Dearest

  And then the brothers came down the stairs.

  The twins were the first to descend, framing their sister’s beauty. They wore uniforms of the Royal Guard of Arilland, only the sashes and epaulets had been changed from burgundy and gold to forest green and silver. With their deep auburn hair washed, trimmed, and brushed, Friday hardly recognized them. François and Christian followed. As heir apparent, Christian wore one of Rumbold’s seals of office to note his station. He waved in response to the generous cheering by the women in the crowd below.

  There was no sign of Philippe.

  One more figure appeared at the top of the stair, but this time the crowd fell silent. Unlike his decorated brothers, Tristan wore only a pair of black trousers and a full white shirt with billowing sleeves. The shirt had a high collar, and his waist was secured by a wide belt with a series of straps and buckles that fastened at his side. The shirt fell away at the back, like Friday’s own gown, but where Friday merely had skin, Tristan had wings.

  Tristan looked down at the crowd, and Friday sensed his discomfort. While she knew the silence was borne of awe and reverence, she could tell that Tristan was afraid he was not welcome. She saw him pause, take a step back.

  Friday leapt forward before he could flee. She let go of the girls’ hands and caught up the voluminous material of her skirts so that she wouldn’t trip as she bounded up the steps. She felt the pins in her hair slip and knew she must be trailing a stream of flowers and ribbons in her wake. She didn’t care.

  Tristan met her halfway. Friday released her gown, letting the material fall back down to her toes and anchor her on the steps while she caught her breath. Tristan took her hands in his. “It’s good to see you too, princess.” He kissed the back of one, and then the other, just as he had when they’d parted on the shore.

  This time, the roar of the crowd was deafening.

  “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come,” said Friday.

  He smiled wanly. She loved his smile. “I was beginning to think I wouldn’t, either.”

  She’d have been sad if he had left her to celebrate their success all by herself. “What made you change your mind?”

  “Your brother swore to me that I am not the strangest thing this country has seen.”

  Friday wondered which of the Woodcutter tales Peter had chosen to tell Tristan. “He is right. But you must know there is nothing strange about the sight of you. You are magnificent. Like an angel.”

  He kissed her hand again. “Sweet princess, you are much closer to a true angel than I’ll ever be.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “You saved my life, Friday, long before the curse was lifted. I owe you far more than flattery, and I mean to repay that debt.”

  “Do you?” she teased. “How?”

  “With all I have,” he whispered solemnly. “For the rest of my life.”

  Friday’s heart grew its own wings and fluttered in her breast. She felt her cheeks redden at his kind words. “What would my father say?”

  “Quite a bit, actually,” said Tristan. “I was the recipient of both a stern lecture and a rather odd story about your mother and a white goose. I think it was a humorous tale, but I admit, I was afraid to laugh. I’m pretty sure your father could break me in two with one hand. Have you seen the size of his arms? He and your brother just finished building a ship. Single-handedly, I’ve no doubt.”

  “Have you seen the size of your wings? I’ve heard tales of swans who could break a man’s bones with much less.” Friday put a hand on Tristan’s chest; she could feel the heat of him through the fine silk shirt and yearned for that warmth.

  “Excuse me,” said Peter.

  “Peter!” Friday exclaimed. “You’ve finished the ship! That’s wonderful!”

  “Thank you, sister dear,” said Peter. “But if it’s all the same to you, half of those people down there are holding their breath to see if this oversized crow is going to fly away with you, and the rest of us would like to start dancing. So when you’ve quite finished exchanging sonnets, would you both mind floating down here among the rest of us?”

  Peter hopped down the stairs, swept Elisa up into his arms, and signaled for the music to start. With a cursory glance to the king and queen for approval, the merry band complied.

  “Where is Philippe?” Friday asked quickly before they reached the main floor.

  “He got upset and walked out,” said Tristan. “Don’t worry. I’ll find him.”

  Friday was worried, but there was no time to explain. As expected, once she and Tristan finished descending the staircase, there was no more opportunity for a private chat. The children fawned over Tristan with an unabashed adoration the adults could not show, asking politely if they could touch his wings, along with a myriad of other questions.

  “Do your wings hurt?” asked Pickle Kate.

  “My shoulders and back ache a bit; they’re heavier than they look. But where you’re touching them, it kind of tickles.”

  “Can you fly?” asked another John.

  “I don’t know,” said Tristan. “I’m a little afraid to try.”

  “Because it might work?” asked another boy. “Or because it might not?”

  “Both,” said Tristan.

  “Are you going to take Friday back to your kingdom with you?” This was from Michael. The boy faced Tristan in a defensive, cross-armed stance.

  Tristan’s mottled blue eyes met Friday’s. “We haven’t discussed that yet.”

  “But you are leaving, right? To take your castle back from that evil man and his witch?” Had the boy been talking to Philippe?

  “I’m not much of a prince without a kingdom, am I? Your Friday deserves more than some plain old man with messy hair and wings.”

  Most of the children nodded approvingly, but Michael did not let up on his scrutiny. Tristan got down on one knee so that he and the boy were eye to eye. “I promise you that I will not do anything without asking Friday’s permission first. All right?”

  Michael let his arms fall. “All right.”

  If there was more to their conversation Friday did not hear it, as Christian caught her up in the next dance. All the brothers took their turn with her—Friday was ready to beg off dancing altogether when she was pulled in once more by the strong arms of her father. He swept her off her feet in a giant bear hug and then twirled her around the floor like he had when she was a girl.

  “It’s good to see you, Papa.”

  “Likewise, sweetheart. How’s your white-winged scoundrel?”

  Friday laughed. “Tristan is a good man, Papa.”

  “And as soon as he proves that to me, I’ll consider his worthiness with regard to my daughter,” Papa said. “Your heart has had dubious taste in the weaker sex before.” He raised his eyebrows at a corner of the room, where a tall, gangly lad sat by himself sipping gingerly at a glass of green punch.

  “Oh, poor Panser. I had quite the childhood crush on him, didn’t I?”

  “Poor boy, indeed! He’ll probably never be the same again.”

  Friday turned to follow Panser’s gaze across the dance floor—he was staring at a brown-skinned young girl who was standing by herself with her own glass of punch, swaying gently to the music. “I think he’ll be just fine,” said Friday.

  “And you, my sweet one? How will you be?”

  “I will be as I always am, Papa. Happy and free and surrounded by people I love until the day I die.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  Without warning, the trumpets sounded again. The Grand Marshal stepped forward once more and cleared his throat. “Prince Sebastien Swan and the Princess Odessa.”

  Friday’s mouth dropped open, as did everyone else’s in the room. Sure enough, the dark-haired prince appeared at the top of the stairs. The slight woman on his arm had golden skin, black eyes, and long hair as white as Tristan’s feathers. Much as Friday had, Sebastien’s siblings bounded up the stairs to tackle their eldest sibling with hugs. Tristan beat
them all, spreading his wings and lifting himself above everyone to make it to the top first.

  Well, then. That answered that question.

  “Surprise,” whispered Henry Humbug.

  Friday turned to the man in the stovepipe hat. “You did this?” she asked.

  Mr. Humbug rubbed his round belly. “The only ones who can break a curse are the gods, or the sorcerer who placed it,” he said. “But another magician can . . . bend the rules.”

  Friday had heard of this bending of magic before: Rumbold’s godmother had attempted something similar when Aunt Joy had cursed the then-prince into spending a year as a frog. “So they’re not human again,” she said sadly.

  “Oh, they are,” corrected Mr. Humbug, “but only every full moon. It was the best I could manage.”

  Friday gave the stout man her own bear hug. “You are wonderful, Mr. Humbug. So very, very wonderful!”

  The man’s cheeks flushed above his mustache. “Thank you, milady.”

  “Might I request the pleasure of your company in this next dance?”

  Mr. Humbug chuckled. “It would be an honor, my dear. An honor, indeed.”

  Friday laughed as she spun around on the dance floor once again, happy and free and surrounded by people she loved. If there was to be another night in her life as glorious as this one, she felt hard pressed to imagine it, so she made sure to fill every second with joy.

  Some time long into the dancing, Tristan finally managed to take her aside. “We didn’t have a chance to finish our chat,” he said.

  “We didn’t,” said Friday. “What do you suggest?”

  “Things seem to be winding down. Why don’t you meet me at the base of the sky tower in, say, an hour or so? Unless you’re tired, of course.”

  Friday never wanted to sleep again. “I’ll be there.”

  As soon as she said the words, the crowd pulled them apart once more, but Friday didn’t mind. She would be meeting the man she loved in an hour or so, and they would have the rest of this glorious night to plan their future.

  When the time came, Friday used Monday’s yawn to excuse herself. She bade everyone good night and gave hugs to all that she passed on her way back to the tower. The torches in the wall sconces were dim, but her heart was light, and she danced down the corridor until she arrived at the base of the steps to the tower where she and Tristan had met.

  Friday leaned back against the cold stone walls and remembered that night she’d fallen from the tower, and those days afterward. She stood until her legs got tired, then slid to the floor, lost in her happy memories.

  When she woke—had she fallen asleep?—she wondered if she’d heard Tristan wrong. Had he wanted to meet at the top of the tower? He would have had to pass her here in the hallway—unless he’d flown. Second-guessing herself, she began to climb the steps of the sky tower, stopping only when she came to the first window. Judging from the fluffy white clouds on the horizon, it was well past dawn.

  Tristan had not come for her.

  14

  Nefarious Purposes

  TRISTAN AWOKE and regretted it instantly.

  His vision was blurry and it felt as if a kelpie had danced on his noggin. His body ached from tip to toe and his face was pressed into . . . the floor? There wasn’t enough nettle punch in the world to make him fall asleep on the floor fully clothed, not that he’d had time to drink any.

  What had happened?

  He remembered his conversation with Friday on the stairs at the ball. After he’d very reluctantly left her side, there hadn’t been so much as a pause in his conversations with his sister, his brothers, and the residents and refugees of Arilland. He’d only run into Friday once after their parting; he remembered that too. She had promised to meet him at the base of the sky tower. She was probably there now, waiting for him.

  But he was here . . . wherever here was.

  Wincing, Tristan opened his eyes. He couldn’t straighten his wings without standing. As he didn’t seem to be able to summon the energy for that, he waited for his sight to adjust in the darkness. A cool breeze brushed the cheek that wasn’t kissing the ground. There was a tang in the air. The floor beneath him creaked. He was on a ship. And there was only one ship he was aware of that had recently been in the vicinity of Arilland.

  Mordant’s.

  A shaft of light sliced through the cracks in the porthole and illuminated his surroundings. He was in a prison cell, a large cage, in the hold of a ship. Several other bodies lay unconscious on the floor beside him. The brightness of the light told him it was morning.

  His addled brain brought back his conversation with Friday. She was supposed to meet him. He hoped to the gods that hers was not one of the bodies here with him. Tristan got to his hands and knees to check on his cellmates. He discovered one brother after another and finally Elisa, curled up in the corner around a large swan. Sebastien. All his family was here, then, except Friday. And Philippe.

  Had Tristan felt better, he would have laughed at the irony. Philippe had never returned after walking out of the bathhouse. He might still be cooling off somewhere or—more likely—he had stolen a horse and was attempting to hunt down Mordant and kill him all by himself. If Philippe had only been patient and stayed with his family, he’d be exactly where he wanted to be. Funny how Fate worked out.

  The rest of Tristan’s human brothers groaned and shook off the sleep spell. If Mordant wanted to kill them, he would have done so already. Imprisoning them like this meant that Mordant had more nefarious purposes in mind. For Elisa, death would be more pleasant than another moment in Mordant’s company.

  Tristan shivered. Rumbold’s armorer had made this shirt suitable for a warm ballroom, but not much else. Tristan stretched his wings out as far as he could and worked on wrapping them around himself like a cloak. The effort alone made him sweat, and for that he was thankful.

  How had Mordant captured them? The ship had fled after the breaking of the curse, but then it must have doubled back around under some sort of magical cloak. Gana could have easily managed that sort of thing, once her power had recharged.

  Philippe might not yet know of their kidnapping, but Friday would raise the alarm and send Rumbold’s forces after them in all haste. She would know he had not left her willingly. She would do whatever it took to be with him again.

  Wouldn’t she?

  Tristan tried to imagine the scene from Friday’s point of view. Many would believe that the siblings, now returned (mostly) to their former selves, would waste no time in going back to the Green Isles to reclaim their birthright. Only Velius had Christian’s word that they wanted to proceed with caution, and Friday had Tristan’s promise. He had promised her—in front of her flock—that he would not do anything with regard to their future without asking her permission first. And then he had disappeared.

  Somehow, he needed to send her a message.

  “Where are we?” asked one of the twins.

  “On a ship,” said Christian. “Mordant’s, no doubt.”

  The twins had a few other, more colorful names by which they referred to their captor.

  “I wholeheartedly agree,” Christian said to the twins. “Has he taken all of us?”

  Elisa sat up and wiped the sleep spell from her eyes. “I am here.”

  Tristan loved the sound of her voice.

  “Sebastien is here with me”—the swan honked at the sound of his name—“but not Odette.”

  “Then she isn’t far behind,” François pointed out. “Or she’s hiding on the ship somewhere.”

  “I propose we do nothing until Mordant reveals his intentions,” said Christian. “We’ll be able to make a better plan when we have more information.”

  While they waited, the twins decided that their cage was sturdy enough to resist being smashed to pieces, and that they were hungry enough to eat a whale. François found a lock but he was useless without a pick, so he busied himself by stretching his slight body as far as he could through the bars and tryi
ng to pull the contents of the hold—mostly crates and barrels—closer to their cell.

  Elisa worked to keep Sebastien calm. Swans were not meant to be caged, and Sebastien made sure everyone was aware of that fact. Elisa smoothed his feathers and spoke to him in a low cooing voice that eventually served to soothe the bird—and the rest of her brothers as well.

  No one was prepared for François’s scream. He writhed against the bars of the cage, left arm pinned awkwardly against what looked like . . . nothing. And then nothing’s face appeared, a shadow from the shadows with its black mask and red eyes.

  The Infidel.

  “Elisa, tell him to stop,” said Tristan. A woman’s voice had worked before; perhaps it would again.

  “Please stop,” Elisa said softly. “You’re hurting my brother.”

  The Infidel remained still as a black stone. So much for that theory.

  “That will do, my pet.” At the sorceress’s words, François’s body dropped to the ground. The twins flung themselves against the bars, swiping at the Infidel, but the man slunk back into the shadows. The sorceress’s cackle filled the air, as did the cloying smell of her perfume. “I trust you’ve all realized the futility of escape. The lock is charmed, and there is nothing but sea for miles.”

  “What do you want from us?” Christian asked.

  Gana reached a thin arm through the bars and traced the line of Elisa’s jaw with a crimson-nailed finger. “Such hopelessness. Such fear. Mmmm.” She kissed the finger. “You will be delicious.”

  “I’m going to lose my punch,” said Bernard.

  “Can’t you just put us back to sleep?” asked Rene.

  “Why would I do that? We’re almost home.”

  Home. The Green Isles. If it hadn’t been Gana speaking, the words would have been music to Tristan’s ears. But after so long an absence, what would they find?

  Gana smiled and turned back toward the stair. “I’m sure there’s something in this hold to keep you occupied.” She vanished into the light and let the heavy wooden hatch slam shut behind her.