Aefa had to clutch at her own hands to keep from flinging the crown into the fire. Every part of the plant was deadly, Brona had warned.
A log in the hearth popped, startling Aefa. She laughed at herself, but sadly. She was terrified of the approaching dawn. Ban Errigal and Morimaros of Aremoria facing off, likely killing each other; then the sisters eating this poison crown and letting the island choose.
Aefa expected the king would win, unless the traitor cheated somehow, and perhaps that would negate everything. No magic, no slick treachery allowed.
Thank all the stars and worms of earth Elia was not pregnant with that bastard’s bastard.
Closing her eyes, Aefa wondered if the princess needed her yet, if Elia had returned to her rooms, or if she was with the king. Worms, but Aefa hoped she was with the king. Convincing him to win, to fight hard, saying whatever she needed to say and doing whatever she needed to do.
Very unlikely.
Aefa jumped to her feet, crown in one hand, her skin protected by the thin blue cloth, and hurried after her friend.
Elia was nowhere to be found. Not in her bedroom, not up on the lookout tower. Aefa wandered at a decent pace, not to worry anyone, but searching thoroughly. She saw Rory Errigal storming up from the cellar, and she saw Regan Connley drift down the corridor away from where she’d been placed to sleep.
As it grew later, Aefa returned herself to the bedroom she was sharing with Elia. Just as she reached the doorway, the princess appeared there, too, eyes cast downward as she walked slowly along the thin woven rug keeping warm the hall floor.
“Elia,” Aefa said softly.
The princess’s eyes flew up. Though some curls stood rampant about her face, free of the loose braids Aefa had put in earlier, Elia looked the same. Untouched. No: her lipstick was gone, smeared down to nothing but a flush of color on the left corner of her mouth.
That sight made Aefa’s heart pound. “Come,” she said, shoving open the door. It was grandly appointed, though small, and Aefa dropped the hemlock crown on a cushioned chair before kneeling at the hearth to stir up the fire.
Elia walked to the center of the room and stopped. “Aefa,” she said, very low and haunting.
“I’m here.” Aefa flung herself up, coming before her princess and taking her hands. “Tell me.”
“I kissed the king of Aremoria,” she said, sliding Aefa a sorry almost-smile.
“Finally!” the Fool’s daughter danced in place to cheer up her friend.
But Elia’s smile trembled. “I am having trouble letting myself feel it all.”
Weaving their fingers together, Aefa made sure her face was bright and open, ready to listen.
“There is so much, and all of it conflicting. I—I cannot fall down and wail,” Elia said. “I cannot yell or sob or even rejoice. Those are not things a queen does. But I also … I know better than to shut it all away, to wrap myself in blissful numb nothings. Not anymore.”
Aefa bit her lip, then nodded. “I understand. I think … Well, there is more possibility between falling and flying wild. You do not have to be only either a cold star or a fiery explosion.”
“How do I find balance when my heart is aching to burst?” Tears hovered in her black eyes. “Someone I love will die in the morning. Ah!” She caught back a gasp of pain, widening her eyes so as not to blink and force the tears to fall.
“Hold on to me.” Aefa tugged Elia nearer and put the princess’s arms around her waist, then wrapped her own arms around Elia’s neck. She took a deep breath. “Rain is not always a storm. The wind does not always howl. Sometimes death is quiet, or love is peaceful. There are little things.”
“Fire can be a candle flame,” Elia whispered.
Aefa hugged her tightly, smelling the rich bergamot oil, the tart remnants of paint, sweat and warm skin—every Elia smell except charcoal smudged from a freshly drawn star map.
The princess pulled away, but held on to her friend’s hands for a moment. She stared into Aefa’s eyes, as if searching for something, and then smiled a very little again. Elia’s brow remained pinched, her wide eyes teary. Then she let go of Aefa. Fire, she whispered in the language of trees, and snapped her fingers.
Tiny orange flames flickered to life. They danced in the air, two of them, around and around, as if orbiting each other.
The light put warmth back into Elia’s eyes, and Aefa felt like crying, too. The princess drew her hands closer, and the flames drifted into one, joining with a tiny crackle. Elia allowed her face to crumple and tears to fall, but she did not lose the thread of magic, did not stop her even breathing, despite the weeping.
With Aefa’s help, cupping her hands around the flame to block the breeze of their motion, they walked to the hearth and knelt, adding their magical flame to the comforting fire.
REGAN
THE BED WHERE last Regan had slept with her husband was too wide, too cold, too lonely.
Better that she sleep against the earth, wrapped in the roots of a cold hawthorn tree, or ancient oak.
Wind rushed against the windows, skittered against the sharply pitched roof, and whistled down the chimney. The small fire flattened but held on to itself.
One of his long jackets lay folded over the back of a tall chair. Bright, gleaming red. “Connley,” she murmured.
But the wind outside hissed back her little sister’s name.
Gasping, Regan swept out of the room, past surprised attendants. She covered her ears with her hands, nails dug into her scalp. “No,” she moaned. The island should mourn with her, call her husband’s name.
Though Gaela was the first recourse of her heart, Regan was angry with her elder sister, too. As they’d come to the Keep, Regan had been
