My sleep is dark. Dreamless. It fills my night hours, spills into the days. The five moon scars on my arm stay closed and Guinevere does not return. Her face is lost to the mists. Swallowed by a Labyrinth which can never be unlocked, now that the Ad-hene are dead.
Most mornings I wake up with Richard by my side. Our fingers are usually entwined, as if we’re terrified to let each other go even in sleep. So many times we keep holding on, our fingers wrapped like stubborn vines, soaking in the morning light, staving off the day as long as we can. Days of fresh integration laws, rebuilding plans, training ourselves in new magic, whipping the Guard into shape. The responsibilities are as endless as before.
But now we are armed to face them. With our trowels and our swords. Our magic and our love.
This morning Richard stays asleep and I let him lie. My eyes are still half-dazzled when I shuffle into Buckingham Palace’s dining room. I don’t notice Anabelle until I’ve already taken a seat. She sits across the table, sipping a cup of tea. While I’m still wiping unseemly crust from my face, she’s already pinned and painted. Hair and makeup ever flawless.
“Morning.”
Anabelle has been staying here at Buckingham ever since Phoenix Night (a title the newspapers coined). Yet the princess has made herself scarce, keeping away from us and the press. Appearing only for meals and the blood magic training sessions we’ve started in the garden.
“Sleep well?” I ask.
“I’m trying.” She’s looking down at her tea, running a finger around the rim of her cup.
“Well, that’s something,” I offer.
Silence.
“I could use some help packing for my holiday in the Highlands,” I try again.
She nods. But not in the way I’d like.
Lawton brings a tray to the table. Its edges brim with my usual: a full English breakfast, black coffee, and the morning’s headlines. I clear my throat and look at the headlines. JULIAN FORSYTHE JAILED FOR ATTEMPTED REGICIDE cozies up next to WINFRED REINSTATED PRIME MINISTER and RESTORATION OF THE PALACE OF WESTMINSTER SCHEDULED TO BEGIN NEXT WEEK.
It’s been nice, having the press on our side. It keeps my appetite up as I tuck into the plate of sausage, eggs, tomatoes, beans, and toast. Eggs first this morning, I decide, and stab a fork into the over-easy yolk. Gold pours like feelings all across my plate just as Anabelle speaks.
“Richard told me everything that happened in the tunnels. About what Kieran did.”
I watch the egg bleed out, until my plate is swimming in yellow.
“His true self did shine through. In the end. He gave his life to keep you safe. He saved us all.” I tell this to my beans and toast. But these next words—these next three words—I cannot say them to the broiled tomato, which suddenly reminds me of a pulped heart.
I look up. The light of a cloudless, morning sky drips down Anabelle’s face, as rich as the egg yolk. Bringing out every part of her beauty. Her torn.
For a moment I’m afraid to say. I’m afraid the roof will cave in again.
But I think of how the roof has always held above our heads. The windows stay unshattered. The spells Anabelle performs in our garden sessions are as solid as she is.
She needs to know. She’s strong enough to know.
“He loved you.” I say this and her face starts slipping. Along with the light. Tears—smoky with mascara ink—creep and well at the ledges of her high cheekbones. Gray as the clouds which have suddenly crowded the window.
“That makes it so much worse,” she whispers. Tears keep rolling to the end of her chin. The storm outside breaks open.
Snow. Real snow. Not rain or hail or paint chips. It floats, twirls, spins past the windowpanes—as graceful as dandelion seeds. Death and life and beautiful: a cold crown over Anabelle’s bent silhouette.
She sniffs, wipes the wet from her face. But the snow outside keeps falling, new tears and what ifs dew Anabelle’s eyelashes.
“It’s silly, really,” she says. “I only knew him for a few days.”
I reach across the table and grab her hand, where the rune scabs are still healing on her wrist. “It’s not silly. It’s real. It’s okay to let yourself hurt.”
Anabelle’s eyes meet mine. Her tendons and bones flutter under the cup of my palm. Outside the storm howls: white, white, white. So I can see nothing else.
“He never said good-bye.” Her words are ghost thin, as pale as the world outside the window. “He promised he would.”
I hold her hand tight, but it’s not enough. So I leave my plate, come to her side of the table, so she doesn’t have to be alone.
We sit together. Her tears flow into my shoulder and the snow piles in drifts against the window. Sky’s sorrow and winter’s heart—covering everything.
A few minutes pass and Richard comes swinging into the dining room like the first child awake on Christmas morning. “Did you see? There’s a bloody blizzard outside! In November! Oh—”
He spots his sister—curled in my arms—and stops short.
Anabelle peels her face out of my shoulder. Smeared and wet and raw. Sniff, sniff, wipe. The flakes outside grow smaller. Sun starts to peek through lacework clouds, frostwork windows.
Richard comes and sits in the chair beside us. He places a hand on Anabelle’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, sis.”
“I’m not,” she says with a voice of rust and nails. “We wouldn’t be here if . . . if it wasn’t for him.”
Kieran fought his fate so that we could be here to live through ours. I look across the princess’s shaking shoulders, meet Richard’s eyes. They’re a strange mix of fresh, sad, and serious.
Richard leans in to hug his sister, so she’s crammed between us. “Whatever you need, Belle. We’re here.”
“It will pass. In time.” Anabelle straightens up and wipes her face again. The sun burns strong through the clouds—gray wisps away, bursts into a dazzling white—and I know she’s right.
Richard squints out the bright, bright windowpanes. “You’ve just made some schoolchildren rather happy.”
Anabelle turns, seeing the snowfall for the first time. The after-storm light gleams on her wet face. A glow which reminds me of the Ad-henes’ scars. She takes in the unmarked white with a laugh twisted into a cry. “But—what about our training session in the garden?”
The hours in the garden are just as much for my instruction as for the royals’. Learning how to use Richard’s blood magic as my own is a frustrating process. The spells don’t always work the same—many times it feels as if I’m trying to mold fine china out of Play-Doh. But slowly I’m getting a handle on it. Anabelle and Richard are too.
“It’s just a bit of snow.” I look out into that wide stretch of white. “But we could practice inside if you’d like. I think we’re safe enough now!”
The princess shakes her head and eyes her brother. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten that Christmas you ambushed me with snowballs at Balmoral Castle.”
Richard raises his eyebrows. “Is that a challenge I hear?”
Anabelle stands. Seeds of a smile pocket the corners of her lips. “Little did you know I’ve been working on my snowball-throwing arm for years! I will have my revenge!”
She says this as she runs, tears for the door. Her hair streams gold behind her, lashing free, the same way it did that dawn on the boat. When her brother was lost and she stayed strong. When Kieran first saw her and fate’s course changed.
“Outside it is.” Richard looks at me. “Care to join in our epic battle?”
I follow the siblings onto Buckingham’s portico. The new cold of the air catches me and I pause on the final step, watching Anabelle and Richard tumble through the snow. Make their marks.
I stand here and think of Kieran. Sitting under the dawn on that boat, with sorrow in his voice and a spark in his eye.
It is behind us now. We can only look forward. Hope for better things.
And we will. She will.
Ice and cold explode across my neck. Stinging like a spell. A swear slips from my lips as I try to shake off the pain of the snowball—now fluff and dew across my blouse.
Anabelle stands several meters away, dusting her palms off. “You made it too easy, Emrys!”
Across from her Richard is laughing, packing snow into his hands. Ready for a fight.
I jump off the step, into the snow. Into the fray.