Winter Glass (Spindle Fire #2)(46)

“Someone . . . else?” Wren asks.

Binks looks between Wren and Violette. “A descendant,” he says slowly. Confidence dawns on his face, and he nods. “A descendant,” he repeats.

He stands up and begins to pace, his footsteps click-clacking through the ballroom. Wren notices he is wearing heels. The fae seem to care a great deal about appearances—though the result is not that any of them are at all pleasing to behold.

“But—what does this mean for me? Can you amend the curse?” she asks, turning her attention back to Violette.

Violette plays with her hands. “I . . . I . . . Why, perhaps I can! Of course! I’m quite sure that I can!”

“Violette,” Binks warns.

But thankfully, she doesn’t heed him. Instead, she ruffles herself up taller, like a posturing bird. She seems to concentrate very hard and then, as if with great labor, she forms the words.

“To the blood of Belcoeur you will remain bound, never to fly free, your bond as firm as the stone you’re already starting to become . . . until . . .” She pauses, and Wren isn’t sure whether it’s for flourish or to make up her mind about something. Violette scrunches her brow. “Until true love softens the stone back into flesh and bone.”

A strange tingling sensation showers over Wren, making her dizzy.

She sits back down in her seat in the silence that follows Violette’s pronouncement, but Binks shifts uncomfortably and pulls at his collar as though it’s all he can do not to snort.

Until true love softens the stone back into flesh and bone.

A million thoughts swirl through Wren’s head at once. She sinks farther back in her chair. True love. Does the woman even know of what she speaks? The amended curse is essentially the exact same one Violette performed for the baby Aurora sixteen years ago—and though it came to pass somewhat as she’d said it would, it certainly wasn’t by any magic of her doing, or any awareness of her own. It hadn’t even been actual true love that had awakened Aurora, but Charles Blackthorn’s crown, affectionately dubbed True Love by the mad queen Belcoeur—a fact Violette couldn’t possibly have known.

Does true love exist at all, or had the very lie of it been at the heart of Violette’s words, and the reason they came about in such a strange and twisted fashion?

What could this possibly mean for Wren—and how can it save her?

Binks snickers.

Wren doesn’t have the will even to glare at him. She is too heartbroken by the despair that has quickly settled in her heart. What if there truly is no way to save herself? Maybe she has come to the end of the road. Maybe . . .

“My man will see you out,” Violette announces, turning back to the mirror.

With slumped shoulders, Wren begins to follow the butler out of the room and down the hall. With a click-clack of his shoes, Binks follows them both.

It is only once they are outside and the door has slammed at their backs that Binks suddenly grabs Wren’s arm.

With a gasp, she turns to face him, sunlight dancing off the yellowed snags in his teeth, many of them, she can now see, filled with gold. His hands, though chubby and laden with an ostentatious amount of rings, are surprisingly strong.

“Let go of me.”

“Perhaps we can help each other after all,” Binks says. He lets go and she shudders, suddenly realizing something. . . .

“What were you doing here in the first place?” Wren asks. “You came when I did and now you’re leaving with me and you didn’t share your private business with Violette. Why?”

Binks grins. “After hearing your pitiful tale of woe, I suppose I saw a better opportunity.”

He pauses, but Wren only stares at him, waiting for him to explain. He leads her down the path and then across the yard into a dense cluster of trees. He looks cautiously over his shoulders as though even the young oaks might be listening. Then he whispers, “Have you ever heard the tale of the Hart Slayer?”

Wren stares at him.

He huffs impatiently. “The hunter who disobeyed the king and delivered his killings to the poor. No? Doesn’t ring a bell?”

Wren shakes her head, wondering where this is going.

“Some of us fae had a little theory all these years.”

“A theory,” Wren repeats.

“Yes, yes. A theory.”

“About the Hart Slayer?”

“Why, yes, obviously, about the Hart Slayer.”

“Which is . . . ?” Now she is the one beginning to lose her patience.

“Well, you see, it was said the Hart Slayer had a gift. That everywhere he hunted, purple flowers would sprout up under his feet. The royal forest grew rich with the bright-petaled things. They were almost like his signature—a hint that he’d been lurking about, doing, you know, whatever it is he did. Hunt and all that.” Binks waves a hand as though he has never quite been sure what hunting involves. “He liked the harts best.”

“Hence the name,” Wren says, desperately trying not to roll her eyes. “What are you getting at?”

“Purple flowers. Purple flowers!”

She shakes her head. Whatever he’s implying, it’s not apparent to her.

“Well.” He sighs. “Some of us—myself, Claudine, and Violette included—came to suspect the Hart Slayer might bear some relation to Belcoeur. After all, both were known for having a way with the natural world and, in particular, that type of flower. Don’t you see?”