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“Is this real?”
She swallows down a heavy emotion lodged in her throat and nods. “Yes.”
Her free hand reaches up, fingertips grazing the edge of my jaw. I pull her on top of my chest. Her arms encircle my neck, clinging so fiercely that not even a harmony of demons could pry their way between us. I kiss the top of her head and hold her just as tightly, rubbing soothing circles over her back.
My palm stings. I lift my hand and examine the cut with a frown. Then I spot the night-forged silver dagger discarded off to the side. I catch the lightest scent of human blood on the cool air. I’d missed it before now.
I was dying… caught between worlds.
When Elizabeth tried to kill her, I couldn’t be sure if it was the curse or our oath bond that broke. Not until I saw her on the dance floor. I had wanted to tell her then but we were interrupted before I could.
Did she realize we were still bonded and somehow used that connection to drag me back from the Otherworld? Nothing like that has ever been done. It seems impossible.
If I never figure it out, then so be it. The how is not what is important. What is important is the breath in my lungs and the woman on top of me, whose heart beats against my own as she weeps silently.
I hold her. I hold her because she needs it. I hold her as though I will be dragged into the Otherworld if I let go. Because I very well might. I hold her because even though I cannot recall our history together, my heart was always drawn to her as ifitremembered what was stolen from my mind. I hold her because it is the only thing that feels right.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CLARA
“You don’t needto do this,” I say again as Della puts the finishing touches on my hair. “There are others…” I trail off at the glare she levels on me.
It’s pinned in an elegant style that waterfalls down my back and over my shoulders, morphing into something wild.
“We are friends,” she says as if it explains things. Though I haven’t had many friendships in my life to tell either way, so perhaps it does, and I have more to learn than I realized. “You would do the same for me.”
I look at her through the mirror, brow arched. “Would you really want me to?”
There’s a hesitation in her movements. “Mmmm.” She hums thoughtfully. “Perhaps not, but you would insist on helping me in—” Della attempts to hide her wince when she realizes she shouldn’t have kept going. We are both aware that I lack most skills noble women begin learning from birth. “—whatever way you could,” she finishes haltingly.
It has been a month since the meeting with the court, and we are still at Nightwich. We’ve stayed longer than I first thought we would. Much longer than I wanted to.
I am still wary when I walk these halls, expecting something to happen. It’s like holding your breath, waiting for the final note of a symphony. Waiting, waiting, waiting… but it never does. And despite everything that has changed, it is no more inviting than it ever was.
My dashed expectations are my own fault. I hadn’t realized the time everything would take. After I woke up, we poured all our energy into making new laws and preparing to deal with the court. The subject of time didn’t come up until our plan was already in motion.
We began sending missives right away, but then there was the time it took for them to arrive, for the recipients to respond to the invitation, and send them back. And time for our guests to travel. For the injured to heal and time to mourn the dead.
Soon, Della has me in my dress. Another midnight blue with fabric that shimmers when I move. I run my fingers over the front of the skirt, a smile playing over my lips, knowing it’s not a coincidence that the color matches Alaric’s eyes.
Unlike any I’ve worn in the past, this one isn’t designed to hide my scars. The neckline is cut low with off-the-shoulder capped sleeves. It leaves me more exposed than I have in a long time—but not vulnerable.
Silver embroidered filigree embellishments curve over the bodice and spill down the roundness of my hips, with more sewn along the hem of the skirt, rising up like glittering stalagmites. It is a work of art, but it leaves me feeling like I am pretending to be someone else.
There’s a knock at the door. A maid hurries over and answers, quickly scurrying out of the way, bowing deep as Alaric enters.
Within moments, we are alone. He wears black trousers and a matching jacket over a white shirt. The material of his cravat matches my dress, with a silver ornament pinned at the throat.
“You are beautiful.” He crosses halfway into the room.
I cannot help noticing that every inch of him doesn’tjustlook like a king—it proves he is. From his posture to the way he moves, to the way he wears the crown. And though he claims to hate it as much as I do, there is no denying he fills the role perfectly.
I may have killed Elizabeth, but he was born to rule. He is the kind of king this land needs. Fair and just, someone who will protect the people. I worry my wanting to leave will somehow take that from him. From everyone.
“If you want to change your mind and stay, then I will stay with you,” I blurt in place of a greeting.
The soft curve of his lips flattens, and he’s quiet for a long moment. In two of his long strides, he is before me, taking my hand in his. He brushes the back of his white-gloved knuckles over my cheek.
