The Secret World of Briar Rose(37)
Amelia wriggled from Ezran’s grasp, embarrassed to be positioned this way in front of Lilith. It didn’t matter. The queen couldn’t reach them before the godmothers burst through the entryway, their shrill cries and overbearing sobs tuned like a midnight performance. They stopped when they saw the man holding her.
“Who is this handsome stranger?” Clover gasped.
He introduced himself as Prince Ezran from the kingdom of Zilar. A new energy ignited the conversation, a hum of excitement emanating from the three godmothers. A prince eighteen years of age, he’d originally declined the invitation to attend Amelia’s birthday ceremony because he’d been traveling from diplomatic duties. The thunderstorm had scared off his horse, and as he wandered to retrieve the animal, his detour led to Amelia.
She could see the gears in her godmothers’ heads turning, their smiles widening. They called this not coincidence, but destiny.
The faeries crowded him with several more questions. They brought Amelia inside to heal her ankle, and Ezran to meet the king. There was so much buzz over the prince and their fateful encounter that Amelia barely found respite until she retreated to her own bedroom.
A hand caught her wrist. She knew it was not Ezran, because the touch of skin sent a familiar electric current up her arm. Lilith stared at her, the flicker of candlelight in the dark hall illuminating her grave expression.
“Be careful, Amelia,” she said. “I don’t trust his intentions with you.”
“Why?”
Lilith paused , as if deliberating her next words. “Call it intuition, I suppose.”
Amelia knew she could refuse him, yet her godmothers’ coos of admiration echoed in her mind, matched by her father’s all-too-rare nod of respect upon meeting him. No, love did not matter here. Even in fairy tales, princesses merely existed in stories that others wanted to tell.
CHAPTER 17
BRIAR ROSE’S COTTAGE painted a scene for the story she wanted to tell: tiny bells chiming at the door, a tea kettle blowing steam on floral wallpaper, sunlight casting sideways through windows. A quaint home where the oak floors were worn and ceramic plates were piled in a sink covered with moss. As Corin crossed the living room, she noticed the books were painted wooden blocks glued to shelves. The frosted cake on the kitchen table was covered in plastic film. The wooden ladles and metal pots hanging over the stove were paper cutouts. The clock was simply a painting on the wall, a permanent image where time stood still.
Pieces of this house were carefully curated. But they were not real.
That fact unnerved Corin as she found Briar in the kitchen, bent over a basket of strawberries. The fruits had a plastic sheen, like rocks painted red. The princess twisted the sink handle and let sparkling water pour into the basket, as if she were bathing the strawberries with stars and bringing them to life.
“We’ve met before,” Corin said, forcing Briar to look up at her. “Back in Winterland, you were going to shoot me.”
Corin could match the similarities between the girl she saw now to the girl she witnessed in the snow. Brown hair to silver, daisy petals to snowflakes, butterflies to nightingales. If Corin stripped those features away, who would be the real girl she’d see?
To her surprise, Briar let out a laugh. “You’re right. How awkward of me.”
“Why didn’t you do it?”
Briar stepped closer. Her fingers grazed Corin’s collarbone, shooting tingles down Corin’s chest. A pendant dangled in Briar’s palm.
“I was distracted by your necklace,” she said. “I wondered if there was a story behind it.”
Corin slapped Briar’s hand away by instinct, the strike of skin ringing loud in the kitchen. Briar stepped back and knocked her hip against the table. Strawberries fell to the ground, turning back into red blocks as they clattered. Silly props, like child’s play.
“That’s none of your business.” Corin kept her voice detached, even though the chain burned against her skin, a memory of her grandmother that she didn’t want to expose. Not to a stranger like Briar, whose lace dresses and floral crowns showed she knew nothing of the dirt and blood this pendant had survived over time.
The princess took the brusque response with grace and folded her hands together in compliance. Corin tried not to think about how the girl’s touch still left behind pinpricks of flesh.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t have touched you without asking. I’m sorry.”
Corin’s face burned hot. She didn’t understand why she felt vulnerable, despite her efforts to remain impassive like stone. Both times she was around Briar, it felt like the girl peeled back her layers and found something to uncover. Perhaps it was the gaze in her eyes, the veiled thoughts that shone behind sea glass. But Corin was not something to be explored. She leaned against a counter, posture rigid, hands shoved in pockets, like her whole body could cave in.
Briar picked up the red blocks and washed them in the sink, as if it was her turn to play aloof as well. Corin sensed them both putting on a pretense, waiting for the other’s sheen to dim just slightly before the other one.
“Tell me, Corin,” Briar asked, “what did I look like out there?”
It took Corin a second to realize Briar was talking about the real world. That in her mind, the dreamscape was just like this make-believe house, small and contained and imaginary. The things they did and said only existed within this space, while the rest of the world kept turning.