“I’m sorry,” Lynet managed to say. “I’m sorry I’m like this, but I … I wish it weren’t true. I wish I had something that was only mine. I wish everything were different.”
Mina seemed to wince, but then she nodded. “I understand. But listen to me, wolf cub. I never knew your mother; I only know you. You don’t have to be like your mother, no matter what anyone says.”
“Sometimes I think I will be whether I want to or not.…”
She took Lynet’s hand, a fierce gleam in her eye. “I won’t let it happen. You’re not your mother, and you’re allowed to have something that belongs only to you.”
In that moment, Lynet believed her. She believed that Mina could do anything she was determined to do, her will stronger than any magic. Lynet threw her arms around Mina’s neck, and Mina held her close. “Thank you,” Lynet said.
Mina pulled away first, as she always did. “Do you feel better now?” she asked.
Lynet nodded, though she wasn’t sure how she felt. She still had the unsettling feeling that she was trapped in someone else’s body. Then again, she had felt that way even before knowing the truth.
Mina bit her lip, and then she said, “I want to show you something.”
She stood, went to the door, and held her hand out to Lynet, waiting for her to follow. Lynet did follow, and the two of them left the room and walked through the halls together, crossing the long gallery to the west wing of the castle, continuing until they were in a narrow hallway Lynet wasn’t even sure she had seen before. That was impossible, though; she knew every corner of Whitespring, even if there were some she visited less frequently.
At the end of the hall was a simple wooden door. Mina pushed it open and Lynet followed her inside. She recognized the place now: it was a chapel, or at least it used to be. The line of stone altars was still there, but the wooden benches for worshippers had been removed over time as the North stopped trusting in any gods but Sybil, and now the room felt cavernous and empty. Three large stained-glass windows lined the wall behind the altars, but without much sunlight, the windows were dull and a little sad, the pattern of colors all appearing as the same dreary hue.
“I always found this chapel a comfort,” Mina said, her voice barely echoing in the empty room. She walked over to the line of altars and sat in front of the center one in a single graceful movement. Her presence seemed to make the room feel intimate rather than lonely.
Lynet sat beside Mina, careful not to make any noise—she felt somehow that it would be disrespectful if she did.
“I used to come here when I wanted to be by myself,” Mina continued. “I knew no one else came to this chapel anymore, so I felt like it was the one corner of Whitespring that was mine.”
Lynet watched her reverently, struck by Mina’s serene smile, her soft brown eyes no longer flashing with the fire that always burned in her room. Mina seldom spoke of her life before she had become queen, as though it hadn’t truly begun until she’d worn a crown. Lynet could believe it—she couldn’t imagine her stepmother as anything but a queen, even though she had vague memories of the first time they’d met, before Mina and her father had married. Even in her memories, Lynet always saw Mina as a flame, something fierce and fearless and regal.
But here inside the calm quiet of the chapel, she could imagine Mina as a child—not a child, but sixteen, the same age Lynet was fast approaching—sitting here by herself in a strange, cold world, her flame somewhat dimmed. She thought of the fire that was always roaring in Mina’s bedroom, the furs she wore even though everyone else at Whitespring had long since adapted to the cold. This one place alone had given her a sense of comfort, of belonging, and Lynet wished she could find the words to tell her stepmother how dearly she appreciated being here with her now.
“You’ll find something that’s yours alone,” Mina said, taking Lynet’s hand in her own. “And when you do, don’t let anyone take it from you.”
Lynet thought of the argument she had heard between Mina and her father, the way Mina had fought for what was hers. Would Lynet ever be able to do that? Could she ever burn as brightly as her stepmother, when she was made of snow?
“Thank you for telling me the truth,” Lynet said. She hoped Mina understood that she was thanking her not only for that, but especially for sharing this place, this memory, with her.
But Mina frowned slightly as she looked down at their joined hands. When she spoke at last, it was to say in a halting voice, “Yes, Lynet, of course.”
Lynet wanted to ask her what she had been thinking about, but something stopped her. She kept picturing that girl sitting alone in the chapel, and it was strange and even unsettling to think that Lynet hadn’t been a part of Mina’s life then. Whatever Mina had just been thinking—whoever she had once been—was a world away from Lynet. She held Mina’s hand more tightly, not yet ready to accept that there were still so many secrets hidden away at the center of the flame, too bright for her to see.
8
LYNET
Lynet sat on the edge of the North Tower’s one large window, waiting.
The patches in the ceiling let in beams of moonlight, illuminating pieces of the room one at a time: a corner of a faded rug, the skeleton of an empty bedframe, the arm of an overstuffed chair, all covered in dust. The only inhabitants of the North Tower lay in the crypt below.
Each morning for the past few days, Lynet had found a new note from Nadia tucked into the branches of the juniper tree. She kept imploring Lynet to see her again, to let her apologize for handing Lynet this burden so gracelessly. Lynet didn’t respond, but she still checked every morning for the latest one. Besides, she was too busy to visit. More and more visitors were arriving at Whitespring as Lynet’s birthday celebration approached, and Lynet’s duty as a princess demanded that she stand by her father’s side in the Hall, greeting and visiting with each new arrival personally. And now she understood why her father made such a fuss about her birthday every year. He had been trying, in his own way, to make her feel human.
As much as she tried, Lynet couldn’t be angry with him for that.
She wasn’t angry with Nadia, either, not really. But she couldn’t stand to go back into that room, to look at that spot by the table and think, That was where I learned the truth.
And then, just this morning, she’d found another scrawled message in the tree—the shortest one yet:
I have the prior surgeon’s journals, if you want to know more.
She knew Nadia was appealing to her curiosity, but did that matter? Lynet did want to know more. For the first time, she left a note in response:
Midnight at the top of the North Tower. Bring the journals.
She had chosen the tower because it was the highest point at Whitespring, a marked contrast to the subterranean workroom where Nadia had unraveled her with a few simple words. Perhaps in the tower room, high above the royal crypt, Lynet could put herself back together again.
Shortly before midnight, she had climbed out the window of her room, descending carefully to the ground below. It may have been dramatic of her to choose to meet at this time, but she felt freer at night. There was nowhere she was supposed to be, no one she was supposed to be, and so it seemed a fitting time to find out who she was.