Ah yes, that’s it. It slipped my mind.
Love.
I love the Prince of Thorns. This is the single, most irrevocable truth of my spirit.
I love the Prince of Thorns.
My fork clatters to the plate, still reeling at his words. We sit at a dining table in the halls of his palace, known as the Gem. Perhaps the food is good—it’s a thick stew of mushrooms and roots, topped in a bloodred sauce—but I don’t taste food. It is unimportant when all my senses must be focused on him.
He smells of lavender and rich earth and appears as if carved from the moon, pale skin draped in a cloak of the darkness between the stars.
He sounds like joy feels.
As for how he tastes…
I shift my body forward, eyes fluttering shut?—
The Prince of Thorns snatches my chin. My heart near tears from my chest. How he feels! How he feels is like fireworks exploding in my chest and a choir singing and?—
“The sun,” he says sternly. “Do you miss it?”
“No. I miss you,” I breathe.
His gaze softens. “I miss you too.”
I can barely contain myself. I am a panting, scrambling, tearful mess as I fall to his feet, tearing at his cloak. “Have me. I belong to you?—”
He sends me back to my room.
4
Rosalina
Ihave a friend down in the dark. Well, she’s not my friend—the only friend I need is the Prince of Thorns—but she tells me I’m her friend.
I suppose that’s nice.
Her name is Heidigog. She’s about three feet tall, with pale green skin like a sprig of sage, huge yellow eyes, and three sharp teeth that glint when she smiles.
She’s a goblin.
I think the Prince of Thorns must have sent her to me. She helps me dress in the morning and always lays out the most luxurious dresses crafted of black silk brocade and jewel-toned silks. She knows how important it is that I look my best for the Prince of Thorns. I tell her that often.
Heidigog has a little stool that she stands on to comb my hair. It’s comforting. Familiar.
Sometimes, we walk around the halls of the castle. She asks me if I’d like to listen to the harpists play. I say no. She asks me if I’d like to play a game of moonlight mastery. I say no. She asks me if I’d like to read in the library. I say no.
I only want to wait for the Prince of Thorns.
So we end up wandering the halls. She holds my hand as we walk, as if she’s afraid I’m going to drift away. Her hand is small and warm, and she shuffles when she walks like a duckling. Her favorite place is the gardens.
“Where you come from, the gardens are all different, aren’t they?” she asks. “Up-up there, you grow flowers, not stones, right? No gems at all?”
I take a few steps along the path of shattered quartz, walking deeper into the garden. It’s bathed in the cold glow of an unseen light.
Sunshine. The Prince of Thorns asked me about sunshine. There’s nothing such as that down here.
He asked me if I missed it.
