Dearest

  He might never understand his brother, but he loved him all the same.

  Elisa stared at Tristan with scolding blue eyes and pointed to each of the speakers in turn, indicating that they were saying exactly what was on her mind, since she could not speak the words herself. She laid the cloth on him again; this time he growled like Sebastien and removed her hand. “Can’t think . . . when you’re . . . doing that,” he said as gently as he could.

  “Wimp,” said Bernard.

  “Girl,” said Rene.

  “You must let her tend to it, Tristan. It looks terrible,” said Christian.

  Elisa pointed at Christian.

  “I’ll be fine,” said Tristan. “Just . . . give me . . . a moment.” It hurt to breathe. Elisa summoned the breeze in to cool his skin, since he would not let her touch him, and he welcomed it. It danced through her golden hair and set the candlelight flickering. Despite all the things Tristan hated about this curse, he was glad it masked his sister’s natural beauty by day, though he did miss the sound of her voice and the music of her laughter. There had been such joy in their lives once, so long ago that Tristan had almost forgotten what it felt like.

  “What are we waiting for, exactly?” asked Bernard.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” François sat apart from them all, his nose buried in another book. “He’s waiting for the girl.”

  “She won’t be back,” growled Philippe. Tristan smiled. He could tell his brother didn’t believe that any more than Tristan himself did.

  There was a deep, rumbling bark from the far edge of the open floor, and the brothers all turned to witness something they had not seen or heard in a very long time: Sebastien laughing. The sound was as disturbing as it was amusing. Their eldest brother scratched his short, dark beard and the sparse pelt of hair on his chest. “Tristan’s in love.”

  Something else washed over Tristan then, something not pain but just as powerful. Love? Really? He’d definitely felt something since daybreak—a pull like a fist clasped round his heart—but . . . love? He didn’t even know her name! Since their parents had died, none of them but Sebastien had ever been in the position to love anyone but one another.

  Tristan wondered what role the girl would play in their future. She could only have found them if the Gods of Air had led her here and allowed her passage. But why?

  And why did he seem to know with extreme certainty that she would be walking through that Elder Wood door at any moment?

  “Dunno,” Tristan managed to say. “She means . . . something.”

  “Trouble,” said Bernard.

  “Doom,” said Rene.

  Tristan expected no less from his elder twins.

  “Perhaps it’s time to break the curse,” François suggested from his corner.

  Tristan saw Elisa’s shudder. Breaking the curse meant facing Mordant again, the man who had killed their parents and taken Elisa for his intended bride. Their curse had been the price of her refusal. Mordant’s sorceress had changed them into swans and a plain-faced serving girl. Thusly the heirs to the throne of Kassora, high seat of the Green Isles, had fled, eventually making their way west toward Faerie, into the heart of Arilland.

  Though the brothers were forced into swanhood by day, it was worse for Elisa, who could not allow herself to speak a word aloud. If she did, the curse would trap her brothers’ souls inside their beastly bodies forevermore. She had hopped from orphanage to orphanage until she was finally sold to the royal kitchens here at the palace. The cook seemed to genuinely care for Elisa, fostered her as well as any guardian might, and for the first time in many years the siblings held some small hope of breaking the curse. For it was not out of the ordinary for swans to inhabit the royal gardens, and no one was hunting a mousy girl named Rampion.

  A gentle hand knocked on the door; had Tristan not been holding his breath in wait for it, he might have missed the faint sound. “She’s here,” he whispered.

  The wind whipped through the broken room as Elisa startled; her spells, which had been keeping it at bay, faltered briefly. The older brothers merely stared at the door as if in fear of what lay beyond. It was François, the youngest, who finally put down his book, wrapped a blanket about his waist, and went to open it. The rest of them scrambled for skin coverings of their own as she stepped tenuously into the room.

  Oh, how Tristan’s soul had missed her.

  What?

  A nameless force clenched round his heart again. This was a ridiculous feeling—he hadn’t even known her a full day!—but it was there, nonetheless.

  She looked smaller than he remembered. He shook off the swan’s memory; humans would not have referred to this girl as either small or slight. She was healthy, as a young woman might be who could climb terribly long flights of stairs on a regular basis. Her cheeks were flushed from the exercise. Rich mahogany curls spilled over her shoulders in a wild thicket—for a moment he saw blossoms sprinkled in that riot of hair, but then the moment was gone. She too had covered herself with more clothing this time, though merely a simple skirt and shirt, and she carried a large basket. There were slippers on her feet. Those feet did not venture far beyond the safety of the Elder Wood door.

  Tristan realized how physically and mentally exhausting it must have been for her to make the journey back up here after falling so far. He wanted to go to her, to save her the trouble of having to come farther in the room to where he lay. Elisa put a hand on his chest to still him.

  The girl braved one more step into the room before breaking the silence with her sweet voice. “I think you saved me,” she said to him. “I think you all saved me. And I thank you for that.” She set the basket down on the floor between them. “There is some food in there. A few more blankets. And a book.” She did not look at François—did not look at any of them—as she slowly backed away. “I’m sorry it couldn’t be more.” One more step back. She was outside the door now. “I should go.”

  “Please.” It was Sebastien who spoke the words that bled from Tristan’s heart. “Stay.”

  The girl smiled down at her slippers; her whole body seemed to soften and relax with the expression. Tristan wished she would smile at him like that. And then, as if he’d said the words aloud, she did. Her gaze hit him like a blow to the chest and took his breath from him. Or that might have been Elisa’s cloth at his wound again. He growled and slapped his sister’s hand away once more.

  “My name is Friday.” Her voice was as soothing as a nurse at the bedside of a wounded warrior.

  Elisa gave up and tossed her rag at Tristan. She stood, faced the girl, and then curtseyed low.

  “Oh no, really. Please. You don’t have to do that,” said Friday.

  “You’re the princess who minds the children.” Of all of them, François retained the most memories from his days as a swan. Tristan was only ever left with a stiffness in his shoulder muscles, the briny taste of fish on his tongue, and hazy, half-formed dreams.

  “I am merely the daughter of a woodcutter and a devotee of the Earth Goddess,” she said. “But yes, my little sister happens to be the queen here. And yes, I lead an army of laundry-cleaning children. Such a glamorous life.” She pulled back the cloth that covered the basket’s contents. “I wasn’t sure if men who turned to swans would have the stomach for meat pies, so I selected some simpler rolls and pastries. I don’t think the kitchen will miss them.”

  Rene and Bernard got over their shyness enough to snatch the basket out of her hand and rummage through it like a couple of starved kobolds. Elisa scrambled to retrieve the blanket they’d dropped and held it up to shield the princess from the twins’ nakedness.

  “Cinnamon! I smell cinnamon. Dibs on the cinnamon thing, whatever it is.”

  “Move your elbow, lout. Don’t mind the soft rolls, the old men can eat those. Ooh, I think I see a pie! Here’s your cinnamon thing. Now get your arm out of my face before I break it.”

  Both the “old men”—Sebastien and Christian—chuckled at the twins.

>   “Your kindness is most appreciated,” said Sebastien. “It’s not often we see such treats.”

  “Surely Rampion brings you bread from the kitchens,” said the princess.

  “We don’t encourage it,” said Christian. “We don’t want her . . . reprimanded.”

  Friday took another step forward, closer to Tristan. He wasn’t sure if she noticed, but he did. Her presence pulled at him, and he yearned for it. He wanted to keep her, to protect her, to save her all over again. He wanted to hold her and stop her from trembling. He never wanted her to be afraid again.

  He screamed at the sky, in pain borne of frustration rather than blood. “WHAT IS THIS?” Tristan yelled at the princess, at the world, at the gods, and then immediately regretted his action. His first words to her should have been ones of kindness and introduction, not anger and confusion . . . but he’d had enough of feeling this strangeness between them without being able to define it.

  Slowly, Friday shuffled her feet toward his prone body. When she became uncomfortable walking, she lowered herself to her knees and scooted up beside him. “I have just as many sisters as you have brothers, if you can believe that,” she said. “One of my older sisters, Wednesday, is a powerful fey. The evil king who lived here—the current king’s father—tried to bind her power to him in this very room, and in doing so almost destroyed it.” The more she spoke, the less she trembled. Tristan tried to concentrate on her words.

  She waved a hand to the crumbling half-walls that surrounded them, but did not follow it with her eyes. “After the king died, Wednesday came back to this place and used binding magic to secure the stones and keep them from crumbling. Some who are sensitive to these things say they can still feel her magic in the mortar, fusing the tower into one solid structure.”

  “What does this . . . have to do with . . . ?” He didn’t need to finish.

  “My little sister—the queen—believes that Wednesday’s magic bound together more than just the stones of this tower. Sunday thinks that Wednesday strengthened many other bonds here in the castle, both tangible and intangible. Soldiers became more loyal. Families grew closer, our own certainly. And people whose destinies were meant to intertwine have been . . . particularly drawn to each other.”

  “So this . . . is destiny?” As if Tristan hadn’t had enough of Fate’s meddling handiwork.

  “Call it what you will, based on your own experiences and beliefs.” The comment was worthy of a dedicate. In which of the gods’ houses did she say she served? Earth? No wonder she was so ill at ease at this altitude. “Either way, I am here now, and I would like to help you. If you would let me.”

  “Are you a physician?” Rene asked her, despite the fact that she clearly wasn’t.

  To her credit the princess did not rise to his brother’s goading. “I am not a healer,” she said humbly. “I am a seamstress.”

  “Do you use skin as fabric regularly?” Bernard asked in a similarly mocking tone.

  “I have experience with leather and sheepskin. And I have a magic needle.” She pulled said needle from a seam inside the shoulder of her shirt. “After the king died, I sewed a goose back together with a thread made from the blood of a monster. The goose had previously been my sister Wednesday. By all accounts, both the goose and Wednesday are thriving.”

  “You have a strange family,” said Philippe.

  “So do we,” admitted François. Elisa pointed at him in agreement.

  But even Philippe’s rancor didn’t seem to bother the princess. She removed a spool of white silken thread from the pocket of her skirt. “I should warn you, though: the goose now lays golden eggs. I don’t think you’ll start doing the same, but I won’t continue if you don’t want to risk it. The choice is yours.”

  He didn’t want to smile at her, but Tristan couldn’t help himself. She smiled back at him, and in that moment she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.

  Destiny, maybe. But love? Bah. Ridiculous.

  “Go on.” The command came from Sebastien. “He can take it.”

  Friday still waited for Tristan’s nod of agreement. “The goose couldn’t tell me otherwise, but I imagine this is going to hurt.” She reached out to touch the flesh of his marred chest with her hand and a dark blue flame of lightning shot from his skin to hers. Tristan watched as the indigo spark leapt from them to the floor, splitting and dancing between the stones.

  Judging by Friday’s expression, a similar event had not happened with the goose.

  “Was that painful?”

  He shook his head, afraid that if he opened his mouth, one emotion or another would betray him. He wasn’t lying; the spark had tingled, but it hadn’t hurt. No more than his current wound already did.

  Her needle, on the other hand, lanced through his flesh like a firebrand. Sebastien, at the ready, shoved the corner of a blanket into Tristan’s mouth to muffle his screams. He bit down hard. His muscles spasmed. His eyes welled up against his will. He could tell Friday’s jaw was clenched, but she remained steady. He did his best to remain steady for her.

  Stitch by stitch, she continued sewing him up with fire. Tears began to course down her cheeks too. Did she feel sorry for him? Was she losing her determination? Her tears made him angry, which was good, because the anger kept him conscious. She knew virtually nothing about him, his past, or his family. There was no way she could know what an excruciating punishment this was. What right had she to cry?

  Suddenly there was a new pain: the fingers of Tristan’s right hand were being crushed by his sister. Elisa stared at the princess over Tristan’s body with a look that could cut glass.

  “But I don’t know what else to do,” Friday whispered, as if in answer to an unspoken question. “I must go slowly to make sure every stitch is right.” She paused for a beat, and her beautiful features screwed up in an expression of . . . pain? Helplessness? Fear?

  She shrugged, and then nodded. “Okay,” she said. “It’s just . . . I’ve never . . . I don’t know . . .” Her words trailed off into nothing.

  Had Tristan succumbed to delirium? With whom was she speaking?

  Friday pulled her needle through his flesh one last time before cutting it loose from the thread with a small knife and replacing it in the seam of her shirt. Was she finished? Tristan’s senses were so dazzled by the pain he couldn’t tell. She reached out to him again, this time laying her palm flat against his wound. There was another spark of magic flame—deep red instead of blue—and the pain was suddenly gone.

  Friday fell away and collapsed into Christian’s arms, unconscious.

  “What did she do?” Tristan sat up. “There’s no pain.”

  “There’s no wound,” said Bernard.

  Tristan twisted this way and that, ran his hands incredulously up and down his chest. His brother was right—there was nothing: no cut, no scar, no evidence that he had ever been injured. What had she done?

  “She said she wasn’t a healer.” Tristan took the princess from his brother and cradled her in his own arms. As she shifted, her shirt pressed flat against her left side. Just beneath her left breast, a flower of blood began to soak through the linen there. Had she been wearing a bodice, they never would have seen it.

  “She’s not a healer,” said François. “She’s an Empath.”

  “Idiot!” Philippe yelled to the skies. He could have been referring to Friday or Tristan. Or both.

  Less enigmatically, Rene smacked Tristan on the back of the head.

  “You’ve gone and killed a princess,” said Bernard.

  Tristan could feel her warm body breathing in his arms, however shallow. “She’s not dead,” he snapped.

  “Not yet,” said Rene.

  “She’s an Empath more powerful than I’ve ever seen,” said Sebastien. “She didn’t just feel your pain; she took it from you completely.”

  Tristan held the princess tighter, cursing himself for the selfish thoughts he’d had while she was trying to heal him. “Will she be all ri
ght?”

  “Let her go and let me see.”

  Tristan might not have released his hold on her for anyone other than Christian, the most levelheaded of the brothers. Christian lifted Friday’s shirt, gently and modestly, uncovering the wound and nothing more. “It’s sewn,” he announced after his examination, “and nicely, too. The blood there seems to be entirely superficial.” He blotted it away with the corner of a blanket and lowered her shirt again. “Worry not, brother. She will heal.”

  “I bore the burden of the sewing, but she will bear the scar I was meant to have.” Tristan tried not to be angry with her again, this time for being stronger than he.

  “Who is she?” Tristan asked again.

  “She is your destiny,” Sebastien told him.

  Tristan had had enough of this nonsense, magic flames and all. “But I don’t want a destiny!”

  “People seldom do. Just ask my sisters.” The soft body in his arms shook with a chuckle, followed by a wince. “Goddess, that hurts. Remind me not to be funny again for a while.”

  “She’s alive!” shouted Rene.

  “Incredible,” said Bernard.

  Her eyes fluttered open and those gray depths looked right at Tristan. “What happened?”

  “You took my wound,” he told her. “You just took it. It’s yours now.”

  She raised her right arm to her left side and winced again. “That’s new.”

  “Luckily, you took the stitches as well,” said Christian. “It already looks much better. I believe you’ll be fine . . . in time.”

  Was his brother mad? So little about this whole situation was fine.

  “I take it you don’t do this sort of magic often?” Tristan asked her.

  “Beyond sewing, I’ve performed little magic at all personally, though it does run in my family.” Friday shook her head a little. “This is definitely a first.”