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Besides, I did not fancy being vulnerable to the mortal prince.
“It seems to me there is more harm if you do not.”
“I hate you,” I said, though I knew the mirror—and even Naeve—were right. I needed this woman to fall in love with me, and I was running out of time.
Which was how I found myself in the depths of my castle in search of the prince who had stolen a rose for his beloved. When I found him, he was resting on the stone floor, one knee drawn up. His head was turned to the window, which was shaped like half a moon and barred. Just on the other side, flower fairies had gathered to look upon him, but when they beheld me, they scattered in a flurry of wings and loose petals.
The prince turned his head lazily to me.
He had not been long in this world, his face youthful and full. He was as I expected all mortal prince’s to be: flamboyant and arrogant. He had all the belief that the title he held outside the Enchanted Forest meant something to those of us who lived within.
But here, he was nothing but fuel to feed spells and fill stomachs.
He wore purple velvet and a hat that crushed his golden curls, and in the hat was a long, red feather.
“My captor arrives,” he said.
“I hope you are not making bargains,” I said. “The fae can be cruel.”
“No crueler than you,” he said.
“There is always someone crueler,” I said.
The prince was quiet, so I spoke.
“Will you not beg me to set you free again?”
The prince smiled. “No, because that is what you want.”
“It is not what I want,” I said, frustrated that this mortal would even venture to guess my desires.
“Then what do you want?” he asked.
My eyes narrowed on the young prince, and I felt my body fill up with anger. He seemed to sense the danger, because he tensed.
“You are not to ask questions of me, mortal prince,” I said. “I require your aid, and in exchange, I will grant your greatest desire.”
“My greatest desire?” he repeated, his eyes gleaming.
“Onlyif your advice produces the resultsIdesire,” I added. I would set him free for nothing less.
“And what do you desire?” he asked.
I ground my teeth back and forth, not wishing to speak it aloud, but even as I stood here and thought about my true name, I had trouble recalling how it was spelled.
Seven letters, I reminded myself.
Your name knows no stranger.
Your name is the wail on the lips of a birthing mother.
Your name is the howl from the mouth of a grieving lover.
It is the cry that breaks the night when death is summoned.
“My desire is to make a maiden fall in love with me.”
My nails cut into my palms as I waited for the prince to laugh, but all he said was, “She did not fall in love with you at first sight?”
