Spindle Fire (Spindle Fire #1)(47)

One night so mild. “It’s the rose lullaby,” Aurora says . . . but the way it starts is One night reviled. “Where did you learn that?”

Marigold shrugs again. “I didn’t learn it. We made it up.”

“You—but—” Aurora stares at her. Everyone knows the lullaby is about Malfleur and Belcoeur. The shadow and the child . . . Who is this girl? “Marigold,” she says, squatting down. She wraps her hands around the girl’s arms, gently but firmly. “Do you . . . do you have a sister?”

Marigold cocks her head and thinks for a second. Then she nods. But as she nods, she once again begins to change, morph, fade—like a flame guttering. Even her arms seem like they are turning into ether under Aurora’s touch. She yanks her fingers away, unexpectedly scalded. Her fingertips have been burned pink.

“Marigold,” she blurts out, startled. But the girl is ghosting into nothingness before her eyes. “Marigold!”

“Daisy Daisy Daisy,” the girl sings, her voice faltering. “Daisy is as Daisy does.”

“Who are you?”

“Mari’s a falcon, Daisy’s a dove. One of us is flying high, high above,” the girl says, pointing to the sky.

Aurora squints up and sees a bird careering through amber ribbons of light and shadow. Night is approaching hungrily, rising up from the horizon like a dark tide. The bird darts into it, consumed.

When Aurora turns back, the girl has vanished.

On the ground where she stood lies the floral crown.





22


Isabelle


Isbe’s good mood has soured quickly. She actually felt restored after her much-needed bath and having slept in a bed just as thick and soft as the ones in the palace where she grew up, even if her dreams were marred by a haunting melody equal parts whale song and lullaby. Even if she’d been up half the night contemplating how best to convince the prince to help her.

She’d slept in his private guest quarters and been awakened by Elise. When she inquired about the prince, however, the maid told her that he’d gone for an early ride. “He enjoys getting out while the sun is just rising,” the woman had said fondly.

Off on a riding excursion? When they’ve only just agreed that the safety of both their kingdoms is at stake?

That was more than an hour ago. Isbe is still pacing and exploring the room, tense as an arbalest about to loose its bolt, when the maid returns again and clears her throat. Isbe whips around to face her.

“The prince has asked that you wait for him in the music chamber,” she announces. She leads Isbe down a corridor, then up a wide, winding staircase to a room flooded with the warmth of sunlight from every direction. A tower room, then.

Curious, Isbe feels her way around the room after the maid leaves her there. She wonders if the prince himself is fond of playing instruments.

Her fingers trace over the keys of a clavichord. Her sister knows how to play both the clavichord and harpsichord beautifully. Isbe, on the other hand, never had the patience for it, though she enjoys listening. Maybe this is a sign that William will make the perfect husband for Aurora. Maybe her plan will work.

“Do you believe in natural talent?” the prince asks, entering the room on a draft of fresh air. He smells like lime and saddle. The latter reminds her of Gilbert.

Isbe turns toward him. “I believe in a lack thereof.”

He laughs his curt laugh. “Exactly. I’d like to think we aren’t born one way or another—that one can become accomplished at anything with enough practice. But that has not been the case with me and stringed instruments, despite devoting many hours a week to the cause.”

So perhaps he won’t be wooing Aurora by song any time soon, she thinks.

“It’s as though my hands are somehow too . . . literal,” he explains, his footsteps on the marble floor echoing closer. “I can play the notes, in roughly the correct rhythm, but the music lacks . . . whatever it is that makes music enjoyable.”

“Flow. Ease,” Isbe replies, recalling the many times her sister has played, and the way the music transported her. “The feeling that the sound has sprung up spontaneously from some natural source.”

“Precisely. Let me show you something,” he says, offering her his arm.

Isbe allows the prince to guide her to a corner of the room and seat her in a chair facing a small round table. She puts out her hands to feel what’s on the surface. There are small items arranged like a chess set, made from something smooth and cold—possibly ivory. Narwhal tusk, she thinks.

“It’s a model,” William explains. He sits on the other side of the table and places her hands delicately on one piece at a time.

“These are our warships. This is our cavalry.” The objects are beautifully and intricately carved. Each rider has a horse and each horse has a mane that blows slightly differently in an invisible breeze.

“Did you make these?” she asks in wonder.

“I did. And this,” he adds. “This is something I’ve been working on.” He guides her hand over a small item, oblong and angled.

“What is it?”

“A cannon. But not just any cannon. This one contains missiles filled with oil. It’s more dangerous, but more effective, because it spreads fire more rapidly across enemy lines.”