There it is, stamped into the princess’s otherwise flawless skin: a Briar rose surrounded by bloody thorns. The curse mark borne by each of Leythana’s heirs until they either find their true love or…
The king claps the dejected suitor on his shoulder, dismissing him, and the musicians begin playing again. But not even the music can mask the frantic whispers of the court or smooth the queen’s pinched brow. In fact, the only person who seems the least bit undisturbed is Aurora herself. Far from anxious, the princess appears…relieved.
And I might be imagining it, but I think I see a smile ghost across her face.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Well, I say she made a lucky escape.” Arnley tosses back another glass, this time with an even larger dose of Etherium mixed into the wine. A few other nobles join us, eyeing me sideways but saying nothing. “I’m not sure being stuck with that one would have been much better than succumbing to the curse.”
Titters of laughter.
“Oh, Arnley, you are horrid.” This voice I know. It slices straight through my chest.
Rose.
She saunters into our circle, silk gloves concealing her predator’s claws, and loops her arm through Arnley’s. Her mask is barely a mask at all, just a thin strip of golden tulle resting across her eyes and secured to an elaborate headdress in the shape of a swan. Crystals glisten like drops of water on its feathers. Of course she wouldn’t want her identity concealed—it might mean she’s not the center of attention.
“I feel sorry for the poor thing. Such a beauty. All that Grace magic simply wasted if she doesn’t find someone within the year. Just like her sisters. And she is the last heir.”
In other realms, there can be any number of claimants to a throne. A cousin or nephew or even a favorite can be named successor in place of a direct heir. In Cryseria, whenever the monarch dies, a trial by battle is the method of crowning the new ruler. It’s something I’d love to witness if I ever manage to leave Briar. Here, the Etherian treaty is clear—only Leythana’s blood can wear the crown of bramble and thorn. Before the curse, perhaps it was possible for some distant relation of Leythana’s to take the place of a reigning queen’s daughter. Not anymore.
The first years after the curse were turmoil. Because the Vila’s magic was so powerful, so steeped in hate, all of Briar’s potential heirs bore the curse mark, no matter how far down they were in the line of succession. Women who had already reached their twenty-first year suddenly dropped dead when it turned out they hadn’t found their true loves, a nasty revelation for husbands and wives whose royal-blooded spouse abruptly perished. There was so much death that it was decreed that only immediate heirs were permitted to produce daughters—and only once crowned. For many of the royal daughters, the restriction meant little—it was soon discovered that the magic in the Vila’s curse kept them barren until the curse was broken. Younger surviving princesses could adopt children, and many did. But the blood that carried the curse had to be contained.
And now there is only Aurora.
“Please.” Arnley swats her words away, diamond cuff links twinkling. “One way or another, the crown will find a head.”
Rose hisses at him to be quiet.
Questions riffle through my mind. What does Arnley mean by that? I don’t remember reading about an heir crisis in any of the books on Briar’s history. There was certainly nothing about what would happen if Leythana’s descendants died out. Are there measures in place? Not that I particularly care.
“She’s a beauty, perhaps,” a woman chimes in, bringing me back into the circle. She’s a Grace, I can tell by her massive arrangement of sapphire hair, roughly in the shape of a beehive. Tiny gilded bees, another gift from the innovation Graces, hover and buzz around her towering braids. “But so brazen. That dress.”
“I love it,” Rose proclaims, adjusting one of the feathers on her headdress. “I’m going to have Madame LaRoche make an exact copy for me. In red.”
“I’d certainly like to see that.” Arnley’s voice is closer to a purr, thick and a little slurred with the wine.
“Arnley.” Rose smacks him with her fan. “You shameless flirt. Come, the music is changing. You owe me a dance.”
Yes. I push the thought out with all my might. Go and dance. Far away from here. But Arnley’s attention swivels back to me, sending my stomach to my toes.
“You know I’d never skip a dance with you, Rose.” He grins and gently extracts himself from her talons. “But I’m afraid I’ve been utterly enchanted by this mysterious guest.”