The days leading up to the wedding were unchanged from the previous weeks, endless rounds of meetings and lessons and preparations for which Aurora was needed, but Briar had no purpose.

But the hours were made bearable by the now nightly meetings she had with Phillip in the kitchen, where they would huddle by the bank of fireplaces and eat and talk—or at least she made sure they talked, against the insistency of her heart wanting to reenact their kiss in Hausach. The strain of that kiss hung like a taut thread between their every move, even when they were in the castle with dozens of people between them. So to be in that kitchen, alone, was nearly unbearable.

Luckily, Ben joined their midnight meetings as a much-needed buffer shortly after, having accepted Phillip’s offer and moved into the castle’s barracks and become his squire. Which meant that Briar went from feeling like she had wholly stolen someone else’s life to the barest beginnings of something that was hers again, laughter and stories and camaraderie.

She used their time together to ask Ben about Hausach and any surrounding area news, and she tried to send what allowance she could to the village. The king and queen were scandalized that she would even ask to do such a thing. Her responsibilities lay in preparing to be married, they told her; she should focus on finalizing the details of her wedding, on memorizing the names of the nobility, on perfecting her waltz.

Absurdity.

All of it.

And that absurdity, on top of the late-night get-togethers, where she was certain a soldier would storm in and chastise them for the noise they were making well past midnight, left Briar with the itch of absence. How Frieda was not there with them.

Ben didn’t have the mind for justice and responsibility that Frieda did, and Phillip was ever eager to put whatever plan Briar hatched into action. But Frieda would have been the one to calculate the best use of Briar’s funds, to know where to send the money so that the greatest needs were met. She would have known what to say to the king and queen to get them to understand the imbalance of wealth in the kingdom, whereas all Briar could do was distract them with charm and wit so they didn’t know that Phillip had Ben deliver money and resources down to Hausach without their approval.

Briar’s life was healing, slowly, but there remained a gaping wound where Frieda should be. She knew Ben felt it, too, for he refused to speak of her still.

And then, two days out from the wedding, while her aunts and mother were aflutter over her final gown fitting, Briar realized she had been an absolute fool. There was a huge resource at her disposal that she had not used, not even thought of using, and she hated herself for her shortsightedness.

In her bedchamber, as Flora levitated the gown before a trio of mirrors and Fauna beat her wings to lift up, inspecting the roses she had enchanted into the neckline, Briar tucked her dressing gown around her and sidled up next to Merryweather.

“I was wondering if you could do something for me,” she said, trying not to make it sound like she was whispering.

Merryweather was bent over a table, bespelling tea to boil in a pot next to a tray of buttery springerle cookies with mere flicks of her wand.

The queen, at the table, took a cookie, nibbled a bite, and even in her decorum, she made a quick face of distaste and demurely set it down.

“Of course, dear,” Merryweather said to Briar, half watching the queen’s reaction. “Anything. Oh, Fauna made these cookies, didn’t she?”

Flora and Fauna, in an argument over lace, paused long enough for Fauna to give an excited grin. “I did! I daresay my baking skills are so improving! Aren’t they scrumptious?”

“Quite,” the queen said with a full lack of emotion.

Merryweather gave a deep sigh. “What is it you needed, dear?” she asked Briar.

“I—” Briar’s eyes went to the queen. Now she did whisper. “I was hoping you could look in on Frieda for me.”

Merryweather went stiff. She twisted her back to the queen, Flora and Fauna again in dispute.

But she smiled, and Briar’s tension alleviated.

“You did not ask them, did you?” the fairy whispered with a nod at her sisters.

“Ask Flora to check in on Frieda? You know she always hated her.” It was an understatement. Flora had hated that Briar had left the cottage ever, let alone that she had made friends. If she’d had her way, Briar would have grown up in utter solitude but for her three aunts, for her safety.

But what Flora did not see was that they had protected Aurora. They had protected her so well that she had ceased to exist.

Merryweather’s plump face blossomed into a mischievous grin. “I saw Benedikt in the training yard. You are glad to have him here?”

“Very.”

“And Frieda did not want to come?”

Briar winced. “I do not know where she is. She left after I did, apparently.”

“Ah.” Merryweather’s face softened in sympathy. She scratched at her linen headdress that arched over the back of her hair; she was forever adjusting it and fighting with it. “Perhaps she does not want to be found, hmm?”

“It’s not that I want to find her”—a lie—“it’s that I want to make sure she’s safe. For my peace of mind. For Ben, too.”

Merryweather patted Briar’s cheek. “Oh, you know I can never resist you. Give me a moment. Oi!” she shouted at her sisters. “These cookies are utter dust! I’m to the kitchen for once.”

Fauna chirped in offense. “They are not dust! I followed the recipe exactly!”

“Bespell cookies with your wand, Merryweather,” Flora said. “No need to traipse all the way to the kitchen.”

Briar swallowed a tang of frustration. Her aunts had been capable of creating food with ease all along and had let them all suffer in hunger and worry for sixteen years rather than reveal the truth to her. Their magic was incapable of letting them create enough food to sustain all of Hausach, they had told her recently; but still, they could have staved off the worst of their own hunger. They could have alleviated Briar’s burden as a child to provide for the four of them.

“I do not want magically created cookies,” Merryweather said. “I want freshly made, and I was a fool to believe Fauna could provide such. You still have taken no actual baking lessons from the cooks, have you?”

Fauna pouted. “I follow the recipe books—”

“And they are useless if you do not understand the steps. I am off, back with edible treats.”

Flora gave a flinch of distrust. “Now? But Aurora’s gown—”

“If the three of you are incapable of getting one gown on one girl, then I will certainly add nothing to what will be a comedy of disaster. Cookies!” And she left with a wink at Briar.

The queen stood, setting her teacup on the table. Every motion from her was a reminder of what Briar was expected to become—dripping grace. Collected, intentional, controlled movements, nothing out of place, not a stray smile or even a flick of her eyes that was not polished.

But it looked nothing short of painful, to be so constrained by propriety like that, and Briar had yet to have a single conversation with the queen that felt anything like motherly. They had not talked about the past sixteen years, about what Briar had done with her life. They had not talked about how King Stefan and Queen Leah had endured. They had not talked about anything. They had gone about their days as though this was a happy ending.

It was an ending, certainly.

But it was not happy.

“Let us see it, Aurora,” the queen said, gesturing to the dais before the mirrors.

Briar’s jaw set. Briar. Briar. Not Aurora.

She obeyed, stepping up, letting her dressing gown drop so she stood in a thin wool shift.

Flora and Fauna clothed her through a combination of magic and tugging. On went a boned underdress, then a laced kirtle, the two snugly fitting to the curve of her hips so she could scarcely take a breath, but Flora exclaimed that was the point. The gown was next, a massive heave of silk that draped over Briar’s body and immediately staggered her, the bodice woven with jewels and small flowers.

The king had insisted on no expense spared. Which meant this single garment was worth more than all the money Briar had ever made in her life multiplied thrice over.

The deep maroon silk gave a pink flush to her skin, her golden hair complemented by and glowing against the ruby shade. The jewels sparkled and glinted in the light, the sleeves dropping off so her shoulders were bare, the skirt full and trailing.

It really was extraordinary.

And so, so much.

Flora fluttered about and quickly styled Briar’s hair, not the elaborate weave it would be in two days, but enough to get an idea; and then Fauna set a crown upon her head.

Briar went fully immobile, staring at herself in the mirror.

No. Not herself.

This was Princess Aurora. This was the girl who would one day, likely soon, take over Briar and smother all memory of her old life. This was the girl she could have been, should have been, if fate had not intervened.

Briar was the interloper here. Not Aurora.

The queen came up alongside her in the mirror. They looked quite similar now. The same striking hair, the same kind eyes, the same stature, even, with Briar motionless.

“You are exquisite,” the queen said.

“Thank you,” Briar managed.

“Phillip will be unable to take his eyes off of you.”

That earned a twittering giggle from Fauna. “Oh, it’s so romantic!” she squealed, hands folded beneath her cheek.

Flora huffed. “Do not start this again—”

“How can I not? The prince and the princess, married! Austria and Lorraine, united! Oh, I mustn’t.”

Fauna was crying. As she often did these days. It had been a taxing sixteen years for them, to keep her safe, to keep her secret, and they had very nearly failed to stave off Maleficent’s curse.

Briar reached out, and Fauna put a hand in hers. She squeezed. “You need not weep now, Tante. It is over.”

“I know, I know!” Fauna dabbed at her eyes. “These are happy tears only! You so deserve this, Aurora. All this happiness.”

Briar forced a smile to accept the well-wishes graciously.

The door opened with a bang and Merryweather toddled in, a tray of cookies spinning on magic in front of her.

She stopped behind Briar and gave the gown ensemble a judgmental flick of her eyes.

“It should have been blue,” she muttered.

Flora held her wand poised, a threat. “Bespell this gown, and spend the rest of your life as a flea.”

Merryweather gave Flora a horrified stare. “I am evolved now. Unlike some of us, throwing about such vile threats in front of the queen. Try these cookies—I am undecided. The tea is cold! Why is no one feasting? Her gown fits, doesn’t it? Away with you. I’ll get her out of it!”

She made quick work of ushering Flora, Fauna, and the queen to the little table, and while they set about arranging the tea, Merryweather swept over to Briar in moderate privacy.

At the flick of Merryweather’s wand, the gown began to lift, and as it sank back onto the dressing mannequin, Merryweather cut a look up at Briar.

“Your friend is fine,” she said.

Briar’s heart lurched. With relief? Why did it not feel like a weight was lifted? “You’re sure? Is she—”

Merryweather pocketed her wand and worked the laces of the kirtle with her fingers. “She was laughing at a banquet table, somewhere fine and grand. She’s moved up in the world as well, it seems.”

Briar blinked down at her aunt. “A banquet table? Where?”

“My magic did not see. Or could not, rather. I do have limitations, unfortunately.”

Briar had hoped to find sense in this, a reason why Frieda had left. But why, how, would she have come to be somewhere fine and grand? She had talent too, like Briar; perhaps she was there on her skill? Performing for some grand lord?

Just as Briar had always dreamed. Traveling, singing in far-off places. Briar was the dreamer. Frieda was the practical one. Frieda had never wanted that. She had wanted Ben, and Hausach, and a steady, reliable life.

Briar caught sight of herself in the mirror, looking miserable.

“She is safe,” Merryweather reiterated. “And happy. Rest on that.”

Briar gripped her aunt’s hand and squeezed. “Thank you.”

Dressing gown back on, she sat at the table with the queen and her aunts, and they all idly talked of the wedding, and of the gown, and of nothing at all of consequence, and Briar felt the mirror at her back. The image of Princess Aurora in that wedding gown, watching, waiting, ever ready to overcome her.

Ben was in the sword ring, getting soundly annihilated by Phillip.

Briar leaned on the wooden posts, her terra-cotta kirtle brushing the sand under her thin shoes, both of which would earn her stern chastisement for getting dirty. But her watchers were occupied with some issue regarding flowers, and so she had slipped, no, vaulted away.

Ben toppled backward, practice sword skittering away, and unleashed a torrent of curses so foul that even the seasoned soldiers near the barracks gave him looks of horror.

“New boy!” one snapped. “Princess about! Straighten up!”

Ben looked upside down to where the man pointed at Briar.

“I beg your pardon, fair lady,” he said. “I would not dream of sullying your delicate ears so profusely.”

Briar had taught him at least two of those curses.

“Off with his head, I think, Prince Phillip,” she ordered. “You did try to make something of this one, but he’s a lost cause, I’m afraid.”

Phillip grabbed Ben’s arm and hauled him up. “Oh, I don’t know about that. He very nearly disarmed me moments ago.”

“I did?” piped Ben.

“No.”

Ben’s gaze went dull. “That was cold.”

Phillip walked to where Briar stood, the fence between them. His linen shirt was stuck to his skin with sweat, showing none-too-subtly the contours of muscles across his arms and chest, and his face shone, eyes bright with physical exertion.

She really should watch him train more often.

“What brings you here?” Phillip asked with a half grin, no doubt noting her eyes on him, the flush on her cheeks. “Not that I dislike the interruption. Would that it happened more, in fact.”

“It might,” Briar said, and a deluge of self-hatred surged over her at how high and squeaky her voice had gotten.

Burn these feelings right to ashes, honestly.

Did he have to be so impossibly good-looking?

She had never had a chance of composure, honestly.

“I need to speak to Ben,” she said quickly, against Phillip’s too-pleased-with-himself smirk.

“Ah. Of course. No other reason for being down here?”

“None. It is a grotesque place. Nothing at all of interest to look at.”

“I mistook your repulsion for gawking, then.”

“Yes, you did. I am a princess, sir; I do not gawk.”

“Not today, no. Come back when it is hotter. We fight shirtless then, and perhaps we’ll find you something to truly gawk at.”

Oh, unfair.

She knew the look her face took on. Or she could imagine, at least, based on the way Phillip broke his teasing with a victorious, gleaming smile.

Heat lit her cheeks. She bit her lip to stifle her exasperated grin and lurched to the side, to see Ben putting his practice sword away across the ring. “Benedikt! Your lord is debauched. Come save me.”

Phillip laughed and walked away, heading for a trough of water.

He took a full bucket of it and dumped it over his head, shirt as good as gone, showing how very, very many muscles were in his back, and Briar’s whole mind went to a white-hot flash.

He dropped the bucket casually, looked over his shoulder even more confidently.

And winked at her.

Oh, burn him to ashes, too.

This would be the game, then?

She gave him an unamused grimace, and he grinned and hopped the fence of the training ring in one graceful arc, which, given his current clothing situation and the sheer agility in his movements, was the final weight on the teetering scale of her self-control. Not that she could do anything about it here, though, princess and all.

She would marry that man in two days.

There would have to be a way she could torment him equally before then. Or on that day, even, all throughout the ceremony. She’d think on it. Unlikely a bucket of water could be involved.

Ben came up to her and grinned. “I do believe,” he said, “that you are infatuated with your betrothed, Bri.”

“Hardly. We detest each other, isn’t it obvious? Can barely stand to be in the same room.”

“Oh, I’ve been in the same room as you two far too often now, and the only thing detestable about it is how badly you both clearly want to rip off each other’s clothes.”

Briar chirped, but they were more or less alone, the nearest soldiers back by the barracks. And so she laughed. “Consider it payback for all those times you and Frieda—”

Her words fell short.

Ben’s teasing dimmed, too. He sniffed and ran the back of his hand across his nose.

“What did you need?” he asked, stonier.

Briar kicked at the dirt. “I had one of my aunts check in on her,” she said. “Using magic.”

Ben’s hands knotted at his sides. He said nothing.

“She’s safe.” Briar made herself look up at him. “She’s in a castle, somewhere.”

She didn’t say that Frieda had been laughing, happy. It had gutted Briar to know that; it would destroy Ben that Frieda was off without him, and not only okay with it but joyful.

Ben sniffed again and looked at the sky over Briar’s head. “Well. Good. Is that all?”

“Ben—”

“I should get back to training.”

He jogged off across the ring, and left Briar wilted by the fence.

She started to follow him around the fence, when an uproar near the front gate of the castle stopped her.

Shouting. A chaos of voices, all pinched in worry, and in a flash, she took off, skirts in one hand. Soldiers left the barracks after her, some calling out for her to stop—but she was already around the corner as they gained on her.

By the castle’s grand front entrance, around the fountain of gray stone, a messenger stood in the stirrups of his horse’s saddle. He held a scroll, and he was trying to read it, but the overlap of shouting concern from the castle staff and nobility around him drowned out everything.

Finally, a trumpet sound hit the air, silencing the crowd.

The messenger flinched at it but nodded his thanks.

“An announcement from the seat of the empire,” he began.

Briar felt a presence on her right. Without looking, she leaned into him, feeling Phillip’s solidity against her arm. His hand rested on her hip, and she did glance then to see that he had changed into a dry tunic, although his face was still flushed and his hair damp.

“I bring news from Frankfurt,” the messenger continued, drawing her back. “One week ago, the emperor of our most glorious Holy Roman Empire journeyed into the arms of heaven.”

The crowd gasped as one, and voices began in earnest again, but softer at least, hung with shocked sorrow.

“In one month’s time, the council of Prince Electors will begin the process of selecting our new esteemed emperor,” the messenger shouted. “Candidates are to put themselves forth to Frankfurt before such time.”

He sank back into the saddle and wheeled his horse around, and the crowd broke, shouting again, panic and speculation and wails of grief.

Briar waited for reaction in her chest. A wash of feeling. But she had been an Austrian peasant, no more attached to the emperor than she was to her own king. The Holy Roman Empire was composed of dozens of territories, duchies to kingdoms to bishoprics and more, and though the emperor controlled the overarching territory, the individual rulers were far more present in the lives of the peasantry. Even so, Briar had not known what King Stefan looked like until she saw him after she awoke from her curse. She had not known the emperor, or cared at all for him—why would she feel anything for his death?

But a bridge built out before her, connecting this moment to the next.

Candidates.

The process of selecting our new esteemed emperor.

“Briar, we should go,” said Phillip, angling them toward the castle. “Our fathers will be in discussion.”

She gaped up at him. “They wouldn’t put themselves up for emperor, would they?”

But she knew, in the set of his fear, that was precisely what he thought.