Spindle Fire (Spindle Fire #1)(65)
Which is how Isbe and William have come to find themselves in yet another secret chamber within the estate of a very rich noblewoman—and a faerie, at that. They were surprised at first to learn that Almandine’s home was a stop on the Veiled Road. They had, perhaps naively, assumed that much of the faerie population supported Malfleur, if for no other reason than the fact that they feared her retaliation if they didn’t. Then again, Almandine herself might simply have no knowledge that her servants are part of the anti-LaMorte resistance.
Beads of sweat drip down Isbe’s back.
“In all seriousness, Isabelle,” William says quietly; he seems to have noticed her mood darkening. “I may have many privileges, as a royal, and as a male. But I am not free to do whatever I would wish. I am not free, for example, to choose whom I marry—or to marry for love.”
The silence after his words is heavy. “I’m not sure what you mean,” Isbe finally responds. “You agreed to come with me. You agreed to marry Aurora. For the alliance. That was absolutely your choice. And . . .” She takes a breath, finding herself sick to her stomach to have to repeat this once again. “You will fall in love with her when you see her.”
And then the two of them will have the true love that is destined to undo the curse. This is the wild hope, like a hand in the dark, to which Isbe has been clinging ever since she and Gilbert left Binks’s study, which seems like it occurred in a former lifetime but was actually less than a fortnight ago.
William hesitates before responding. Isbe realizes that every time he pauses, every time he takes a breath, she unconsciously holds hers in, waiting. And when his words come, they rush to her, convincing and taut as a harpoon’s line, their point snagging her in the heart and pulling, pulling. . . . “Tell me something else about her,” William says.
Isbe leans against the wall, its cool, damp marble providing small relief to the overwhelming heat.
She can’t help it. She doesn’t want to talk about Aurora—not in this moment, not when she can feel the intensity of the prince’s gaze on her skin; not when the steam is wrapping itself around her senses, making her emotions slick and difficult to hold in, like if she lets her guard down for even a second, some secret truth may slip out that she’ll forever regret.
And yet the details pour out of her—because some parts of us never change. Some facts are inalterable. You cannot crack open Isbe’s heart without releasing the purest form of love she knows: her love for her sister.
She tells him about her favorite childhood memories, their secret language, the hidden passageway connecting their bedrooms, the snow sculptures and the games of make-believe, the stories they told each other, the tricks they played on the stuffiest of council members.
She even tells him some of the darker memories: how Queen Amélie used to scorn Isbe, sometimes refused to let her sit at the dinner table with the rest of the royal family, slapped her hands and face when she disobeyed her nurses, and found elaborate—almost hilarious—ways to place blame on her for absolutely everything, from the grand hall getting too drafty in winter to the beets being stewed too long, to King Henri withholding his affection from her (because, the queen argued, Isabelle reminded him of his former love—an absurd claim, when everyone knew he had countless flings, all meaningless and disposable, prior to marrying the queen).
And how, amid all this, Aurora would sneak Isbe treats from the kitchen when she was sent to bed without supper, or bring thick feather-stuffed blankets from her room when the frigid air coming off the strait snuck under the doorframe and chilled her bones. Though she couldn’t stand up for Isbe by speaking, Aurora found countless ways big and small to remind Isbe that she did matter. Whatever happened, however hard things got, Isbe always knew that Aurora was there for her.
Isbe doesn’t notice the wetness at the corner of her eyes until she feels the heat of the sauna increase as William leans closer, his fingers grazing her cheek, wiping a tear away.
“Isabelle,” he says softly.
And just as quickly, she is shot forward from the past into the now. The memories burn off, and she can only think of how close the prince is, how steady and calm his voice is, how his fingers dance across her skin—not at all in the awkward, mechanical way he claims to play the harpsichord, but freely, as though he’s reading her expression the way she has read Gilbert’s and Aurora’s for years. He has moved to sit beside her on the same bench, and she’s uncomfortably aware of the fact that he is bare-chested. This man who teases her but also takes her so seriously . . .
This man who calls her by her full name.
This man who somehow blots out all reason, who makes her almost forget all of the impossible walls between them: Aurora. Gilbert. Status and rank and her formerly stalwart loathing for all things romantic. Not to mention the fate of both their kingdoms.
This prince who is not hers to fall for.
“Yes?” she says, to fill the space between them. She realizes now why she is always in such suspense when he speaks. It’s because he never finished saying what he wanted to tell her back when they were captured by Malfleur’s soldiers and thrown into the carriage bound for LaMorte. In the days that have passed since, he hasn’t brought it up.
“What if there’s another way to establish the alliance?” he asks hoarsely.
“Another way?”
“Please.” He puts his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t pretend to misunderstand me.”