More librarians and scholars came forward, all crying out similar exclamations.
Evangeline curled toward Apollo as they were quickly surrounded. First by the librarians, then by servants and courtiers. Finally, by wide-chested guards in shining armor who rushed in, no doubt drawn by all of the clamor.
The room they were in was at least four stories tall, but suddenly it felt small and suffocating as more and more unfamiliar people closed in on them.
“He’s back . . .”
“He’s alive . . .”
“It’s a miracle!” they all repeated, voices turning reverent as tears began to glisten down cheeks.
Evangeline didn’t know what was happening. She felt as if she were witnessing the sort of thing that usually took place in a church. Was it possible she had married a saint?
Looking up at Apollo, she tried to remember his surname. Acadian, that was what he’d told her. She couldn’t recall a single story about an Apollo Acadian, but clearly there were stories. Upon meeting him, she’d imagined he was some kind of hero, but the crowd looked at him as if he was even more.
“Who are you?” Evangeline whispered.
Apollo brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles that made her shiver. “I am the one who will never let anyone harm you again.”
A few nearby people sighed as they overheard the words.
Then Apollo raised his free hand toward the rumbling crowd in a gesture that universally meant quiet.
Those gathered immediately fell into a hush. Some even dropped to their knees.
It was uncanny to see so many people fall quiet so quickly—they didn’t even seem to breathe as Apollo’s voice rang out over their heads.
“I can see that some of you are having a difficult time believing your eyes. But what you’re seeing is real. I’m alive. When you leave this room, tell everyone you see that Prince Apollo died and then went through hell to get back here.”
Prince. Evangeline barely had time to process the word and everything that came with it—for almost as soon as Apollo spoke, he released Evangeline’s hand and swiftly took off his velvet doublet, followed by his linen shirt.
Several of those gathered gasped, including Evangeline.
Apollo’s chest was flawless, smooth and carved in muscles, and over his heart was a vibrant tattoo of two swords in the shape of a heart with a name in the center: Evangeline.
Until that moment, everything had felt a bit like a fever dream she might have woken up from. But her name on his chest felt permanent in a way that Apollo’s words had not. He wasn’t a stranger. He knew her intimately enough to mark her name across his heart.
He turned around then, showing off another sight that stunned not only her, but the entire crowd. Apollo’s beautiful, proud, straight back was covered in a web of violent scars.
“These marks are the price I paid to return!” he cried. “When I say I went through hell, I mean it. But I had to come back. I had to right the wrongs done in my absence. I know many believe that it was my brother, Tiberius, who killed me, but it was not.”
Shocked whispers moved through the crowd.
“I was poisoned by a man I thought to be a friend,” Apollo roared. “Lord Jacks is the man who killed me. Then he stole the memories of my bride, Evangeline. I will not rest until Jacks is found and he pays for his crimes with his life!”
Chapter 2
Evangeline
Voices echoed against the walls of stretching bookshelves as the library erupted with noise. Guards in armor vowed to find the criminal Lord Jacks, while polished courtiers and robed scholars shot out questions like showers of arrows.
“How long have you been alive, Your Highness?”
“How did you return from hell, Lord Prince?”
“Why did Lord Jacks steal your memories?” This inquiry, from an older courtier, was directed at Evangeline and punctuated by a narrow-eyed glare.
“Enough,” Apollo cut in. “I did not tell you about the horror my wife has gone through so that she could be attacked with questions she has no idea how to answer. I shared this information because I want Lord Jacks found, dead or alive. Although right now, I would prefer him dead.”
“We won’t fail you!” shouted the guards.
More declarations involving justice and Jacks rattled the ancient library shelves and pounded against Evangeline’s head, and suddenly it was all too much. The noise, the questions, the flood of unfamiliar faces, Apollo’s tale of going through hell.
More was said, but the words turned to ringing in her ears.
Evangeline wanted to cling to Apollo—he was all she had in this new reality. But he was also a powerful prince, which made him feel less like hers and more like everyone else’s. She was afraid to bother him with more questions, though she had so many. She still didn’t even know where she was.
From where she stood, Evangeline could see an oval window seat tucked under an arch of bookshelves. The window was a soft pale blue glass, and outside were full green needle trees as tall as towers covered in a picturesque layer of snow. It rarely snowed in Valenda, and never as thick as this, as if the world were a cake and the snow was dollops of thick white frosting.
As she had noticed before, the fashion here was different as well. The guards looked like knights from old tales, and the courtiers wore formal clothing similar to Apollo’s. Men were dressed in doublets, while women wore elaborate velvet gowns with off-the-shoulder necklines and dropped waists decorated with brocade belts or strings of pearls.
Evangeline had never seen people dressed like this. But she’d heard stories.
Her mother had been born in the Magnificent North, and she’d told Evangeline countless tales about this land, fairytales that made it sound as if it were the most enchanted place in all the world.
Unfortunately, Evangeline felt far from enchanted at this moment.
Apollo met her gaze then and turned away from the shrinking crowd surrounding them. It seemed people had already left to spread word that Prince Apollo was back from the dead. And why wouldn’t they? Evangeline never heard of someone coming back from the dead. A thought that made her feel quite small as she stood next to him.
Only a few people remained, but Apollo ignored them all as he gazed into Evangeline’s eyes. “There’s nothing for you to be afraid of.”
“I’m not afraid,” she lied.
“You’re looking at me differently.” He smiled at her then, a smile so charming she wondered how she hadn’t immediately known what he was.
“You’re a prince,” she squeaked.
Apollo grinned wider. “Is that a problem?”
“No, I . . . just—” Evangeline almost said she’d never imagined herself married to a prince.
But of course she had. Only her imaginings weren’t as elaborate as this. This was beyond every pastel dream she had ever had of royalty and castles and faraway places. But she would have traded it all to remember just how she’d gotten here, how she’d fallen in love and married this man and lost what felt like part of her heart.
It hit her then. In fairytales, there was always a price for magic. Nothing came without a cost; peasants who turned into princesses always had to pay. And suddenly Evangeline wondered if her lost memories were the price she had paid for all of this.