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  Aurora frantically tries to grab Isbe’s hand, but the guards rush them from either side and yank them apart.

  “Told youse to stay off here!” one guard grumbles.

  “Let us go!” Isbe cries as they are both dragged roughly down the steps.

  “Escaped yer cage again, eh?” says the other to Aurora. She’s thankful that Isbe can’t see the sneer on his pocked face.

  Isbe juts out her chin. “We were just trying to—”

  “That’s ’bout enough of that,” one growls as they haul the girls through a passageway, up another set of stairs, and into the king’s tower proper, where they are presented before the twelve gathered councilmen and -women.

  “Sorry to barge in. But we caught ’em climbing the towers again. Princess almost took a bad drop,” the older and fatter of the guards says. “This one was scampering up and down like a goat.”

  Before Aurora can so much as shake her head in protest, Isbe clears her throat, squeezing Aurora’s hand tight. “He’s right. It was all my fault, not Aurora’s.”

  Meanwhile, Jules de Villeroy, the chancellor, tugs at his collar. “This is a most, most inopportune moment.”

  Aurora desperately taps into Isbe’s hand. The princes. Dead. Philip’s dead. She can’t tell if her sister has registered the message.

  Old hotheaded Humphrey bangs his fist on the arm of his chair. “Dammit! Endangering the princess? At a time like this? I’ve had enough! All of our plans. The whole alliance . . . up in smoke in a moment if something were to—” He cuts himself off and takes a breath. “If we don’t handle that one,” he finishes, pointing fiercely at Isbe, “then I personally will.”

  Aurora looks nervously around the room at the council: ten men and two women. The men all have bare, protruding foreheads—the style of the time, though Aurora can’t understand why—and wear high collars and deep frowns. The women, both financial attendants, look as shriveled as the pickled fish Aurora has watched servants eating in the kitchen. She can’t remember a time when these women were young.

  These are the men and women who have, over the past four years, become the unwanted surrogate caretakers for her and Isbe. She knows none of them has any true affection for her. She is a mere item to be bartered.

  It’s even worse for Isbe, of course. She is no princess, and she will be eighteen soon. So far, despite the council’s best attempts, no one has been interested in marrying the dead king’s blind bastard daughter.

  Lord Ferdinand pushes his chair back from the table. Aurora can’t help but notice that the corner of the rotund man’s red robe is stained with either mud or gravy—more likely the latter, given how little he’s known to venture past the castle walls. “With the permission of my fellow councilmen,” Ferdinand says, “I see it fit we pursue our original plans regarding Isabelle immediately.”

  “Plans?” Isbe asks as Aurora’s heart starts to beat faster.

  “You are to be sent to a convent in the district of Isolé,” says one of the stern old clerics at the back of the room.

  “But . . . for how long?” Isbe croaks.

  “For the remainder of your life,” says the cleric.

  “No!” Isbe tries to lunge forward; however, one of the guards keeps his fat hand around her arm, holding her back.

  Aurora feels like she’s been strangled. Isbe. Leaving. Forever. It’s too much. Her knees are beginning to give out. Her sister shouldn’t have said anything. She shouldn’t have opened her big mouth, trying to be brave, trying to protect Aurora, like always.

  Look where it’s gotten her now.

  Maximilien, one of the younger members and perhaps the kindest of the council despite being the chief of military, nods. “We were going to wait until after the wedding, but we might as well make haste. Aurora’s safety and protection are of utmost importance.”

  Aurora doesn’t know whether to be furious or devastated or simply afraid. Isolé lies at the southernmost point of Deluce, near the border of Corraine. That’s miles and miles from the palace!

  She fumbles for Isbe’s hand again, but her sister pulls away.

  “Why?” she blurts out. “Why are we to be parted if the wedding is no longer happening?” So her palm did understand Aurora’s hasty message.

  Maximilien frowns. “I can see you have been listening in where you were not invited. Nevertheless . . .” He turns to Aurora. “You both may as well know that Princes Philip and Edward of Aubin are dead.”

  Aurora’s heart plummets into her stomach like a bucket dropped down a well. Hearing it announced so bluntly is even harder the second time.

  “I ask again,” Isbe says, jutting out her chin. “How will Aurora marry if the two princes of Aubin are dead?”

  “Luckily,” another council member replies, “there is a third.”

  4

  Isabelle

  If human bodies had the firepower of cannons, Isbe is sure her head would have shot off and exploded, scattering burning black ash all over the council. (Aurora has read and described to her the exact mechanics of every type of weapon in Deluce’s royal arsenal, and Isbe often entertains herself by imagining putting them to use.) Her fingertips graze the tapestries and portraits that line the walls as she stomps down the stone corridors, knocking over the Hercules vase in her rush—its nose worn down from years of her touching it. The piece is worth more than the dowry of seven duchesses. She hears it shatter. Good.

  Over a century ago, this whole castle was actually the faerie queen Malfleur’s own childhood home. She lived in it with her twin, Belcoeur, otherwise known as the Night Faerie. That was before Malfleur killed the Night Faerie and was assigned rule over the LaMorte territories. There’s even a popular children’s lullaby based on the story. But now ornate columns, thick rugs, and overpungent displays of flowers hide any trace of the palace’s history, which becomes more like myth every day.

  Isbe doesn’t even let Aurora catch up to her as she traipses downstairs to her quarters in one of the western wings, not bothering to skip over the creaking seventh stair. She needs to be alone. She needs to think.

  And for once, Aurora’s advice, her calm wisdom, simply won’t help.

  Isbe knows that it’s not Aurora’s fault. It’s not her fault that she’s the only heir to the throne of Deluce. It’s not her fault the kingdom could be on the verge of war. And it’s not her fault she’s so beautiful and well-behaved and perfect. Aurora is all light. She is fresh-fluffed cream and the smell of a spring bulb’s first shoots pricking up through the earth, while Isbe has always been the expendable one, all anger and elbow, odd as a goose’s honk.

  For years the council has treated her no better than a glorified servant—any kindness she has received has been at Aurora’s insistence. Isbe is the troublemaker, good for nothing except to serve as a companion for her younger sister. And now, apparently not even good for that. The truth that Isbe is simply no longer needed—by Aurora or by anyone—cuts into her, savage as claws.

  She shoves open her door, and it slams into the wall with a terrible bang. It takes her a second to realize from the shift of heat and shadow, from the intake of breath, that someone is already waiting for her in the room.

  “Think this here pillow has enough tassels?”

  Gilbert, one of the stableboys and Isbe’s oldest friend, shifts his legs on her bed, rustling her downy coverlet. She can smell the mud on his boots and the equine musk ever present in his hands and hair.

  “Enough to strangle all twelve council members with?” she replies. “Unfortunately, no, Gil, I doubt there’s enough frill in this entire castle to knot around their thick necks.”

  “Bad night?”

  “To say the least.”

  “What is it?” Her bed exhales as he sits up—the few pieces of furniture in her bedroom have all learned to speak to her of movements, in creaks and whooshes and groans, in tics and aspirations. While Gil is, of course, technically not allowed in her room, not merely because he’s the son of the palace horse farrier but also because he’s a boy, he has nonetheless entered and exited these chambers for years without anyone knowing it, by way of a lilac trellis underneath her window.

  “Isbe,” Gil presses. “Just tell me.”

  “I’m leaving,” she spits.

  For weeks, months even, she’s been agonizing about what will happen to her when Aurora marries. She loathes the fact that her fate is so dependent on her younger, more beautiful sister’s, the way all her choices, when it comes down to it, are invisibly tethered to Aurora’s. No matter how much she loves her sister, no matter how many years of their childhood they spent clambering up and down the winding passageway connecting their bedrooms . . . some part of her has always wished that for just one moment she could find out what her life would be like if Aurora weren’t around.

  Now she will know, and she hates herself for that terrible, shameful wish.

  “What? You can’t leave. I don’t understand. Where are you going?” He touches her arm—his hand, familiar as Aurora’s, is as rough as hers is delicate, a deep rein-worn crease cutting diagonally across his calloused palm.

  She swallows hard. She can barely stand to explain what just happened. It’s so mortifying; she feels hollowed out. Not only are they sending her away, but it has always been their plan. She’s disposable, a pomme sauvage: a crab apple barely hanging onto the tree, not sweet enough to eat, sour and unwanted even before it falls to the earth to rot.

  “The council wants to send me to a convent in Isolé. Apparently they were always intending it, but tonight we got in trouble, and the princes of Aubin—two of them, anyway—were murdered, and Aurora and I were caught spying, and now—” She takes a breath, steadying her voice. “Now I’m to depart at dawn.”

  Gil barks out a laugh.


  Horrified, Isbe shoves him away. “This isn’t funny, it’s my life!” She marches miserably to her trunk and throws open the lid.

  Gil comes up behind her. “Well, this is perhaps perfect, then!”

  “Yes, it’s—wait, what?” She turns.

  “I’m leaving the palace too,” Gil says.

  Automatically, she reaches up and places her hands on his cheeks, feeling the dimples and familiar smile, the honesty, the Gilbertness of him. It’s a habit that started many years ago with her half sister—Isbe would touch her face to try and read the emotions there, since Aurora has no voice to betray the feeling behind her words. It was Isbe’s way of staying as connected as possible to Aurora . . . and then it became so second nature that she began to try it out on Gilbert too. He never refused.

  “You’re not joking,” she says now, both feeling and hearing his seriousness.

  “No. And it isn’t funny, actually.” His jaw clicks softly. “My brother’s wife died last month in childbirth. I only just found out. Lost the baby too. Roul is . . . well, you can imagine.”

  “I’m . . .” She fumbles, taken aback. “I’m very sorry.” Isbe hasn’t seen Gil’s older brother in many years, and never knew Roul’s wife. To her knowledge, Gil never met her either.

  Gil clears his throat. “Anyway. He didn’t send for me. You know Roul; he wouldn’t do that. Too proud. But a messenger let it slip. He could use my help at the farm, what with the two young ones. Isn’t too many miles south of here.”

  Isbe nods. She remembers when Roul left to take over a farm in one of the vast, faerie-owned fiefs farther inland. He had to pay several tithes of luck to a faerie baron for it.

  “He’ll take us both in, I’m sure,” Gil goes on. “Needs all the help he can get, I’d think. I wasn’t certain if I should go. That is, I didn’t want to leave. But now . . . see? You wouldn’t have to go to Isolé. You could just come with me.”

  Isbe doesn’t know what to say, only that her face feels as though it has been splashed by a pot of scalding water. Embarrassment and gratitude fight each other for space inside her chest. She has no idea what farm life is really like, but it must be better than life in a convent. At any rate, life there with Gil would be immeasurably better than being alone.

  “Besides,” Gil goes on, “just picturing you at a convent is hilarious. Girl like you? Wouldn’t last ’til the first sundown.”

  “A girl like me?”

  “Wild. Big mouth. Says whatever she pleases.”

  “Hmph.” She’s not sure if it’s a compliment or an insult, but she lets the point drop, instead crouching down to cram dresses and sheets into her trunk. She must keep her hands and mouth busy, otherwise who knows what she might be tempted to do—muss up Gil’s hair, or kiss him, or . . .

  “Poor Roul,” she says instead, attempting to distract herself from the fact that she is preparing to leave her home, and Aurora, forever. “I’m sure there’s many a country girl waiting in line to be his next wife, though.” Everyone used to say he was tall, dark-haired, and handsome, even when they were all kids. “Perhaps,” she adds, nudging Gil with her shoulder, “he’ll have extras lined up for you as well. Some delightful farmer’s daughter for a wife. A nice girl who always says exactly the right thing.”

  The idea brings her a mix of happiness for Gil and something else too: jealousy, maybe, though it shouldn’t. She knows that.

  Still, she wonders whether in moments like this he ever thinks back to that day, about three years ago . . . the day she was wading in the tiny stream just past the cattle pastures.

  Isbe had “borrowed” Freckles again, the frisky young mare few others had the patience to ride, for one of her expeditions to spy on the royal military. These rides very often ended with Freckles bucking Isbe into the thick mud at pasture’s end. The council did not condone this behavior, of course—said she’d likely die someday for taking such risks—but for Isbe it became a game, trying to figure out where she’d landed and how to get back.

  Since she has grown up without sight, Isbe has rarely known the pleasure of running freely through field or forest. It’s too dangerous—the world rushes up at her, random and disordered. But on the back of a horse, she can experience the thrill of speed, of the air racing through her hair, of her lungs heaving as the animal becomes her legs and her eyes. And she has never cared about the odd bruises and scrapes from falling or fumbling her way home—these are simply the world’s way of proving its own existence, the souvenirs of a life actually lived.

  On this particular occasion, Gil had found her doing her best to wrench the mud from her garments in the stream’s eddies. In late spring, when the sun is hot, the stream flows over a low ledge, creating a nice current below. She and Aurora fondly call this spot the Waterfall, even though the drop is only a few feet. Sometimes they also call it Nose Rock, due to the boulder at the base of the ledge that resembles a man’s face with, well, a very large nose.

  Gil had scolded her for riding alone, and to defend herself, Isbe began an enactment of the military exercises she’d learned from spying—or at least, what she presumed them to be, based on the shouted commands she’d overheard, the hollers of the soldiers, the clang of swords, and the shuffle of hooves.

  The more Gil laughed at her attempts, the more determined Isbe became to prove she’d truly learned how to fight. Her demonstration easefully transformed into a water war, and she remembers the exact moment she fell against Gil in the stream, and his hand became entangled in her long, loose hair, and the mossy, mineral scent of the water mingled with the damp touch of his body against hers, his laughter slipping away on the wind as their lips met.

  The kiss had been both surprising and seamless, both endless and somehow fleeting. His lips were warm and soft, so unlike the other, more calloused parts of him she was used to. His tongue was there, communicating with her own in a foreign language—and there was so much, so much to say with just their bodies, with just their lips.

  But then he’d pulled back—their first-ever awkward moment. “We shouldn’t,” he’d said. Something like that. She couldn’t understand what he meant, why he said it, why he didn’t want to keep on doing what they had been doing: for hours, for days, maybe forever.

  And then, with a sudden and terrible weight, she knew. Of course she knew: Isbe was not beautiful. Not like other girls. Certainly not like Aurora. Even without being able to see her the way others did, Isbe knew how gorgeous Aurora was, from the way she moved, the way she smelled, the way people inhaled abruptly when they saw her, the way men spoke about her in whispers and murmurs they thought no one else could hear.

  No. Isbe was different. Awkward and tall for a girl, with messy dark hair that never lay flat, a pointy nose and hard cheekbones and too-big eyes.

  Gil didn’t see her that way. He didn’t want those things from her, the things boys want from beautiful girls.

  After that day, Isbe had become as firm and hard as Nose Rock, wild and spiked and merciless as a morning star club, brave and bold and quick—too quick to let feelings of doubt or embarrassment about her appearance ever catch up to her again. She doesn’t need to be beautiful. And she doesn’t need love. She can live without it.

  But now her comment lingers uncomfortably in the air between them.

  Gil clears his throat. “I should prepare us two horses. We’ll ride just before dawn.”

  “Gil?” she asks as he stands to leave.

  “Iz?”

  She turns her face away from his, feeling exposed. “Thank you.”

  And then he is shoving her window open, and with a gust of cold air, he is gone.

  Isbe is still packing when a rustling in the secret passageway announces Aurora’s approach. A second later the tapestry swishes open and Aurora’s slippers pat across the room. She kneels next to Isbe, and their elbows bump. Even though Isbe’s swimming in a sea of confused and contradictory feelings, she is just as aware as ever of her sister’s fragility. It’s Isbe’s job—as it has always been—to be strong for Aurora. Even if, in this moment, Aurora can’t be strong for her.

  Aurora takes her hand and begins to tap. I didn’t need you to stand up for me. You shouldn’t have.

  Isbe can feel the pent-up frustration through the tips of Aurora’s fingers.