Absentminded. A thought taps at the edges of my mind. The chalice the Briar King bid me curse causes memory loss. It could be a coincidence, I tell myself. Aurora’s secretary could be forgetful for other reasons. And why would Tarkin bother cursing such a woman? Surely he would view her as insignificant. Aurora told me that not even the small council takes her role as future queen seriously. Not until she breaks the curse, at least.
But perhaps that’s the point. What if Tarkin used the cursed chalice on Aurora’s secretary specifically to keep his daughter out of political matters? If he’s trying to cripple her rule before she even takes the throne—or to prevent that rule entirely?
My instinct screams at me to warn her. But that would mean admitting I have an agreement with her father. And confessing my true powers and perhaps even revealing my meetings with Kal. I can’t betray him that way. And more than that, I doubt Aurora would still come to see me if she knew the truth. I’ve become accustomed to having a friend, and it’s like breathing clean air after years of sucking down the brackish odor of the Common District. I don’t want to give her up just yet.
“Any luck with that book?” I ask, steering the subject abruptly away from pesky, star-chosen princes and people I might have unwittingly cursed.
The summoning ritual was ages ago, but we’ve found nothing else that might aid in breaking the curse. Against my better judgment, I attempted several other rituals from the Nightseeker book. One for cleansing, in the hopes that we could clear the curse from her blood, but it only suffocated us in a haze of sage smoke so dense I could chew it. And another to reverse a binding, which promptly unraveled the hem of Aurora’s gown and popped the seams of her sleeves. Aside from those, the princess has swallowed dozens of antidotes for poisons and hexes. But the deadly Briar rose on her forearm has stubbornly refused to budge.
The only experiments I’ve outright refused to conduct again are any rituals that use my blood. After what happened with the summoning—after seeing the ancient Vila—it’s far too risky. I have no idea what else can be called by my power. And no amount of her clever reasoning will convince me otherwise.
“No.” She frowns down at the sketch of the Imp. “I still don’t understand why the Etherians hated these creatures so much. I’d love to employ someone who could magic me a cream puff anytime I wished.”
I laugh. “The Etherians hate a lot of creatures without reason.”
“Like you.” The fire crackles. I don’t answer. “Did you know that the light Fae are born with their hearts in their mouths?”
“Their mouths? Which book told you that?”
“One I found in the new library, actually. Father is fascinated with the light Fae and collects everything he can about them—which isn’t much. Apparently, the source of Etherian power is called a heart. When a Fae child is born, the heart is blown out of their mouth and into an orb of enchanted glass. That orb is kept safe until—”
“It’s placed on a staff,” I finish for her, picturing Endlewild’s unpolished birchwood. The scar on my middle aches.
“Yes, exactly. The staff houses their power. Their magical heart, if you will.”
Like the sources of magic I find with my Vila abilities.
“Does that mean if the heart is broken, they will die?” I ask darkly, imagining what it would feel like to smash the glass of Endlewild’s staff and watch the life drain out of his eyes.
Her brow furrows. “I’m not sure.”
For a while, there’s only the sound of the wind in the chimney and Callow’s gentle rustling. And then—
“What do you think it feels like to die?”
“What?”
Aurora lifts one shoulder. “I have two hundred and forty-five days before I find out.”
She might as well have punched me in the stomach. I had no idea she was counting the days. No idea how little time we have left.
“You don’t know that.” But it’s a flimsy hope and it cracks around the edges.
“It’s not that I particularly mind dying,” she continues. “But I think I will very much miss living. I was never meant to wear the crown, but I can think of nothing else now. I want to do something more than simply throw balls and order gowns.” She thumbs the corner of a page. “I think I might be good at ruling.”
“You will be good at it.” Tentatively, I press my hand to her forearm, bracing for the cringe beneath her sleeve. It doesn’t come. “You will be queen. And you will give the Etherium miners a share in the profits and clean up the Common District and put women on the small council and do everything else you promise. You’ll be as great as Leythana was, and they will love you for it.”