It’s not gone. Just lost. I can ask Kieran to find it with his magic.
But these thoughts don’t stop my heart from thudding inside my chest. They don’t help me stop thinking about what else I might have to let go.
The news is blaring when I step into the master bedroom—reporting about the riots which grew out of last night’s bonfires. Crowds like the one which hunted me down that night on Westminster Bridge started roaming the streets, shattering store windows, cornering redheads and anyone who looks immortal. Suddenly I’m glad Anabelle made us leave the bonfire when she did.
The princess sits on the floor, opposite Kieran. She’s staring at him so intently I wonder if she even hears the television at all.
I feel magic searing off both of them. Kieran whispers and the flame sparks to life in his hand. Anabelle returns the word and fire flutters up in her palms. She squeals, delighted. The flames lick as high as her voice.
“Excellent!” Kieran smiles, a grin so wide and true it’s startling. The fire in his own hands dies. He only has eyes for the princess.
I step farther into the room and his smile vanishes. He shifts away from where Anabelle is crouched, eyes snapping straight to me. The princess looks over her shoulder, flame forgotten.
“Emrys? Your hair looks so . . . different. It’s pretty!” she adds quickly, as if she’s afraid she’s offended me. “It’s just going to take some getting used to.”
“Black suits you,” Kieran says.
“It was my only choice,” I tell him and nod at the spell-fire still wavering in Anabelle’s hand. “I thought we agreed I would teach you magic.”
Her palm curls shut, squeezes the fire out. She brushes sparks off against the sleeve of her hoodie. “Kieran was just showing me a few tricks. That’s all. Nothing big. There’s no harm in it.”
I grit my teeth. We don’t need another fight. Not with all the magic charging the air.
“She’s a quick learner,” Kieran offers. “I simply wanted to show her the basics. The foundation of the spell. I didn’t expect she’d actually work it.”
I’m surprised she was able to imitate the Ad-hene’s spells at all. “Just . . . be careful. Humans’ magic is different.”
“So you say.” The Ad-hene crosses his arms. “The princess tells me you think it’s a mortal who orchestrated this attack on the king. One who wields magic.”
I bite my lip. Glance back at Anabelle. She’s shoved her hands in her pockets. I hadn’t exactly planned on sharing the theory with Kieran. Not until I’d thought it through. “It’s a suspicion.”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
My eyebrows fly up. “Perhaps? Are you telling me there’s a possibility a mortal was kept in the Labyrinth for centuries and none of the Ad-hene noticed?”
Kieran shrugs. “As Alistair said, it was Queen Mab’s wish that we ignore the prisoners in that corridor. Let them be forgotten.”
“That’s awful!” Anabelle gasps. “Trapping people for eternity? With no parole?”
The Ad-hene gazes at her with eyes like the sea—vast yet swallowing. Beautiful danger. “Parole?”
“It’s . . .” Anabelle’s nose wrinkles as she searches for the perfect word. “A second chance. A fresh start.”
“No.” The Ad-hene’s voice cracks. “Queen Mab offered no paroles. No mercy.”
I don’t take my eyes off Kieran. “You knew who Guinevere was. You knew she was different.”
“The only reason we singled out Guinevere was because she possessed no magic at all. An oddity none of the other Labyrinth’s inhabitants shared. If the prisoner was a mortal, they hid it well.”
A sudden flash of the television catches my attention. Ice-core eyes meet mine. They’re so real, so sharp, it takes me a moment to register that they aren’t actually in the room. Julian Forsythe stands in front of a bouquet of microphones, his face growing a shade paler with every camera flash.
The news channel’s somber narrator speaks over the scene. “Despite promises of a self-sustaining energy utopia, the immortal integration movement is quickly losing support in the wake of King Richard’s disappearance. Fringe parties such as the M.A.F. have swelled dramatically in just a matter of days—attracting the endorsements of public figures such as Queen Cecilia herself.”
“Oh, Mum,” Anabelle murmurs.
The narrator goes on. “Julian Forsythe’s November fifth press conference drew in thousands, despite many Londoners’ newfound fear of venturing into the streets.”
The camera pans out to the crowd. A tight pack of bodies and signs. Some of the cardboard protests are the exact same I saw that night on Westminster Bridge. GO BACK TO HELL, MONSTERS! and DON’T DRAG US BACK TO THE DARK AGES, and so many others. I scan the shot for black ski masks, but there are none.
Julian Forsythe’s face fills the screen again. Handsome and grim as he addresses the crowd: “The facts are plain and simple: as long as these monsters lie among us, we are not safe. Men and women should not have to be terrified every time they step out their doors. It’s time for mortals to band together and take a stand. We must show these beasts that we are not weak. We are not fodder.”
Julian Forsythe raises his fist and the crowd lets out a thunderous roar.
So much for common goals.
The newscaster talks over the spectators’ cheers. “Julian Forsythe is among the many calling for a motion of no confidence against the current government. If this motion were to pass, Lord Winfred’s Parliament would dissolve and emergency elections would take place. The current prime minister has yet to hold any press conference or comment on the king’s disappearance.”
“Funny.” Anabelle walks up to the screen, points at the politician’s bared wrist. “I never knew he had a tattoo.”
I catch a glimpse of ink tails poking out of his sleeve before the shot focuses in on the young politician’s brilliant eyes. He’s looking out over the crowd the same way he studied the yellow flower on the yacht. With sharp, unmistakable intent.
That unreal blue pierces through the screen, through me. I would remember those eyes . . . wouldn’t I? Even from as long ago as the Camelot days. But appearances can be deceiving. Appearances can change.
My fingers comb absently through my damp hair.
“Belle, how long has Julian Forsythe been around?”
The princess stares at the screen, entranced by the same eyes. “On the political scene? I’m not sure. People really didn’t start noticing him until the integration started.”
I swallow. Think of the birdsfoot trefoil on the embroidered coach cushion. The masked men who left it there. I look at the crowd in front of Julian. How they roar with each pump of his fist. They would do anything he asked. Some of them might even kidnap a king. . . .
“He’s young,” Anabelle goes on, “only graduated from Oxford a few years ago.”
“He went to Oxford?” I feel my hopes falling. All those fragile suspicions caving in on themselves.
“Yes. Rumor has it he was quite the ladies’ man in his time.” The princess raises her eyebrows.
The crowd keeps screaming. The reporter keeps talking about riots and potential elections and Julian Forsythe keeps staring. That sick twist of a smile on his face.
I reach out for the power button. The television screen collapses with the same speed as my heart.
Somewhere downstairs a timer goes off. A high, electric hum which pulls Anabelle to the door. “Oh! That’ll be the flan! I hope you’re both hungry. It’s beetroot!”
But my insides are hollowed with an emptiness food can’t fill. I look at the blank screen, the open doorway, my too-light ring finger. The Ad-hene watches the doorway too. His eyes are the only full thing in this room.
“Kieran?” When I say his name his gaze snaps to me, called from a trance. “I need your help. My ring fell down the sink.”
He follows me to the washroom, where dye still streaks like tears down the marble basin. Where the floor is covered in pieces of my o
ld self. Kieran steps through them gingerly, over to the black-hole sink.
I hold my breath as he peers into the abyss. His lips go tight with concentration, form summoning spells aimed into the drain’s U-bend. Nothing good returns. The sink only fills with gunk: pieces of molding hair and ruin.
Kieran steps away from the rot, tells me what I already know. “It’s gone.”
I look down at my bare finger. Start to wither under the weight of this terrible truth: I waited too long, wasted too much time. The ring is so far gone not even magic can retrieve it.
I’m on the floor. Curled like a baby mouse in a nest of my own hair. The Ad-hene kneels next to me.
“It’s just a ring,” he says. “It can be replaced.”
This truth does not reach deep enough, doesn’t even begin to tap the fears, the loss inside.
“It’s been three days since Richard was taken. Three days . . . What if we’re too late? What if I lose him because I didn’t know when to let go?”
These truths, these questions, tremble through me. Shudder with tears.
I expect Kieran to add another cutting truth to my arsenal of doubt—and be done with it. But the Ad-hene says nothing. His arm slides around my shoulder. His magic fills me like a ballast stone, evening out the swells of fear.
I’m not frozen this time, but I’m not fighting either. I’m so tired of fighting. Tired of trying to be someone I’m not.
So I stay and lean into this rock of a soul, resting my head against the granite of his muscles. It’s nice, having someone here beside me, someone who isn’t afraid or pulling away.
He’s closer than he should be. His voice is warm in my ear, low and close, like secrets. “If we don’t hear from Queen Titania by tomorrow, we’ll go out and keep searching. I don’t think—”
“Hello? The flan is going cold!” Anabelle calls from the bedroom in a clear bell voice. The Ad-hene stands just as the princess halts in the doorway, takes in the scene: black sink, hair everywhere, me on the floor, Kieran looming. “What’s going on in here?”
I don’t know, and even if I did I’m not sure I could bear to tell her.
I’m all off center again.
“The flan is ready?” Kieran asks instead.
Anabelle nods at him. “Beetroot with fennel and goat cheese. I might have already tried some. And it might be amazingly delicious.”
“I can’t wait.” Something like hunger flints through Kieran’s face as he joins the princess in the doorway. He looks back at me. “Are you coming, Lady Emrys?”
“You two eat,” I tell them. “I just—I need a moment.”
“Are you sure?” Anabelle’s eyes trail the room again. Try to see where I fit in to all of it. “We’ll save you some flan.”
“Not if it’s as tasty as you say it is,” Kieran adds.
“Don’t be greedy!” The princess turns, so I can barely see the smile invading her pursed lips. “You don’t even need food.”
“Right, but I want it. And it’s all your fault.” Kieran trails her through the bedroom, following the promise of beetroots and flowing gold hair. Their banter fades down stairs.
“I’ll be fine,” I lie to the empty doorway. To the dark-haired stranger in the mirror above.
Eighteen
This time I’m running as soon as the dream starts. Away from the watcher on the hill, churning through a sea of mud. My steps are heavy, but my will is stronger. I lunge and dive, tear all the way to Richard.
He looks mostly the same: black boots, ermine cape, crimson jacket full of medals. But there are little differences. His jawline is blunted by scruff and his hair is tousled, slanted at all angles.
He looks just as dazed when I reach him, grab his sleeve. Again it strikes me how real he is. The feel of the jacket’s fabric under my fingers—the muscled arm beneath it. Even the smell of him—cinnamon and cloves—is the same. It pulls at my heart.
I want those arms around me. To pull me close and hold me there.
But I know what’s coming. This dream always ends the same.
“Come on, Richard!” I’m tugging him away from where I know the black knight is marching. Just past Richard’s shoulder I see Mordred: blade held high, coming for us. “We have to run!”
Richard doesn’t move. He’s staring at me with a dazed, confused look.
“Embers?” He blinks, like a man underground who’s suddenly thrust back into sunlight. “What happened to your hair?”
“We have to—” I stop midsentence. His question hits me, leaves me breathless. “What did you say?”
“Your hair. It’s different.”
His fingers brush my new hair from my eyes, so I can see him more clearly. His freckles are almost gone now, a fleck or two over the bridge of his nose where there was once a salting. His almond eyes—flashing and swirling like all the precious metals and stones in the world were twisted together.
Details far too intricate for mere memory to stitch together. Even in dreams.
Is it possible?
Is he actually here?
I reach up, frame his face in my hands. His skin smolders under my fingertips.
So real.
It’s just a dream. Just my heart wanting and longing for all it’s lost. But his touch skates so softly over my skin. Summons shivers. I bring his lips to mine. The meeting is a thrill of light, glowing all the way down to my toes. Richard pulls in closer. His kiss is yearning, tinged with the perfect chemistry of give and take. His hands slide down to the small of my back, fill my insides with a hot, blooming feeling.
The kiss ends and he’s still here: cheeks flushed. Eyes clear and full of spark. My fingers trace the still-tingle of him on my lips. And I know.
But it’s too late. Mordred’s mailed fingers sink like dragon talons into Richard’s shoulder. Tear him back. Away from me. Into the cruel steel of Mordred’s blade.
When I wake, my lips still tingle and burn. My heart lurches into my throat, high and thrumming from the feel of him—the swell that’s so much like magic. I’m gripping my pillow so hard that the fabric has torn.
I lie still. The bedroom is wrapped in night. A blackness only equaled by the feeling in my chest. Richard’s touch, his kiss, was all light. His absence is just as powerful. A deep ache, streaking down my soul like the dye in the sink. Accenting the chill of the room, the emptiness of the sheets beside me.
Richard was real. He was there. It’s an impossible thought, but it floods me with a certainty which leaves no room for doubt.
I shut my eyes, try to will myself back to sleep. Back to him. But all my insides are awake.
Richard is alive. And he’s out there, waiting for me to find him.
I sit up. The sheets are tangled at my feet, as if I was actually running through them. The nail marks Guinevere left on my arm a few weeks ago have burst again. Weeping red down to my elbow.
“Oh good. You’re awake.” It’s only when Kieran speaks that I see him, sitting in the darkest corner of the room. He melts almost completely into the shadows, only his marking glows. A phosphorescent whisper of ever-changing swirls.
Though I’m clothed, I seize my sheets up anyway, hug them against my chest. “What are you doing in here?”
His scar flares brighter. It’s not until I see the confusion scrambling his handsome features that I realize how angry my question sounded.
“It’s just . . .” I fumble for an explanation, my mind still fogged over with dream. “The mortals consider it strange to watch someone while they’re sleeping.”
I think of all those nights I sat by Richard’s window, watching him sail through dreams. How a smile lit up his face as soon as he woke, saw me. Always that smile. How I miss it.
“I was waiting for you to wake up. This came just an hour ago.” The Ad-hene holds out a tight roll of parchment: Queen Titania’s response. My heart drums war songs inside my chest when I take it from him, tear the seal.
Dog escaped. Still in London. Do not trust the Ad-hene.<
br />
I stare at the script for a long moment, to make sure I read it right. It’s Titania’s writing, a shaky earthquake version, yet still hers.
Three sentences. After lifetimes of loyal service as a Frithemaeg, after days of waiting, that’s all the Faery queen has to offer me. Three wobbling fragments of thought. No help from the Guard, who should be at Anabelle’s side regardless. Not even a hint of whether or not they intend to return.
Do not trust the Ad-hene. Bitterness rises up my throat as I reread the final sentence. It was Titania’s pride—her willful, stubborn ignorance—which allowed Richard to be taken in the first place. And now she’s telling me to do nothing. Just like her.
Has she broken her oath to the crown and abandoned mortalkind altogether? Is that even possible?
I think of the stun gun’s savage stab. The anger which thinned her voice even before that. Suddenly the possibility doesn’t seem all that remote.
The parchment crumples easily in my fingers. Without a fight.
“News?” the Ad-hene asks. “Should I wake the princess?”
The clock on the bedstand glows an early, sunless hour. All I want to do is fall back asleep, kiss Richard again. But Kieran is sitting on the edge of my bed and Blæc is roaming London’s foggy streets, the answers to my many questions buried beneath all that shadowy fur and razor teeth.
“No. Let Belle sleep while she can. She won’t be much help where we’re going.”
His eyebrows rise: dark arches sweeping with questions.
I take a breath, let go of the sheets. “We have a dog to hunt.”
The air around Westminster tastes of morning: heavy with fog, drear, and damp. A steady drizzle falls, turning gutters into rivers. The Thames roils through the city, a swollen beast.
Kieran walks with me over the bridge, watching currents of rubbish rush under our feet. Remnants of bonfires bob past: burnt pieces of wood, hollow beer bottles, even the half-charred face of an effigy, trailed by sopping strings of orange yarn.
There aren’t many souls out at this hour, but a few have already started their morning commute. Cars, double-decker buses, and people trickle past us, their attentions deterred by Kieran’s veiling spell.