again, but her sister pulls away.
“Why?” she blurts out. “Why are we to be parted if the wedding is no longer happening?” So her palm did understand Aurora’s hasty message.
Maximilien frowns. “I can see you have been listening in where you were not invited. Nevertheless . . .” He turns to Aurora. “You both may as well know that Princes Philip and Edward of Aubin are dead.”
Aurora’s heart plummets into her stomach like a bucket dropped down a well. Hearing it announced so bluntly is even harder the second time.
“I ask again,” Isbe says, jutting out her chin. “How will Aurora marry if the two princes of Aubin are dead?”
“Luckily,” another council member replies, “there is a third.”
4
Isabelle
If human bodies had the firepower of cannons, Isbe is sure her head would have shot off and exploded, scattering burning black ash all over the council. (Aurora has read and described to her the exact mechanics of every type of weapon in Deluce’s royal arsenal, and Isbe often entertains herself by imagining putting them to use.) Her fingertips graze the tapestries and portraits that line the walls as she stomps down the stone corridors, knocking over the Hercules vase in her rush—its nose worn down from years of her touching it. The piece is worth more than the dowry of seven duchesses. She hears it shatter. Good.
Over a century ago, this whole castle was actually the faerie queen Malfleur’s own childhood home. She lived in it with her twin, Belcoeur, otherwise known as the Night Faerie. That was before Malfleur killed the Night Faerie and was assigned rule over the LaMorte territories. There’s even a popular children’s lullaby based on the story. But now ornate columns, thick rugs, and overpungent displays of flowers hide any trace of the palace’s history, which becomes more like myth every day.
Isbe doesn’t even let Aurora catch up to her as she traipses downstairs to her quarters in one of the western wings, not bothering to skip over the creaking seventh stair. She needs to be alone. She needs to think.
And for once, Aurora’s advice, her calm wisdom, simply won’t help.
Isbe knows that it’s not Aurora’s fault. It’s not her fault that she’s the only heir to the throne of Deluce. It’s not her fault the kingdom could be on the verge of war. And it’s not her fault she’s so beautiful and well-behaved and perfect. Aurora is all light. She is fresh-fluffed cream and the smell of a spring bulb’s first shoots pricking up through the earth, while Isbe has always been the expendable one, all anger and elbow, odd as a goose’s honk.
For years the council has treated her no better than a glorified servant—any kindness she has received has been at Aurora’s insistence. Isbe is the troublemaker, good for nothing except to serve as a companion for her younger sister. And now, apparently not even good for that. The truth that Isbe is simply no longer needed—by Aurora or by anyone—cuts into her, savage as claws.