“I should ascertain that my kinsman is in good enough health to reign.”
“He stands, does he not?” Bluebeard gestured at Rolgrin.
“Aunt,” Rolgrin said from where he stood, and his throat was dry. “I thank you for your concern. And I assure you all will be well. Only … please … we are but mortal. Please withdraw your glory from us.”
My mouth fell open and I had to shut it with a click at the look of fear and admiration directed at me from my nephew. None of the others even looked at me. Their heads were bowed in what I now realized was fear.
“If you wish it,” I said faintly.
“Please,” my kin begged and Bluebeard took my upper arm in his grip and turned me to meet his lifted eyebrow.
“Now we ride,” I agreed and he smiled, blinked, and we were no longer in Pensmoore.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE
In the Wittentalesthat my mother told, the prince would come — or the woodsman, or the firebird, or the deadly Wittenbrand prince — and the fair maiden would be swept away with him after many trials and difficulties and they would kiss and then my mother would say, “And they lived happily ever after.”
And I, fool that I was, never asked, “What was that like? Did they have a nice bed and regular meals? Did they have comfortable clothing and make fat babies?”
If I had asked, I suspect she would have given me a mysterious wink, for what other option would she have had? Mortals have no ken of what the Wittenbrand do, or of how their ever afters might be, and the firebird is as like to consume a maiden as live with her, the woodsman is sure to have many days of poverty and grinding exhaustion, and the human prince might have his entire court forced to cook their own hands.
And so, if I had turned my sensible mind to the matter, I might have realized that there would be no such life of luxury for us. My choice of the Bramble King — the mystery prince who had, through boldness and cunning, defeated death and ushered in a new age — was the choice of a man who did not toil nor spin, nor did he worry about human concerns. There was no feast of delicacies or comfortable fire that he brought me to when we finished restoring Pensmoore. Rather, we emerged in the heat of a summer day on the banks of a river that was certainly in the Wittenhame, for no mortal water sparkled so, nor was any human place so heavy with the sweltering doldrums of the ripest summer. Pollen swirled so heavily, clouding all else so that at first I saw nothing but thick puffs of white pollen and the water my feet stood in up to the ankle.
The river ran with bubbling charm up and over my ankles but beneath my feet was firm black stone.
“Let us shed these robes of justice, fire of my eyes,” Bluebeard said and I nodded, fighting back a sudden burst of fear.
The judgment we had just rendered was fitting and right. I was not sorry for it. But it had highlighted what I already knew — that I could not return to the mortal world. That there was no place there for me.
“Something troubles you beyond the prickles of the nettles and thorns you wear,” my husband said, gently beginning to undress me from my painful garb.
“I fear I have no place now, Bramble King,” I said quietly. “I am no princess of Pensmoore any longer, nor am I a daughter of Savataz. I have not a home nor a place.”
He was quiet for a long while as he rent my garments and removed them one after another. As he worked, the pollen swirled back, revealing that we stood on a rock shelf and the water ran behind and before us, washing over short waterfalls only as high as my waist or my knees. Cool water flowed from one level to the next, only as deep as ankle or knee.
“Sit and wash yourself of the pain of what we have just done,” my husband said but his face was considering as he removed his own ruined clothing and sat with me in the river.
The cold water did, indeed, ease the pain, but I lifted my hand and looked at my skeletal fingers and I sighed.
“Do you regret giving yourself for others?”
“I merely find the consequence grim,” I said, blushing a little as I said, “I had hoped for a happy ending.”
“And is your ending not happy with me?” he asked, and I realized he was close enough to murmur in my ear. I turned to see him beside me, his face very serious and eyes grave.
And I did not know what seized me for it was not the reasonable, sensible thing to do, but instead of airing my woes to him or asking clearly for a place to call my own, instead, I turned to him and embraced him, body to body, and brought my skeletal hand up to cradle his cheek. I could not feel it, but I could gasp with the pleasure of watching him close his eyes and turn his cheek into my broken embrace.
“I consider your sacrifice a treasure,” he whispered as he let his eyes open enough to meet mine and then leaned in very slowly to steal a kiss from my lips. “For it mirrors my own and in all this world, who else will know what it is to be me except you, or what it is to be you except for me? Please, wife of mine, do not give your heart to another.”
“I will not,” I gasped as his warm flesh arms wrapped themselves around me, reminding me that he remained broken, too, with holes in his palms and his side that would never be whole again. My mind was dazed at his touch and his warmth, and any discomfort the nettles and thorns had left behind was thoroughly gone at the brush of his fingers.
“Do not give it then to comfort, for he is not me,” Bluebeard whispered. “Nor to prestige for he is no Bramble King, nor to riches for they are not my affectionate touch.”
“I will not.” I sounded breathless now, my heart stolen away by his plea. He asked me for so little — only my heart.
“Let me feed you, and clothe you, and show to you what our life together might be.”
“Will it be bathing in these falls with all our clothing drifting away?” I asked as my thistle crown fell to cover one of my eyes.
