“About time, if you ask me.”
“He deserves some happiness, lonely man.”
“Isn’t she a picture.”
“Why, she doesn’t even look surprised.”
“Probably in shock, the poor dear.”
It was the fantasy of every woman in that room that few dared dream for fear it might never happen: To be so singled out. To be so special. To be so unabashedly wanted by such a man. To be held in such arms and whisked away with such strength. That promise was what had brought most of these bodies to the assembly tonight. As the king strode across the room, each woman he passed wished with all her heart that someday someone would look at her with that much desire. All of them would be disappointed.
He could not have known her; the king made a point of being intimate with none of his subjects so that they might all speak with one voice. His indifference meant their equality. It also meant that the object of his current affection was nothing more to him than a beautiful stranger.
“I can’t believe it.”
“Could it be?”
“Oh, I wish...”
Sigh.
Rumbold experienced a moment of panic. He had a sixth sense when it came to Sunday; he now knew where she was in the room even without looking. Didn’t everyone else notice her? Every time he closed his eyes, he dreamt of her. Each blink brought him the sound of her voice, the shape of her lips, the curve of her neck, the smell of forests and firelight and candles, and his heartbeat as they danced.
That same heartbeat refused to continue until the far side of the room bowed low and his father stepped aside to reveal exactly whose hand he was taking. Yes, that was Velius next to the king and—relief flooded Rumbold—Sunday’s hand still rested lightly inside his cousin’s elbow. The woman they surrounded did not bend, however. She was a thin streak of darkness in the bright room, like a cloudless night peeping through the gap in a brocade curtain. Her silver-gray dress and wispy black hair added to the aura of magic about her.
“So enchanting.”
“Very ethereal.”
“She’s fey, of course.”
“She looks like...”
Gasp.
Rumbold was not close enough to see the color of her eyes, but he could guess they were some shade of violet. A score of years or so earlier, in softer light, this woman might have been Sorrow. No wonder she had drawn his father like a lodestone. His godmother would not be pleased.
The king took the woman’s hand and led her out on the dance floor. The plump woman in yellow sighed and held over her heart the hand Rumbold was to have taken. The king and his stranger were beautiful and romantic; their dance was a confection for lonely souls. The sheer power of it eclipsed Rumbold’s dance with Sunday as if it had never happened.
He was light and she was darkness, sun and shadow, fire and ash. They danced without words, spinning around and around so gracefully, it seemed as if their feet never touched the ground. They stole the breath of everyone they swept past. Every woman grew weak at the knees, and every man, overcome with sudden courage, turned to the closest woman and asked her to dance. Soon the whole company was caught up in the feeling. When there was no more room on the floor, people danced on balconies and steps and tables and chairs. They would all remember this night and tell the story again and again for as long as they lived. Bards crouched in the nooks and crannies, already composing tributes to this magical evening. The charming king of Arilland had fallen in love at first sight. There was no question that he would soon take this beautiful stranger as his bride. Fate had brought them together. Destiny. It was intoxicating.
No, Sorrow would not be pleased at all.
For the first time that night, Rumbold’s head was not filled with thoughts of his beloved or himself. Instead, he feared for this woman’s life.
***
When claustrophobia got the better of him, Rumbold removed himself to his velvet-cushioned chair on the balcony. From this vantage point, it was easier for Erik and him to keep watch over Sunday and her sisters, suddenly the most sought-after women at the ball. Despite all the energy from the monster inside Rumbold, physical weakness was getting the better of him. He would be devastated to collapse at the dainty feet of his beloved. Would she care? Once proven, was true love forever or just a fancy? He’d witnessed one too many affairs to be ignorant of the fact that the heart was a fickle beast. “Affairs.” The word tickled the edges of memory. He probably knew a great many women at this assembly far more intimately than their spouses ever suspected. There was so much unhappiness in the world; once upon a time he had drowned himself in it. He pitied people who’d never lost their hearts and souls to someone else. And minds. Yes, Rumbold was definitely losing his mind as well.
Velius all but leapt over Erik onto the balcony beside him. He had been absent now for the better part of two songs and was slightly worse for the wear after elbowing through the mad dancing throng. His jacket was crumpled, his boots were scuffed, strands of his perfect hair had escaped their queue, and his eyes were wild. Then again, his eyes were always wild.
“I am a fool,” he said.
Rumbold was glad he wasn’t the only one. “Erik,” said the prince, “your memory is currently a great deal more reliable than mine, but I would guess that my dear cousin has apologized for nothing since the beginning of time. Am I right?”
“Correct,Your Forgetfulness.”
Velius fell into the lavish chair opposite Rumbold and poured himself a healthy glass of red wine. “Stop being an idiot,” he said. The goblet was still as he held it, but the liquid trembled inside. He drank it like the traitor it was.
“I’m merely attempting to assess exactly what kind of trouble we’re in,” said Rumbold. “What happened out there?”
“I was a fool,” Velius repeated.
“We’ve established that. Then what happened? More important, is Sunday safe?”
“Yes, Cousin, your beloved still has all her limbs, though I imagine they are a bit worn out from dancing.” His gaze fell to the empty glass in his hands. “It’s her sister I’m worried about.”
“Her sister?” Erik asked. “Weekday or weekend?”
Velius grinned a little at that. “Wednesday.”
“‘Our Lady of Perpetual Shadow,’ ” Rumbold quoted.
“An apt description,” said Velius. “And your father’s current dance partner.”
Erik turned from his post near the entranceway. “What?”
The dancing couple was easy to spot. Despite the crush on the floor, there was a buffer of space around them. They spun like the sun chasing the moon. No words passed between them, only that unwavering stare. The romantics in the crowd whispered that it was love; to Rumbold, it looked more like each was sizing the other up.
“But how...?” He meant to ask after the strange resemblance. Velius answered a different question entirely.
“I’ll wager your girl is just as tormented as you are, Cousin. She also holds quite a bit of magic for one so fair. She’s a seventh-seventh, you know.”
“I thought that was a myth,” said Erik.
“It is and it isn’t,” said Velius. “Like most myths.”
“She told me once that the things she wrote down came true.”
“It’s a bit more than that, my fine cousin, but hopefully not more than her teacher can handle. I was only concerned that she not alert your godmother.”
Something niggled at the far reaches of Rumbold’s mind, and the prince recalled a vagueness about fairies and their power struggles. It was eclipsed by the small jealousy that his cousin knew things about Sunday that he did not.
“I disguised her magic with a glamour of my own so that if Sorrow commented, I could truthfully admit I was showing off to impress a lady.”
“What sort of glamour?” asked Rumbold.
“One that would make her feel slightly less alone in the world,” said Velius. “I showed her how many of the partygoers had fey in their blood.”
&nb
sp; “I didn’t notice anything strange,” said the prince.
“You have only what little fey you inherited from your mother,” said Velius. “You wouldn’t have noticed. Few at this assembly are powerful enough. Sunday is one.” He took another sip. “Your father is another.”
“My father doesn’t have a drop of fey blood in him,” said Rumbold.
“He did tonight.” Erik huffed. “A snootful of the most potent stuff in the castle.”
Rumbold started to ask the guard what he meant, but he had seen it himself. Sorrow had bent over the king and painted his lips with her blood, reversing some terrible aging spell. Tonight, the king had displayed boundless energy that Rumbold wished his own frail body possessed. There had been bite marks on Sorrow’s arm, angry and red for the world to see. The prince put a fingertip to his temple and massaged the searing pain there. “Is this something I’ve always known?” he asked his cousin.
At least Velius was honest. “I believe it’s something you’ve always suspected. But Sorrow has not been in residence for some time, so there must be some other key to his eternal youth.”
“How old is my father?”
“No one knows,” answered Erik.
“The kingdom forgot long ago,” Velius added. “Right around the same time we forgot his name.”
Rumbold felt the searing pain again, more like his rebirth in the woods than ever before, and he was thankful to be sitting down. He concentrated on the cool velvet beneath his clammy palms, soft like Sundays skin. He rubbed the silken silver ribbon between his fingers. He took several long, deep breaths, emptying his thoughts of all but her smile and the woods on a spring morning.
“Don’t try to recall it,” Velius warned him. “You can’t.”
“It shares that trait with the rest of my life.” Rumbold peeked through his eyelids when he felt his body was once again under control. “So many memories are still hidden, it never occurred to me to think it odd that I didn’t know my father’s own name.” Deep breath.Velvet like skin, comforting and familiar.
“What I would like to know,” said Velius, “is why Wednesday Woodcutter is the spitting image of your fairy godmother.”
Steady now, Rumbold drew upon his last reserves of energy and stood. He disguised his imbalance by smoothing invisible wrinkles out of his doublet and straightening his sash. “Let’s go find out.”
***
It was amusing how few people cared when Rumbold crossed the ballroom a second time. Whatever eyes were not on the king and his bewitching lady were fixed on their own partners, tapping into the sea of sensual energy that surged from the royal couple. The prince: he and his exploits were already old news. Nothing was so sensational as the couple in the middle of the dance floor. Ridding Sunday of her current dance partner was easy; Rumbold thrust him into the arms of the closest unaccompanied female.
“Hello again,” he said.
“Hello.” She was glad to see him. He could die a happy man. “I didn’t think you’d come back.”
“It is my honor to surprise you.”
“And pleasantly so.” Exhaustion caused her to throw formality out the window, and he was glad of it. The space taken up by the number of people in the room—and the dizzying amount of material from the skirts on half those people—forced him to hold Sunday close. The hem of her dress brushed against his legs, threatening to trip him. He didn’t mind. The pace at which they danced was slowed considerably as well, and obligatorily free from fancy spins and flourishes. They moved together in warm, comfortable silence, the kind a friend might find in the sanctuary of another friend’s embrace. The volume of the music had risen to cover the din of the crowd, and the voices had risen further as a result. Rumbold did not feel required to add to the already deafening level of noise. When there was a lull, they both spoke at once.
“If I may—”
“Why is it—”
Their voices wrapped around each other, dancing with the same rhythm. He liked the sound of them. Sunday bowed her head and blushed again, completely disarming him. “Please,” he said. “I suspect our questions have the same subject.”
He felt her take a breath. “Why is your father dancing with my sister?”
“Ah.” He spun them to a slightly less crowded space. “Why does your sister look so much like my godmother?”
“Ah,” she repeated. “I found out myself only recently. Your godmother is my aunt: my mother’s eldest sister.” She took another deep breath; he swore he could feel the tension in the muscles of her back beneath his hand. “Which makes us ...”
“...blessedly unrelated,” Rumbold finished. “Have you ever met Sorrow?”
“I have not had that pleasure,” she said, too formally.
“She has been my father’s closest advisor since”—Rumbold made the mistake of trying to think in earnest and was greeted with a world of pain for his efforts—“since anyone can remember.” Since before the king had relinquished his name, apparently. “Wednesday’s resemblance to her is strikingly uncanny.”
“How did you know my sister’s name?”
Had he given himself away so soon? No. “By now there are few in Arilland who do not know her name.”
She laughed a little at that. Triumph. “Of course. Forgive me; I’m a tad out of sorts.”
“Never! I was just this very moment envying your calm grace.” Even in the stifling heat she smelled divine. “Its turned into a bit of a madhouse, hasn’t it?”
“Indeed,” she said. Sunday tossed a fat lock of golden hair over her shoulder and tucked it behind her ear. A tiny bead of sweat rolled down her exquisite neck and vanished into the lace at her shoulder. He wished he could steal her away to somewhere cool and private, under the open sky where the stars were real and he could be himself, instead of a trickster playing with an innocent girl’s heart. What was he doing?
The dance ended, and they each bowed as deeply as the crush of people would allow. He clasped her hand, desperately and reluctantly, not wanting to let go. Only this time, when he began to pull away, her grip tightened.
“Please.” He was sure the look in her eyes mirrored his own, and he was anxious to know the reason. Her explanation came out in a breathless rush. “I recently lost a very close friend of mine, on top of the strange truths I’ve just discovered about my own family. My sister who speaks in angels’ riddles has enchanted a king. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to manage this ‘calm grace,’ as you so politely called it, and I’m very worried about what might happen if I can’t control my ... self. I know this is out of line, and rude, and completely ... well, rude ... but I’m so very tired, and for some reason you of all people are amazingly comfortable to be around, and I—” She took a breath. “Please,” she said more calmly. “Please stay here with me.”
“Yes," he wanted to cry. “Yes and yes and yes. Happily, now and forever, until the end of time and after." Would that he had already confessed his soul to her at the beginning of the evening, but then she might not have felt as comfortable with him as she did now. No matter. What was done was done and she was here now, speaking to him the same words he had been too afraid to say himself.
“That’s an awfully long pause,” she said. “Please say something.”
He resisted the urge to crush her in his arms and kiss the breath from her; his bursting lungs ached to shout his joy. He shrugged his arm to indicate the silver ribbon that still hung limply in its place of honor, and then bent to lightly kiss her hand. “I am my lady’s servant,” he said.
He wished he could bottle up the smile she gave him and save it for a rainy day. Of course, if all went as it should, he’d have those smiles every day, bottle or no, rain or shine, now and forever, until the end of time and after.
13. Swallow the Sun
THE NEXT DAY started so much like the one before it that it took Sunday a while to realize the ball hadn’t been a dream. Blessedly, those dreams she did have had been quietly free from winding, portrait-lined hal
lways. She awoke to the feel of pages slipping beneath her cheek as her mother pulled her journal out from under her head.
“Candle burned down again.” Mama clicked her tongue. “Wasteful child.” She pried the remains from the holder, pulled another from the drawer, and lit it. The air beside Sunday filled with the scent of tallow and flame. She lay helpless as her journal disappeared inside the pocket of her mother’s apron. The pages would be gone for another day, but the emotions of last night still bubbled up inside her.
“Don’t yawn at me, young lady. You lost sleep on your own time.” Sunday mumbled an apology to the march of her mother’s hips as she vanished back down the dark stairwell. Like magic on her heels, Trix slid out from under the bed.
“Having breakfast with the nightmares?” Sunday asked him.
“Even the nightmares tremble in Mamas presence.” Trix brushed dust fluffs off his shirt and sneezed. The candle at the bedside flickered and set their shadows dancing. Dancing. Oh, to be dancing again.
Sunday laughed. What were princes and dances next to charmed brothers and sorceress mothers? Suddenly, her new life didn’t seem like such a fantasy. “How long have you been down there?”
“Long enough to tunnel a way from my dreams to yours,” he said. “Dull stuff there. Not enough flowers and sunshine. Now come on, get dressed.” He pulled open the wardrobe and tossed her a shirt. “I have to show you something very important.”
Snails’ trails and rainbows were of great importance to Trix. Sunday sniffed the shirt to make sure it hadn’t already seen a day’s worth of chores and noticed her silver dress tossed over the chair in the corner. She wanted to hug that dress, clasp it to her breast, and dance around the room, recalling and reliving every single detail of the night before in the exact order it had happened. Every word, every touch, every step.