Winter Glass (Spindle Fire #2)(8)

Maximilien nods his permission. “Medical supplies.”

Several of them hurry away down the east wing, and she hopes they’ll return quickly with bandages and salves. She’s still reeling, though. Wren. Helen. The other servants from Blackthorn, in Sommeil. They’re all here.

“Your Highness,” one of the men says. “We need your help.”

But . . . how? Aurora’s hands tremble.

“I don’t understand it myself,” the man—Jack, she remembers—explains. “One moment we were fleeing the flames in Sommeil, and the next, we heard the high wail of the queen. Belcouer . . . she’s, she’s dead. And then . . .” He trails off, clearly registering what must be a look of unfathomable shock on Aurora’s face.

Everyone else in the room is staring at her, and Isbe has her head cocked at an angle, just as puzzled as the others.

“Are you all right, Princess?” Prince William asks, leaving Isbe’s side and striding toward her.

I’m fine, she thinks. Just completely confused.

“We’re as confused as you are,” Jack responds easily, as though he has heard Aurora’s thoughts.

But that’s impossible. Aurora brings her fingers to her lips, which, she’s surprised to realize, are moving automatically with her thoughts. No one can hear me.

Now it’s Jack’s turn to look bewildered. “Why not?”

Because I have no . . .

She stops.

“What’s going on?” Isbe demands.

Maximilien’s face is pale with suspicion.

But exhilaration is beating through Aurora’s chest. It’s as though someone has punctured a hole through the top of the invisible coffin she’d been thrown into before, and with it pours in light, and air, and the possibility of escape.

Everything happens in a flurry of activity then. Prince William tries to get more answers out of the newcomers, but Aurora is quick to grab Isbe’s hand and inform her that she knows these people, that she must learn more about the collapse of their world. She commands that they free Wren, and the guard, begrudgingly, lets her go.

Wren practically collapses onto the ground from weakness, and Aurora runs to her, helping her to stand.

Wren pushes her away. It’s not the force that startles Aurora but the coldness of Wren’s hands, the bruised feeling in her chest where the girl made contact with her. Touch.

“Please,” Aurora mouths, testing her voice. None of the others—Isbe, William, Maximilien, or the servants—seems to notice, but Wren turns to her. “Please, Wren. I’m sorry. I want to help.”

“We’ve had enough of your help,” she practically spits.

The irony stings. Something has obviously happened to Sommeil—the fire there has leached into this world and freed its inhabitants—but they can still understand Aurora. It’s as though the faerie tithes on her have no effect among those from the dream world, even here. But Wren resents her, blames her, maybe even hates her. She could have been a friend, should have been, might be one of the few people with whom Aurora can freely speak. But Aurora ruined everything, allowed her home to be destroyed.

“Please, let me talk to you. Let me understand what has happened,” she insists. She turns again to Isbe, tapping so rapidly her fingers nearly seize.

Isbe relays her thoughts to the prince, who agrees to let Wren and Aurora speak privately. “My future wife,” he says to the rest, “must be trusted to conduct her own business. And if she trusts these people, then I do too.” The word “wife” sends an unpleasant zing through Aurora.

Meanwhile, servants return with medical care for the injured. The men are found rooms; Helen is given a guest bedroom in the west wing and a nursemaid to tend to her. Soldiers are immediately sent out to investigate the fire in the royal forest, and Aurora has half a mind to join them, but she hangs back, eager to speak with Wren, to convince her she’s on her side.

Back in her room, she hastily clears all the scattered wedding wreaths and garlands—they seem but the playthings of a child now—while a servant draws Wren a bath behind a folding screen.

Once the girl has been fed and bathed and has borrowed a sleeping robe, Aurora runs her eyes over Wren, taking in her slightly shaking hands. Her bottom lip has a tiny cut, beginning to scab. Aurora can see the fear in her eyes, the emotion welling up. She looks like she hasn’t slept in days. Aurora is eager to talk to her—to talk again, period. But Wren lets out a trembling cough. She’s so frail.

I think, Aurora starts, that you should rest. She forces herself not to touch her own lips again as she speaks, but it’s clear Wren has heard her. She gestures to her bed.

Wren flushes. “This is your room? I couldn’t. I won’t. I’d rather sleep outside on the grass.”

Behind the fierce stubbornness of her words, the girl is shaking. She looks so weak, but her anger burns bright.

“I won’t sleep tonight anyway,” Aurora insists. The questions feel like they are going to burst out of her skin, tearing her flesh apart.

“Neither will I. Who is your head of military? I must speak to him. Whoever is in charge. They have to fix this, they have to—” Here she collapses onto the bed, her face in her hands, trembling, though with tears of fear or sadness or fury Aurora isn’t sure. Maybe all three.

Aurora sits beside Wren on the bed and puts her arm around her, feeling the way Wren vibrates with emotion. It radiates out to her, until she too feels upset and distraught. Wren doesn’t shake her off.