Seventeen

“Slow down!” I shout, tripping over the dips of the valleys as Finnian leads us away from the mountains but not closer to town. The rising moon has eliminated some of our light, and his anger isn’t a reliable guide.

“Finnian,” I tried again, looking ahead. “Finnian!” I scream, putting every ounce of strength I have into yanking him back.

Pebbles tumble down the steep cliff ahead. I pant from the rush of adrenaline and double over. He places his hands on his waist and stares into the dark abyss below. Except for the black, spiraled castle turrets of the abandoned castle below, only trees can be seen from our vantage point.

And the soft flow of the river just beneath is soothing against my harsh breaths. “Hogsfeet,” I say, breathless and annoyed.

“I know,” he mutters.

Of course, he does. If I can be sure of anything, Finnian has studied his realm, even with his apparent disinterest in its wellbeing.

Slowly, deeply, I inhale to prevent my heart from exploding. “Why are you so upset?”

“I’m not,” he replies dryly.

I straighten and point to the near-death experience we just had of almost falling down the cliffside. “You could’ve killed us!”

He says nothing, keeping his back to me as he stares below. The river cannot be seen, but the sound of the stream calms my heart enough for me to try again. “Finnian.”

He doesn’t turn, but he does speak. “He’ll kill him.”

My heart plummets. “What?”

“If Jasper learns of your relationship with Cedric, he’ll kill him.” He lowers his chin slightly. “Regina informed him of the male trying to court you but left out that you…. have been courted.”

I shook my head. “Finnian⁠—”

“It’s fine, Elora.” He shrugs a shoulder. “Keep your affairs hidden. I’ll do the same.”

It’s as if he drove a dagger through my stomach.

I wasn’t planning on having affairs, but it doesn’t surprise me that he is already planning for his. He has a reputation for a reason. So, instead of a denial, I blink back tears and nod.

He turns to face me. “It’s getting late. We’ll walk through town and stop by your manor before we return to Pumpkin Hollow.”

Speechless, I trail behind him when he leads us away from the cliffside and toward town. I would be more surprised that he knows where it is if I didn’t assume he was forced to study maps of the realm. It’s been evident since meeting him that Finnian is brilliant and cunning, which has only added to the frustration of his constant absence.

The smog has cleared enough for stars to twinkle above us, the crescent moon shining brightly enough to lend us visibility.

Finnian stares straight ahead, and only when he’s covered in shadows from the mountains as we pass them do I allow myself to take in what I haven’t yet. Him.

I study him while he avoids me.

Past the rumors and blatant arrogance, he harbors a certain darkness. Coming home to learn that his realm isn’t all he thought seemed to upset him more than he wanted me to see. Fatigued by his father, he’s made more effort to behave decently toward me. But the more I learn about his childhood, the more I wonder if he’s only impenetrable because he’s protecting his heart—the one others claim he doesn’t have.

Looking at him, even when he’s brooding and back to being an ass, I can admit to myself that Finnian is….

Well, handsome.

The time spent outside has added a hint of red to his sandy skin. His hair remains disheveled at all times, even when he attempts to fix it with an idle swipe of his hand, and the color of the strands resembles coffee grounds—dark brown, but the right amount of sun brings out gold. But tonight, soaked with sweat and blanketed by night, it’s nearly black.

He always has a broad and confident smile—not only when discovering new ways to annoy me.

But even that’s missing tonight.

He might not be as broad as the faeries in stature, but he’s solid. Protective. And he packs just as many muscles beneath his attire. I can still vividly recall the grooves of his abdomen from seeing him shirtless after we smashed pumpkins.

And I feel…. safe when he’s near me.

His voice deepens when stern or severe, but he doesn’t question himself. Everything about him screams polished and primed to someday rule. And the thought of him having affairs bothers me. Gnaws at me.

Irritates me.

Angers me.

He glances at me when the heat of my stare becomes too warm. I swallow my words instead of asking him, how fucking dare you? But why would he change for me? He’s being forced into this arrangement, too. Pleasure matters to him, so why should he give that up for his inexperienced wife?

“Have you ever been there?” I blurt out, attempting to squash the silence.

He refocuses his gaze elsewhere. “Where?”

“Hogsfeet.”

He shakes his head. “The only way to get there is through the mountains. That was my first time visiting those, so….”

“Right,” I interrupt, “Of course.”

“Have you?”

“We’re not allowed, and the cliffside is too steep.”

We step over bits of broken rock from our dismantled road. If one of the carriages from Pumpkin Hollow ever crosses the bridge, a wheel will surely pop off from the uneven terrain.

“No one ever leaves?” he asks.

I fill the empty air with a detailed reply. “Attempting to travel to Hogsfeet would likely result in death. There’s a vertical pathway that leads down the cliffside, but only a skilled rider would be able to take it unscathed. I wasn’t alive when your father overtook it, but I can’t imagine soldiers did it by foot.”

“Some did,” he replies. “But the bulk of destruction came from weapons that can launch rocks, lead, steel, anything needed to maim. We still have them, but weapons have advanced greatly since then.”

I shove the imagery out of my mind. “Have you ever fought?”

“In battle? I haven’t needed to. If another kingdom ever tries to seize our land, I will. And if word ever spreads that we have faeries or fucking magical pumpkins, that might happen.” He nods to the mountains. “Are the rumors true?”

I avoid eye contact. “Of magic within? No.” Not anymore. It lives within me now.

He points ahead. “No one escapes through the unoccupied side of Ashbury?”

“Rarely,” I sigh. “It’s desolate. The last man who tried returned to convey that escaping would lead to dehydration. Troops are sent every two weeks to scour the outskirts for bodies or to arrest trespassers.” Talking about it floods me with outrage all over again. “The king doesn’t want to take care of us, but he doesn’t want us to leave.”

“He will never risk someone coming to claim what he believes is his.”

I hated the incessant situation of me belonging to someone so vile, ready to be used at any given moment, but taking that out on Finnian would be unfair. 

I thrust my arm out toward what lies ahead. “Welcome to Ashbury, Prince Finnian.”

Even at nightfall, the ruin of Ashbury is apparent. 

He steps forward, and his face contorts into a combination of shock, disgust, and disbelief.

I wasn’t born long after the war, but it didn’t always look like this—bare, filthy, and permanently in a state of haze. It held life even after the castle was torn apart and manors erected.

Having a kingdom of such promise over the bridge brought hope to our people that we would be treated the same. But hope died once broken things stopped being repaired and food deliveries lessened. And once hope is gone, the resurrection of it is nearly impossible. 

A person can only live on faith for so long.

We pass by multiple boarded shoppes. He tries to peek inside each one, only to ask what it once was. With each answer, more sorrow clings to him. He only brightens when we come upon a water well, but his face falls when he sees only stones within.

“Two men were killed for trying to dig up the stones,” I explained. “He has made us completely dependent on what he provides.”

Lunging forward, he grabs stones and tosses them aside, growing more frantic by the second.

“Finnian.” I dodge a rock. “Finnian, stop.”

But he doesn’t stop. He digs until his fingers and palms bleed, dripping onto the rocks he grabs.

Only then do I take one of his arms. “Finnian, this was filled years ago. The water has dried.”

A growl of frustration passes through his lips as he backs away from the water well and crouches. I wrap a hand around my throat as a dry sob burns from the raw emotions he’s experiencing right in front of me.

He honestly didn’t understand until now.

“I didn’t know,” he rasps. “I didn’t know about any of this.”

While I’ve known my father was a traitor my entire life, he is only now learning the depths of his father’s neglect.

“I know,” I whisper.

And I do. I believe him.

“I have been so concerned with my own…”—he pauses and lowers his head— “I understand why you hate us. Hate me.”

I place a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t hate you⁠—”

He shakes me off and stands. “Show me more.”

* * *

I showed him everything.

I take him to the general store and wait while he picks through the leftovers. I show him the pails of water delivered by wagons weekly and explain the cost of bottles residents must buy to bring any water home.

I walk him down a row of manors, sharing that each one houses two to three families since some were burned after a tried-and-failed revolt soon after the war.

I point out two more water wells. He ducks into any place not boarded or still open. We walk down rows of cottages that haven’t been repaired in years. He notices the Bohemians dancing by a fire with wagons around them and asks how they can get into Ashbury, explaining that the king banished them to the outskirts.

“They’ve memorized the guards’ shift changes and routes to move between kingdoms undetected.” Divulging every secret seems risky, but it’s the point I’ve reached to save my people. “They trade goods with us.” I smile while watching them dance. “Sometimes, they stay in one of the cottages but mostly remain outside when it’s cool.”

He gestures toward a man in the center of the group. “That’s Irina’s lover. He is why she leaves the castle.” He points to a woman dancing gracefully in front of the man. “And that’s her other lover.”

My smile falls.

The man locks gazes with me before noticing Finnian at my side. Excitement soon lights his eyes, only for his expression to fill with disappointment when Finnian shakes his head.

“She’s not here,” Finnian says aloud with a frown.

He can’t hear us from this distance, but he nods.

I ask, “They aren’t frightened of you, are they?”

“No,” he confirms. “I cover for Irina when she leaves. She was supposed to visit them tonight but went this afternoon instead. He must’ve told her they planned to be here tonight. Irina is daring, but she won’t risk coming here.”

He holds out his hands to study the cuts. Most of the blood has dried, but some still drips down his palms. I nudge his arm with the only grin I can conjure. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

* * *

We’re almost to the palace manor when a young boy no older than four runs out from between crumbling villas and tugs on Finnian’s shirt. Finnian looks down with a raised eyebrow, but his expression softens when he notices the tot gazing up at him.

The boy proudly extends his palm to show us a brown button. I smile, familiar with this game. But Finnian’s confusion is written clearly on his face, clearing his throat. “Ah, um…” He side-eyes me and whispers, “Is it a gift?”

“He wants to trade,” I explained.

“Oh, of course.” Finnian lowers and takes the button from the boy’s palm after wiping the blood from his hands on his pants and inspects every detail by holding it under the moonlight. Gas-lit street lamps are readily spread throughout Pumpkin Hollow, but we aren’t provided the resources, nor do we have the funds to pay lamplighters even if we did.

Finnian spins the button between his fingers. “I’ve been looking for one of these. Are you positive you’d like to trade?”

Beaming, the boy nods.

Reaching into his boot, Finnian soon pulls out a leather pouch and instructs him to hold out both hands this time. The tot excitedly stomps his feet while trying to keep his hands still. Finnian places one hand beneath the boy’s hands to steady them while he dumps the contents of the pouch into his palms.

Gold coins slip from his hands and fall to the ground. The boy stares at the few left in his palms in shock. 

Most of our people haven’t ever seen gold or silver.

I kneel to assist Finnian in picking up the rogue coins and slip the ones from the boy’s hands into a pocket on his pants that doesn’t have a hole. But Finnian stops me, retrieves the coins, and pours them back into the pouch.

He secures it with a leather strap and gifts it to the boy.

“Only show your mama, okay?” I say, wrapping my hands around his small ones. “Don’t show this to anyone else.”

“Treasure,” he whispers. 

“Treasure,” I confirm. “And everyone wants treasure. I know your mama, but I don’t remember where you live.”

Before I realize what he’s doing, Finnian wraps an arm around the boy’s waist and lifts him up. “We better escort him home before the pirates find him.”

“Finnian, you’ll be recognized⁠—”

With a frown, Finnian slightly shakes his head. “Why would I be? I’ve never been here. And they’ve never left.”

* * *

Though smog has cleared enough to allow moonlight to illuminate the cobblestone streets, lingering fog hangs overhead as we follow where Baxter, the young boy, points. Finnian admires the older styles of architecture of the villas that my people rebuilt not long after the war. Never having visited the town of Pumpkin Hollow before the ball, I imagine its buildings receive facelifts often.

I might be displeased with Ashbury’s neglect, but even I can admit that our town holds a certain charm of days past. Men used brick and stones from the demolished manors, meaning each villa or shoppe is made of contrasting blacks and grays. Windows were accented by hand and trimmed with intricate terra cotta paneling.

Even in disarray, slowing down and genuinely admiring my town under fog and moonlight helps me remember why I’m fighting so hard to ensure its survival. But Finnian was correct—no one seemed to recognize him. We’ve passed by many townsfolk, most waving or greeting me, but no one pays any mind to the handsome stranger beside me.

Baxter wiggles free from Finnian’s grip and takes his hand instead, tugging him toward the sound of a recorder and an airy voice. Under a crumbling awning, candles burning nearly down to the wick, Baxter’s mother sings and spins another little boy around while her husband sits on the porch steps. Upon seeing Baxter, his father waves him over.

But Baxter drops Finnian’s hand to take mine instead, pulling me over to his mother. She welcomes me with a smile but doesn’t stray from her song, encouraging me to mimic her soft, gentle footsteps.

The dance isn’t one I should know—it’s apparent that it was created by her—but I’m still determined to learn it anyway. Every misstep I make is met with a giggle by Baxter and his brother, and I find myself laughing with them.

It’s not until Baxter tries to spin me, causing me to bend much lower, that Finnian taps on his shoulder. Baxter pouts but begrudgingly transfers my hand to Finnian’s.

Unlike the night of the ball, I don’t hesitate to place my hand on his shoulder, but instead of extending our arms, he puts his hands on my waist. We exchange no pleasantries—not that we ever would—but every mismatched step is followed by broad smiles or awkward laughter.

Finally, we move in harmony.

He spins me out, twirls me back, then dips me down, eliciting squeals and clapping from the boys. Baxter’s father abandons his recorder to steal his wife away from their son, and soon, we’re joined by a few others who must’ve heard the commotion. Finnian spins me out again, but I’m caught by an older man I recognize from childhood.

With a mischievous grin, Finnian steals my partner’s wife and dances with her while I’m spun and traded by my partners, my stomach sore from laughing and gasping each time I’m given away. Someone else has grabbed the recorder, but two others have joined him, and a trio has soon formed to lead us in a dance made of awkward footsteps and laughter so loud that it fills the streets. 

And it quickly becomes a game—how long they can keep me away from Finnian. And though I hate to admit it to myself, the frustration building in his eyes each time I’m moved further away is oddly satisfying.

Nothing but deafening joyous laughter and words of songs fill the air, and I’m filled with bittersweet regret. I’ve spent so many days in the manor or with the faeries that I’ve long forgotten how resilient my people are. They’re hungry and don’t have much to their names, but they find hope in each other. 

I envy their uninhibited cheer but am grateful for their enduring optimism. And I desperately want to be the one to prolong it for them—to provide them with endless, carefree nights like these. I don’t want them to worry about feeding their children or having enough coins to purchase fresh water.

An arm sliding around my waist from behind distracts me from my determined thoughts. I tip my chin up to find Finnian pulling me away from my partner, placating him with a friendly smile but giving him no doubt that I’m finished being passed around. Finnian resumes our dance, his hands wrapped around my waist and holding me close enough to make it not such a strain on my neck to peer up at him.

He has picked up on the offbeat song much quicker than me, and I allow him to lead me—shocking to even me. The unwavering way his blue eyes stare into my eyes, even as he spins me out and back in, catching me against his chest, his arm sliding around my waist, causes an oddly unsettling flutter in my chest.

He tucks a curl behind my ear, brushes his thumb down my cheek slowly, and whispers barely loud enough for me to hear over the continuous laughter around us, “Why did it have to be you?”

His question surprises me, but then…. I laugh.

I laugh so fully and genuinely that a broad smile stretches across his mouth as he gently dips me and knocks his forehead against mine. “Show me where you came from, little doe.”

He raises me to my feet, takes my hand, and tugs me away from the crowd. We wave goodbye to Baxter, who quickly falls asleep on the porch steps.

The silence is easy and comfortable between us while we walk toward the palace manor, the distance dwindling the crowd’s laughter into nearly nothing. Finally, he retrieves Baxter’s button from his pocket and pinches it between his fingers. “What was he wanting to trade for, Elora?”

Suddenly, the lighthearted evening becomes heavy once more as I’m reminded why I brought him here.

“Food,” I say softly, “he wanted food.”