Winter Glass (Spindle Fire #2)(58)

That the child’s tithe was innocence seemed obvious to Malfleur. It was the unborn child that caused the problem with Malfleur’s attempt at transference—and the North Faerie’s death. A kind of unexpected magical interference. But there had been a surprising benefit, which was that Malfleur inherited not the unborn baby’s innocence itself, so much as the ability to tithe it from others, to make others hard, and to make herself immune to feelings of guilt.

That immunity to guilt has come in handy. She’s done a lot that one could feel guilty about.

At her nod, guards reel up the curtain, and the blazing glow of hundreds of chandeliers bearing thousands of glimmering crystals greets her eyes. As she steps out into the light, she thinks how solitary a life she has led these many years. It’s been a long time since she’s thrown a ball.

And, of course, this isn’t just any ball.

It’s a wedding.

Prince Edward smiles vacantly at her as she meets him at the top of the mezzanine. He is the least handsome of his brothers, has the same dark Aubinian complexion, the same high-ridged cheeks and square jaw that run in his family, though they seem a bit lopsided and harsh on his face, which matches the tenor of his personality. But never mind that—she’s certainly not wedding him for either looks or charm.

They walk down the stairs arm in arm. Around them, nobles from across the land gather closer, their shining silk and velvet dresses and formal suits creating a vast sea of color. She hears a gasp ripple through the crowd as people begin to recognize Edward—the middle brother. It is like a resurrection. He and his brother Philip have been presumed dead since their carriage was ambushed on its way to deliver Prince Philip to the Delucian council, to marry Aurora.

Of course no one knew that the ambush had been staged by one of the brothers. Edward had resented Philip’s intended alliance with Deluce and wanted to ally himself with someone even greater. Malfleur has never been interested in marriage, but she could not pass up the opportunity to thwart the Delucian council—and everyone’s expectations.

She has been waiting to reveal her plans for Edward until she could secure her control over the Aubinian military.

But no one here knows that, and the looks of shock on their faces send a thrill of satisfaction through Malfleur’s veins. She feels awake, alert, alive. Waiters dart through the room carrying silver trays of briar wine, a deep and sparkling burgundy. The room quiets as Malfleur lifts her veil and then raises her glass to make a toast.

“Thank you all for being here to celebrate this auspicious union between the great territories of LaMorte and the kingdom of Aubin.”

Glasses clink and murmurs spread as her guests decide what to make of this news. She beams with pride. Edward has made a docile, if boring, puppet. But he cannot compare to her special pet, her grandest experiment yet. . . .

Briefly, she touches the side of her neck. The wound has already begun to heal nicely, and is mostly obscured by the veil. Still, its warmth fills her not with anger but excitement. When her feat is made public—when they all see how great her power is, that even Deluce’s pride and joy, their golden-haired beauty, their innocent princess, has come under the spell of Malfleur’s greatness—well, then she will have truly won.

This is not a war for land, but for hearts and minds. Revealing Aurora will be the final play, decimating any remaining support for the princess, or her wild half sister, or the pathetic and limping council.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I have something I would like to share with you all,” Malfleur announces above the din of the crowd.

She signals to several Vultures standing guard by a back entrance. But they do not move to open the doors.

Frustrated, she marches over to them, and one tilts his head, silently suggesting they speak in private. She pushes him through the doors into a deserted stone atrium. “What’s going on?” she spits.

“My apologies . . . your . . . Your Majesty. We have a problem.”

The word sinks like a stone in her chest.

“The cage is . . . empty.”

“Empty?” Malfleur practically roars, pushing past the Vulture and down the wide torch-lit hallway. Several other guards join them, each attempting to mutter an explanation or to stop her, but Malfleur marches all the way to the wing of the castle where Aurora’s cage is kept. She can see before she gets there that it is indeed empty—and the door is swinging open.

Aurora did not escape, then. Someone freed her.

There’s something on the ground inside the cage. “Retrieve that,” she says, pointing.

One of the Vultures hurries to obey her command and hands her a piece of vellum, hastily written on in blood.

True love, is all it says.





25


Vulture


True love. When he first saw the note, he didn’t know what to make of it. It didn’t immediately unleash a torrent of memories—that would come later. For now it simply tickled awake a minuscule feeling, like a new leaf unfolding. A dim recognition. The flap of vellum wavered in his big, clumsy hands like the flag of some forgotten country.

He doesn’t know how to read, but it wasn’t the words that caused a slow fissure in his consciousness, as though waking him up from a deep sleep. It was the letter itself, the way it was folded and left in the pages of the book. The feeling of receiving the note, knowing he would be unable to decipher it, but sensing that it meant something very important. . . .