Spindle Fire (Spindle Fire #1)(80)
Isbe convinced him they needed to find someplace to hide out while they came up with a new plan to lift the curse. Certainly it wasn’t safe to stay put—the risk of disease was in the air, and the castle was unguarded. Nor was it wise to attempt further travel. Even the Veiled Road would be dangerous with Malfleur’s organized forces now on the move. Time was ticking, and with every minute of daylight the threat of discovery grew.
The idea to find someplace upwind of the vines came first, and then the solution was natural, for there is only one thing separating the castle from the southerly winds that blow off the strait, and that’s the cliff face. For years now they have housed the royal family’s stores of wine—barrels and barrels of it—in caverns built directly into the sides of the cliffs. Apparently the darkness and temperature are ideal for preserving the wine’s value. But they will also be ideal for eluding the dangerous fumes of the sleeping sickness and the detection of potential invaders.
The rope ladder is tricky to handle, typically used only by experienced stewards of the royal household, or on rare occasions the pantler or butler. The drop if they should fall is deadly. Next to the ladder dangles a series of pulleys and levers that convey the casks up and down as needed. The contraption clanks noisily beside Isbe, rattling her nerves.
William, who has gone before her, finally reaches out to help her into the entrance of the cavern. The blustery wind all around them drowns out her relieved sigh. She hears the scratchy snap of the flint followed by the sizzle of the lantern being lit, and the bitter cold subsides somewhat as they make their way deeper into the wine room—especially once they hang the thick velvet curtain they brought and decide it’s safe to remove their masks. Isbe heaves in a huge breath, inhaling the cool musk of grapes and oaken casks.
“Isabelle.” William touches her elbow, and she sucks in another breath. He still has that lime-soap smell—or maybe she’s only remembering it, that not quite sweetness.
She turns to face him but takes a step back so that they are no longer touching. “You can call me Isbe, you know. That’s what Aurora and Gi— That’s what everyone else calls me.”
She’s not sure why she’s decided to tell him her nickname now, of all times. Maybe it’s being home at last that’s made her realize he needs to understand who she really is, her true role. She’s the bastard. The trouble underfoot. The sister. The thorn.
“No,” he replies, and a little shock moves through her—a good kind of shock. “I prefer to call you Isabelle. It’s who you are to me now.” He’s so resolute and so certain, even if he is contradicting her wishes. . . . Maybe she doesn’t mind. Maybe she’s relieved, having come to savor the natural way her name rocks across his tongue and lips.
Maybe, even, he’s right. She’s begun to think of herself that way too.
“All right, then,” she says, turning away to hide the heat in her cheeks. “I was just going to unpack these.” She gestures to the small bundle of scraps they managed to forage from the pantry, navigating around the cold, snoring bodies of the local peasants who had attempted to raid it before them. “I think this should be enough to last a few days.”
“A few days? How long do you intend for us to hide out here?” There’s urgency in his voice.
“Just until we can decide on another way to try lifting the curse. I’m thinking we need to get into contact with the faerie duchess Violette, if we can find her. I remember Binks said—”
“Wait.” William clears his throat. “Listen. I want to keep you safe. To keep us safe. But what we need to do right now is mobilize our troops in order to protect the kingdoms; we need weapons and a military strategy, and we can’t do any of that from a wine cave.”
“We can’t do any of that anyway unless we wake up Aurora and the council,” Isabelle counters, starting to feel exasperated. “We need to lift the curse first.”
“There’s no time for that! I agreed to come out here to the cliffs with you so we could strategize—not stick our heads in the sand. And yes, Isabelle, before you interrupt me, we can do it without lifting the curse.” William’s hands are on her shoulders. This time she doesn’t pull away.
“How?” she asks.
“Simple. You authorize the Delucian troops to gather in my kingdom and receive my weapons. You coordinate the safe transfer of oil to Aubin while I send word to the chief of military back home to prepare for battle. We issue masks to anyone who needs to come within an unsafe proximity to the palace. Don’t you see? We don’t need your sister for any of it. Right now all we need is information we can easily dig up around the castle . . . supply stores and trade routes and—”
“So you’re saying we should just leave Aurora as she is. Asleep. Forever.”
“I’m saying that right now you may have to choose.” He steps closer to her, still touching her. “You can try saving your sister, or you can try saving your kingdom. Neither are guarantees, but it has to be one or the other. We’re at the end, Isabelle. And I need to know where you stand.”
The smell of wine in the room is so strong. It must be, for it is making her feel hot, intoxicated, fuzzy. Choose? But she can’t choose. That’s not fair. That’s not in her power.
“And,” he goes on, stepping even closer until she can feel the heat of his body just a few fingers’ breadth from her own. “If we must make the alliance official . . .”