Winter Glass (Spindle Fire #2)(37)

“And do you not see that possibility of wholeness for our kingdom, Viscount?” He doesn’t respond, so she goes on. “Deluce is divided. This is not a matter of argument. The question is whether we have a shared faith in uniting once again, in defending ourselves from a much greater foe than that of our differences.”

“Differences?” There’s a hint of amusement in Olivier’s voice. “Is that what you call them?”

Isbe feels cold creep along her skin despite the heat of the glasshouse. “What do you mean?”

“You must know of your reputation. Many Delucians do not support your rule. They call you the Bastard Queen, or sometimes, the Imposter.”

Isbe tries not to flinch. Of course she knows these things, but hearing the words still hurts. “And is that what you think too?”

“It is not my opinion that matters, but the opinion of the peasantry. They are the majority, after all.”

“So they are, and that is why I need them to fight for Deluce. Whether they support me or not, they must understand that their safety and their way of life are at stake.”

“You use words well, Highness. I am impressed.”

“Does this mean you agree to help me?”

He pauses, as if thinking. “Perhaps I might spare a few men to your cause.”

Her chest flutters in triumph. “Our cause,” she corrects.

“Indeed.” He takes her hand to shake it. But as she begins to pull away, he clings to her. “Highness.” Suddenly his voice sounds insistent. Alarm rings through her. “If I may . . . I would love to behold the glass slipper. I’ve heard tell of its incredible durability, and I would like to see it for myself.”

She starts to resist. The glass slipper isn’t just the last relic of her mother. It has also become a symbol of her campaign—it is special, unusual, and unbreakable. In every town she visits, it seems that everyone, whether they support Isabelle or not, has heard about it. In her speeches, she holds up the slipper and talks about how it belonged to her mother. How she never knew her mother. How her mother was a peasant, just like them. The slipper has become, in a way, a symbol of Isabelle’s humanity. A reason the people should trust her.

But then she thinks of William. Everything in her life has come down to numbers: How many more troops can she send his way before the week is out? One hundred? Even three hundred?

“Fine,” she says. “You may take a look.” Her heart stutters as she removes the slipper from its velvet case and holds it out toward the viscount, noting the softness of his hands—delicate.

One night so mild. The lullaby from her mother dreams sings quietly at the back of her mind.

“So this is the famous item with which you have wooed so many a gullible Delucian peasant. I wonder, though. Can it really be unbreakable?” he whispers.

“No amount of pressure seems to shatter it.” She shifts uncomfortably.

“The clarity is remarkable, as well,” Olivier observes, almost to himself. “It reminds me of something. An old, old tale. Of the Hart Slayer, and his glass arrows.”

The Hart Slayer. The name stirs a dim memory—she’s heard the epic poem before, but doesn’t recall anything about him having arrows made of glass. All she knows is that he was supposedly a talented hunter, famous for crossing King Henri by picking off harts in the royal forest, even though the king had made it illegal for anyone to hunt them other than himself. If Aurora were here, she’d surely know about it.

Isabelle is about to ask Olivier more when Byrne clambers over to them, along with a stranger who smells of dust and saddle.

“Tell them what you told me,” Byrne demands.

“Many wounded,” the man says, breathless. He must be a messenger. “In La Faim. Troops forced to retreat.”

Isbe’s heart catches in her throat. “William. Is the prince all right? What has happened to the prince?” Sometimes she forgets to call him “king”—her king.

“He lives, Highness. But La Faim is the greatest loss we’ve seen so far. Too many fallen to count—”

He continues talking, but Isbe’s ears have begun to burn with panic. “I have to see him,” she says. “Take me to William.”

“That would not be advised at this—”

“Or I will find my way there myself!” she says, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Your Highness,” the viscount chimes in. He takes her hand and places the slipper back into her palm. “Before you go, I must tell you something.” His voice drops into a whisper only she can hear. “This isn’t made of forest glass at all. If I’m not mistaken, it is made of winter glass.”

Her hands shake as she slides the slipper back into its bag and fastens it safely to her belt again. “And what is winter glass?” she snaps impatiently. William could be injured. What would this whole trip to Verrière matter then? What do more troops matter if they lose their commander? What does anything matter if she loses him?

But Viscount Olivier seems immune to her urgency. “A misnomer,” he answers slowly. She pauses at his curious tone of voice. “Winter glass isn’t glass at all,” he explains. “It’s ice.”





15


Aurora


Aurora’s blood races through her veins as one of her masked trainers takes her out into the fields. She wonders what her next challenge will be, and shakes with the horror of how much she wants it. Anticipation makes her jaw tense, her teeth tingle. She has already completed a number of challenges, like causing streams to freeze, trees to die at the root, birds to fall midflight from the sky—all by wishing it, by feeling the desire for death move through her and out.