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We had a good laugh about that. At least the bleeding part of it. But he never forgot Lady Esilla’s words about how I needed a mother. Or how negligent my stepmother had been toward me.
“When you marry me, my mother will become yours. You’ll love her. And she’ll love you.”
It had seemed so certain back then. Yes, he was a bit on the wild side and certainly mischievous, but he was my dearest companion. Our encounter at his birthday ball had been the brutal realization of every single insecurity and fear I had never consciously allowed to take root in my heart.
I sigh. The room before me is especially bleary in the dim light. My chest aches like someone has trampled it, and my stomach remains tight, knotted.
I’d loved him. Completely. Not because he was a prince, not because he was so beautiful I couldn’t always think straight around him, and not because he made me feel special — though he did. But because we could talk to each other. About anything. Because even silence with him was comfortable. Before he’d ever kissed me, he’d been my best friend, my heart’s match. The one I trusted with every fiber of my being.
All this time, he’d believed I’d abandoned him. That I’d left without a word, after accepting his invitation to the ball. After accepting his proposal, in a manner. Though, back then, I’d had the feeling he was planning to officially ask me at the ball, in front of everyone.
The ferocity in his eyes, in his voice — it makes sense.
I would hate me too. Just as I’ve hated him.
Now, I simply ache to hold him, to make him believe me. To press my face against his chest and have him somehow make it all right, like he always did.
There may be no righting this, though. Even if we can determine what happened, nothing will be the same. Whatever friendship we had, whatever romance had bloomed between us — it’s gone now. Dead.
And dead things don’t come back to life. Not even the most powerful spring fey has the gift of resurrection.
I wipe my eyes, brush off my damp palms against my nightdress, and shuffle over to my bed. Part of me wants to hold my mother’s necklace, cling to it until I relax enough to fall asleep. The rest of me can’t bear to touch another thing that represents loss.
So instead, I simply squeeze it for a few seconds, curl up under my blanket, and will myself to stop thinking of the pain in his eyes. To stop repeating his words.
But for what feels like hours, my mind won’t allow me to let go. I finally push through the brokenness in his voice and find the resolve. And I cleave to those words instead.
“We’re going to figure it out.”
ChapterTen
KIRRAN
The sensation of Alia’s touch lingers as I traverse the dark halls, but once I’m back in my chambers and catch sight of the parchment on my desk, the feeling dissipates. I study the paper, scouring the tangle of words that match more than they should until my vision clouds.
I finally sigh and slump back into bed.
Hours slither away. I flip from one side to the other, until I’m sure I’m more likely to rip the stuffing from this mattress than get some rest upon it. The room is at once too hot and too cold. I can’t bear the way my loose shirt bunches up beneath the blanket. Removing the shirt helps, at least enough to allow me to get more comfortable.
But I can’t sleep.
Instead, my mind plows through the list of possible magics at work. No one can make time pass or slow. Hypnosis is rare but not unheard of among the autumn fey, though no one in decades has had the gift. Nor does this fully match the work of an illusionist or memorist. Illusions are temporary — and as real as they may seem or feel, they only hold sway as true if someonebelievesthem as truth. As soon as an illusion is questioned or doubted, it begins to disintegrate. The more it fades, the clearer the truth becomes. And the more ridiculous the illusion.
Memories are trickier to pin down, but those who can manipulate them fall under one of two categories: those who can change the ones that exist and those who can craft wholly new ones. Yet, like autumn itself, there is always a give and take. Changing memories requires the cooperation of the one whose memories are being touched, as the memorist can only access the memories they are granted permission inside of. Yet even those can’t be completely altered or removed — merely softened or enhanced. The changed memories always retain a hint that something has shifted, even if the original no longer registers. Not only that, but the person whose memories were touched would know there was once a conversation with a memorist concerning those memories.
Neither Alia nor I have that moment. So it can’t be that.
Newly crafted memories require removal of the old ones. Since memories cannot just be removed and thrown out, they must be captured in some sort of magic-imbued object. Only a handful of fey have access to those types of talismans. A fewer handful know how to use them properly.
And I have absolutely no idea how Alia knows of the conversation between my father and me.
I sigh and scrape both hands over my face until my vision turns silvery. Then I stare at the enchanted stars above me.
Alia was right. None of this makes sense.
I force my eyes to close. But sleep does not take me until the first hints of dawn glimmer beyond the windows.
* * *
