All That Burns

  The place does look closed up for the winter: every piece of furniture is covered in white sheets to ward off dust. I glance out the last uncovered window. Dusk is gathering. A flock of starlings coasts through the firelight sky.

  I need to find a sparrow to send Titania, before the birds go to roost for the night.

  Almost as if they read my thought, the murmuration of birds washes over the rooftops, disappears altogether.

  I’m running out of time.

  The sparrow isn’t hard to find. I grab a canister of gourmet Italian breadcrumbs from the pantry and climb all the way to the rooftop. Like the rest of the house it’s packed away for the winter. The shrubbery is covered in thick plastic sheets and the lounge chairs have been stowed in a frost-covered corner.

  I kneel down in the center of the roof patio, spread the crumbs out like a blanket of wares, and wait. They come—feathered and fearless—skipping just by my boots, chirping between bites. I choose one of the smaller ones.

  The parchment is short, cramped with my blunt, handwritten sentences. Their letters angled tight with abandonment:

  Found trail with Ad-hene. Black Dog’s aura is tainted. Question it further. —Emrys

  I wind the paper around the sparrow’s leg, weave the sending spell through its wing feathers. Even this small magic leaves me winded, but it seems to be enough. The bird hops out of my palms with purpose, launches over the moon-slanted rooftops into its long flight across Albion.

  The horizon is a collection of cookie-cutter silhouettes: houses, trees, bats, and the last stubborn cling of leaves. I stare at it until my eyes start to burn with tears.

  The sparrows are gone. It’s just me here on the rooftop. Alone.

  Gone. That’s what the bird cries sound like as they weave through the stark naked tangle of the trees. Gone. Gone. Gone.

  I grip the rooftop’s ledge. The sun’s final light catches against my ring. Reminds me of Richard’s promise. The life we wanted to lead . . .

  I thought we could have a fairy-tale ending. A happily ever after. But perhaps that’s not how our story was supposed to end. Perhaps I was better off as Richard’s guard. Perhaps I was never meant to be in his arms, in his heart. Perhaps I really was his fatal mistake.

  Maybe we’re Guinevere and Arthur all over again—a Faery and a mortal king: a doomed love—tragedy on the brink of legend. Our Camelot going up in flames.

  I thought I knew myself. I thought I knew the path I’d chosen.

  When I lost my magic Richard was my north. Without him I’m a compass sans magnet. Drifting through questions without direction.

  You were never meant to live this way.

  Then how was I meant to live?

  You are not powerless.

  Then what is my power?

  And through it all, Richard. The ache of missing him—a hurt deeper than marrow, more violent than blood—soaks through me, creeps into old wounds. I can’t help but think of the secrets. The gap we both knew was there. How there was so much distance even when our lips touched, when our skin grazed like velvet. There are still worlds between us. A life I haven’t fully been able to surrender, even when it was no longer in my grasp.

  Magic. I never really let it go. Not in my deepest of hearts. And I still want it, still yearn.

  Richard or magic.

  I can’t keep holding on to both.

  Something has to give.

  The emerald flare of my ring recedes with the glow of the sky. The dark is swallowing everything, but there are no stars yet. I’m beginning to think they’ll never shine again.

  Just as this thought crosses my mind, a new light appears at my side. Kieran’s arm stretches out just a breath from mine, his mark showing through his thermal. I don’t move or speak. He doesn’t either. Moments pass: still and cold.

  “You sent the message?” he asks finally.

  I look over, where Kieran’s face is painted in two lights. Dying sun and silver dream.

  “The sparrow should reach Titania’s court in a few hours.” Whether or not the Faery queen responds is a different question altogether. A fear I don’t have the strength to entertain right now.

  “So now we wait?” the Ad-hene asks.

  “It’s probably best to stay low for a while. After that little news cameo we had today.” I can’t help but look back down at Kieran’s mark. Every second the twilight plunges darker, it pulses brighter.

  “This city is so strange. I thought I would be able to withstand it, but it seems I am only my old strength in the Labyrinth.” His eyes are a mixture of hard and sorrow as he watches the west. Where, far off and away, his island home is still languishing in the last remnants of daylight. “How do you bear it? Being away from everything you know?”

  “Sometimes I don’t.” My truth slips out into the cold air. Saying it aloud feels like sin or blasphemy, yet I don’t stop. “It’s easier when Richard is here. But even then . . .”

  The sun is completely gone. Kieran’s light flickers, star soft. My words settle and I realize how much lighter my chest is for saying them. So I say more. Slip, slip goes the truth.

  “The mortals think I’m a monster and the Fae think I’m weak. The only other soul like me in the world is insane and locked away in a prison cell. And Richard is gone and Queen Titania is gone, and . . .”

  I can’t go on anymore. My fingers feel frozen to the ledge. Gripping as if I’m holding on to life or Richard or something else I can’t bear to part with.

  “You’re not alone, Emrys. You have the princess. You have me.” Kieran shifts and his arm presses into mine. My skin prickles: a warmth too solid to be just magic.

  I pull away, but the Ad-hene doesn’t seem to notice. That he touched me. That I felt something.

  I pretend not to notice either.

  “We’ll find your king.” Kieran pushes off the ledge and starts to drift back to the doorway.

  “Kieran?” I call out, and the Ad-hene pauses. He looks like the statue of some garden god, stowed away between the blanketed plants.

  “Thank you for leaving your home. For helping us. It—it means a lot.” I’m lying. Him being here doesn’t just mean a lot.

  It means everything.

  The Manx spirit plays his statue role well—as if my gratitude has wintered his very bones. Finally he gives a stiff nod and disappears back into the house. I rub my arm and watch the space he left.

  In the harsh black patch of sky beyond, the north star begins to bloom.

  We wait.

  I spend hours on the rooftop, scanning blue skies for the sparrow. There are scores of them, but none wing my way. None of them carry the news we so badly need.

  Anabelle treats the house like a medieval fortress, or a blitz bomb shelter. The window shades stay drawn, even in the height of day. Every thirty minutes she peers through the front door’s mail slot—scanning the street for suspicious vehicles. At least one of the six television screens is always on: an endless barrage of Coronation Day replays, riot reports, and exclusive interviews.

  The princess’s second distraction is a slightly more useful one. Cooking. She plunged into the vast walk-in pantry, armed with spatulas and whisks and Kieran’s magic to help substitute all the missing ingredients. By the end of the next day, the dining table is crammed full of Anabelle’s culinary pursuits: soufflés, cucumber sandwiches, petits fours, a whole lamb drizzled in mint sauce.

  More food than we could eat in a month. And I certainly don’t plan on being here that long.

  I didn’t even plan on being here this long. Titania’s answer should’ve been here by now. A thought which makes my stomach turn. Makes the platters of food in front of me useless.

  “I can’t believe you lied about liking the fish and chips!” Anabelle’s pretty face is twisted into a mock scowl—more smile than smirk—as she looks over at Kieran.

  Kieran looks only half-petrified as he watches the princess sort through all the dishes she fixed between newscasts and mail-slot spying.
He stumbles for an answer. “It—it was not my favorite. I didn’t want you to feel poorly.”

  “We’re going to find something you like.” She grabs a spoon and a soufflé and sets them both in front of the stiff spirit. “Try this. It’s chocolate. Everyone likes chocolate.”

  He grasps the stem of the spoon full-fisted and shoves it into the airy cake. Chocolate—molten, sweet, and crumbly—drips from the spoon’s edge into his mouth. Kieran swallows the spoonful and sets the utensil down. I can see he’s trying his hardest to keep his face straight.

  “Really? But it’s chocolate!” The princess rescues the soufflé and takes a spoonful of her own. “Delicious, gooey, fattening chocolate!”

  “It’s—not my favorite,” he says again.

  “Right, then. We’ll strike all things sinful and delicious off the list.” Anabelle reaches for another dish. “What about black pudding?”

  “Sounds ominous.” Kieran looks from the dish of blood sausage to where I sit. “Still no sparrow?”

  I shake my head, and Anabelle then prods the Ad-hene on, “You’re not getting out of this that easily. Try it.”

  He obeys, using his chocolate-coated soufflé spoon. This time he doesn’t bother hiding his distaste.

  “Let me guess. It’s not your favorite.” Anabelle isn’t even pretending to scowl now. Her smile is the kind which holds back a laugh. An infectious thing which spreads to Kieran’s features: The lines of his face rearrange into something soft, almost human.

  The Ad-hene shakes his head. She reaches for another dish.

  I’m not sure if I can keep sitting here. With so much food and almost-laughter I have no appetite for. Neither of them seems to notice when I make my exit up to the roof, where the skies grow dark and no birds fly. I pull out a lounge chair anyway, watching and waiting for something that never comes.

  By the time I go back downstairs the kitchen is clean and the food put away. Most of the lights are off, and with all the curtains drawn I have to fumble my way around islands of antique furniture. There’s a single slice of light, drawn down the very end of the long hall.

  I stop just at the end of the jarred door, peer into the master bedroom.

  The television is on, flashing the same awful footage of the Black Dog taking apart the crowd. Anabelle sits in front of it, cross-legged, her hair damp and dripping from the shower. But she isn’t looking at the screen. She’s focused on the fire in her palms—the same false heat and harmless flames Kieran offered her in the Labyrinth. She’s bolder with it this time, molding it like artist’s clay with her fingers.

  The twist of heat fills Kieran’s eyes as he watches Anabelle. In his hands are a fork and a canning jar full of beetroot. He chews the vegetable slowly as he focuses on the flames, the princess manipulating them.

  I see he’s found something he likes.

  “Impressive,” the Ad-hene says as she lassoes the fire into a knot.

  Pink begins to creep into Anabelle’s cheeks. “I was just muddling around.”

  “No one’s taught you how to wield your magic, have they?” The Ad-hene edges closer to her. Her flame.

  “Who said anything about magic?” Anabelle’s voice goes sharp. “I just wanted this for my hair. Next best thing to a blow dryer.”

  “You’re manipulating my spell.” Kieran nods at the fire in her palms. “Changing its very structure. That’s something not even the Fae can do.”

  Anabelle’s eyes widen. She takes both palms and crumples the flame, traps it like a moth in the cage of her fingers. “I—I didn’t know.”

  The Ad-hene stays still for a moment. Embers flicker in the gaps of the princess’s fingers, flecking light into both of their faces. The screen behind them slides into a shot of the Palace of Westminster. Protestors and signs swarm around it, boiling with anger.

  “In the square you were building a spell, but you did not unleash it. You’re afraid,” Kieran says, as sure and solid as if he’s read her soul. “Why?”

  “I don’t—I’m not—” The red of Anabelle’s cheeks grows deeper. I’ve never seen her so flustered before.

  “You shouldn’t be afraid of power,” Kieran tells her. “It’s a gift.”

  “I’m not afraid of power,” the princess says, her hands still clasped over the flame. “I’m afraid of hurting people. Of losing control.”

  “So you think that it’s better to hide your nature? Ignore it?” Kieran sets down his half-finished beetroot jar and grabs her hand, folding her palms open. The fire rears up again, sears the air between them. “You can’t escape who you are, Princess. Perhaps for a while. But your true self will always rise in the end. It will always shine through.”

  The princess looks down at the flame in her hands. At the Ad-hene’s fingers wrapped around hers. “Emrys told me it’s dangerous. She made me promise not to use it.”

  “How can Lady Emrys tell you what to do with your power when she’s too afraid to embrace her own?”

  My breath goes sharp, taking in the stab of his words. I’m leaning so hard against the hallway wall that my shoulder’s gone numb.

  “She’s not afraid.” Anabelle is playing with the fire again, letting it dance up her arm, wrap around Kieran’s fingers. “She’s in love.”

  “I’m not sure I would know how to tell the difference.” The Ad-hene watches the tendrils of flame creep up his sleeve. His eyes grow brighter. “Have you ever been in love?”

  “There were a few boys I fancied in school, but not like that. Not yet.” Anabelle looks at him through the fire. “You?”

  He doesn’t answer. Their fire burns in silence: shimmer, flicker, shake. Beautiful heat. The whole room radiates with it.

  “Do you think I could learn? How to do spells without . . . without hurting people?” Anabelle asks. “Could you teach me?”

  I nudge the door with my foot. It falls open with a creak. Anabelle jerks away from the Ad-hene’s touch. The fire in her palm flares, as if it’s been fed a shot of petrol. Kieran doesn’t move.

  My heart beats hollow in my throat—all the emptiness of the sky and the hollowed space inside my chest threatening to spill out. I point to the fire in Anabelle’s hands. “Put it out.”

  “I was just drying my hair. Bridget took her blow dryer with her,” she says. “I’m not doing anything wrong.”

  “Belle, you don’t know what you’re messing with. . . .” I’m not sure if I’m talking about the Ad-hene or the flame. Probably both.

  “What?” Anabelle stands, so we’re eye-to-eye. “Because it’s dangerous?”

  “Yes.” My throat strains from trying not to yell.

  “Dangerous how?” There’s an edge of challenge in the princess’s voice. Her steel-self rising, clad in all of Kieran’s clever, silver words.

  “The Fae’s magic is fueled by nature. Mortals’ magic is fueled by emotion. It’s less stable,” I tell her.

  “What’s so bad about that?” Anabelle asks. “I’m sick of sitting in this house and baking soufflés! I want to do something, Emrys! And now I can.”

  I think of the last age when mortals wielded magic so freely. How its reign ended with King Arthur’s death—in an awful field of blood and fire.

  I cannot let our new Camelot burn.

  “You’re not ready,” I tell her.

  The flame in Anabelle’s hand jumps brighter, becomes a flickering veil between us. I feel its heat, her anger, from all the way across the room. “You just want to keep me from doing magic because you can’t!”

  Her words wrap around my heart like a bullwhip. I can’t stop the anger it wakes.

  “I chose it. To be with your brother.”

  “Then let me have my choice!” she yells back.

  The fire soars now. Behind that raging screen of flames the princess looks . . . wild. Her hair is everywhere, streams of gold touched by Midas. The fire’s light hollows out her cheeks, burnishes the anger in her eyes.

  I walk over to where she stands and grab the flames. My pal
ms smart, sting with the heat, but I don’t let go.

  At first it’s like plunging my hand into a bucket of eels, grasping writhe and slip. But then I dredge up the remainder of my magic. It’s enough to reap the flames, pluck them from the princess’s trembling fingers.

  “You don’t know what you’re dealing with, Belle.” I press the fire down in my raw palms, squash it like an insect. The room flickers with its death throes. “This isn’t a game. This is life and death.”

  For a long moment we stand, opposite each other. Anabelle’s hands have curled into fists.

  “I don’t know because you won’t tell me! Stop treating me like a child!”

  I open my mouth to speak, but it doesn’t matter. She’s already left the room. The door slams shut behind her, so hard the window frames shudder.

  “I think, perhaps, the princess is right.” Kieran stands. One side of the Ad-hene’s face is lit bright by the screen. It’s showing the mob by the Parliament building again. Patches of fire rise up from the vastness of the crowd. I blink, wonder if I’m seeing things.

  I tuck my throbbing palms into my sleeves. “I thought your fire was harmless.”

  “Only to those who can handle it,” he says. “The princess has power. It will keep rising whether you show her how to harness it or not.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I grit my teeth, angry. He wasn’t there, standing in the mud-churned field, surrounded by so much blood and death. He doesn’t know, can’t know, the destruction human magic has wrought.

  “Perhaps not. But I know you are afraid.” Kieran places a hand on my shoulder. It’s a deliberate touch this time, the furthest thing from an accident. The prickly feeling blooms in my stomach this time, winds up my spine.

  Magic and want and the something else I tried so hard to ignore on the rooftop.

  I feel the same way I did in Trafalgar Square—frozen, exposed. Too stunned, too aware to pull away.

  “You’re afraid.” He stares straight into my eyes as he says this. The gray of sorrow and storm, vicious and vulnerable all at once. “But you don’t have to be. You feel alone, but you aren’t.”