Winter Glass (Spindle Fire #2)(35)

But there are things Aurora can do that the vultures cannot. Malfleur did not just give her a terrifying strength, a sliver of cruelness, but a piece of her own magic. The magic didn’t hurt—not that Aurora had expected it to. But when the magical strength and power flooded through her veins, she could swear she felt something—a pulse of heat, an electrical jolt, a hardening, as though her blood had become a kind of weapon.

Aurora doesn’t know what it all means. She still can’t speak, and can’t feel. She’s human, and not fae, but she senses the way her humanity is shrinking down, day by day, to a tiny burning ember behind her ribs. It’s growing fainter, and she has begun to fear that a slight breeze might blow it out. She might not notice at first, and then she’ll look for it, and it’ll be gone, and then she’ll forget what it was she was looking for. And that’s when she’ll no longer be human at all anymore.

Does it mean she’s becoming like the evil queen herself?

She doesn’t know. She knows only that she has to live, has to hang on to that last shred of herself, because if she can do that, then she can take this curse, or this gift—this power—and use it against Malfleur.

Her trainers tell her that the queen is planning an extravagant event. A grand ball, even in the midst of war. Dignitaries and nobles from across the known world have been invited. Malfleur has a prize to reveal, and Aurora knows that she is the prize. The beautiful experiment.

The experiment that will soon turn on its creator.

She longs for the day when the queen’s neck will be in her hands, her eyes will blink their last, that sneer will turn to a desperate cry, and Aurora will have her heroism—and her revenge.

Then Aurora can return to Isbe and tell her the truth, tell her all of it.

Wren will be free. Heath too, if they ever find him. And all the refugees of Sommeil. All the oppressed citizens of LaMorte. All the captured prisoners of war from Deluce. All the unwilling recruits.

Everything rests on the murder of Malfleur.





14


Isabelle


Everything rests on the strength of Deluce’s army.

Hooves pound the mud-slick royal road, and a heavy rain rattles the roof of the carriage that carries Isabelle and Byrne out to Verrière and the estate of Viscount Olivier. Isbe worries a worn letter in her hands, every jolt in the road setting her nerves on edge.

So far, the list of names Binks gave her, detailing the fae who have a great deal of land and servants, has proven surprisingly useful. She has managed to grow the army’s numbers at an aggressive pace—but has she been aggressive enough?

Deluce’s best spies have continuously reported Queen Malfleur’s lead, not just in men but in arms, just as the Delucian army rides into battle in La Faim, an area just south of here. This, Isbe knows, is where William hopes to strike back and make a serious dent in Malfleur’s forces. The terrain in La Faim is particularly tricky—but Deluce’s army has trained on it and will have a strong advantage. It’s a last-ditch attempt to drive back the worst of the damage, and Isabelle can’t stand how desperate they’ve become.

She feels so foolish for having thought that with the alliance in place, the war would be a sure thing. Deluce and Aubin combined have more than three times the land mass of LaMorte, after all. But LaMorte has very little industry other than its military. Malfleur has been building up to this moment her whole reign, Isbe thinks with a chill. Her evil is moving ever closer, like a dark tide, and the resistance only weakens and weakens.

Still, reinforcements are expected any day. William has been perplexed by the delay—the king of Aubin, his father, is perhaps skeptical of William’s hasty union with Isabelle. But he wouldn’t betray his own son. The Aubinian fleet will come, and when they do, everything will change.

Or so they hope.

Still, Isbe is restless. Her whole body twitches with the need to move. If only this were the type of restlessness that could have been eased by a brisk ride on her favorite mare, seeking out military drills to eavesdrop on, then practicing her stances on Gilbert with sticks instead of swords. It shames her now, the way she used to glamorize war. She spent so much of her youth memorizing the names of every weapon, dreaming up scenarios in which she gallantly saved the day by riding into battle in full armor.

She has survived enough challenges by now to realize the foolhardiness of such a wish. Like so many wishes, nothing good could ever come of it.

“Is something troubling you, Miss Isabelle?” Byrne asks from across the coach.

She startles and then collects herself. “No, Byrne, nothing.”

“I see,” he says. He’s quiet for a moment, but she has begun to learn how to read his silences.

“Well then, what is it you are going to ask?” she pushes.

“Oh, ’tis certain it’s none a’ my business.” He pauses. “I do wonder, though, if there be any other reason you’re keen to meet this viscount. You must be—”

“Must be what?”

“Curious, miss. ’Bout the heirloom.”

Isbe stiffens. “Byrne, there is a war on, in case you haven’t noticed, and men’s lives are at stake. This is no fool’s errand.”

The words, and their falseness, settle in the air between them. Because in her heart of hearts, Isbe knows he’s not wrong. She is curious. The faerie viscount Olivier is a well-known maker of the kingdom’s finest glass. If anyone might have information about her glass slipper, and how Isabelle’s real mother came to possess such a thing, it may be him. But she’s not going to admit that—not to Byrne or to anyone.