But here they were. Olivette was broadly grinning, her face flushed and ribbons braided into her blond hair. Nura was far more reserved, dressed in a sleek black dress, and I still sensed her pain over my deceit. But her eyes were gentle when they met mine. An invitation to make things right between us.
They each offered me an arm, and I walked between them, through the winding corridors of the fortress.
We passed people I had never seen before, people who were carrying crates and bags of produce and stacks of linens, working to transform this place into home. All of them paused to curtsy or bow to me, and I thought I might die from the embarrassment.
“Here,” Nura suggested, guiding us to the courtyard doors. “Let’s walk the gardens. You need fresh air.”
We stepped outside. The snow was ankle deep on the ground, hiding the plants in white, but the sky was cloudless and ached a vibrant blue. We walked a stone path that had been cleared, through icy rosebushes and a trellis of vines. I soon grew sore for breath, and my friends guided me to a stone bench that overlooked the city of Ulla.
The three of us sat, their legs close to mine, and I swallowed the lump in my throat. I had hurt them, and I hated myself for it.
“How are you feeling, Ann—I mean, Clem,” Olivette asked, flustered. “I should probably call you Your Grace, actually, shouldn’t I?”
“Don’t be silly,” I said, and nudged her. “Call me Clem.”
An awkward lull encompassed us.
“What comes next for the two of you?”
Nura glanced at Olivette. “Should we tell her, Oli?”
“Tell me what?” I demanded.
“We should,” Olivette agreed with a wily grin. “Phelan asked us to be part of your new court.”
The news was a pleasant surprise, one that buoyed my spirits, but Olivette gave me no time to respond.
“I’m not sure what we will be yet,” she continued. “Perhaps your advisor?”
“Or your spymistress?” Nura added.
“Or even the mistress of coin?”
“Or your guard?”
“All of this to say . . . we want to join you in the restoration,” Olivette concluded. “If you will have us.”
I laughed, which drummed up the ache in my chest, and slipped my arms around them. “You can both be whatever you desire. I’m thrilled you’re staying.” I fell silent for a moment, and then added, “And I’m sorry, for deceiving you both for so long.”
“We have questions,” Nura said. “We want to know why and how you did what you did.”
I let out a shaky breath. “Ah, where do I even begin?”
Olivette leaned closer to me. “Begin at the beginning.”
My mind wandered back to that moment in Hereswith when I sat in Mazarine’s library, drawing her twelfth portrait by candlelight.
And so that was where I began.
It took me most of the day to tell them the story. We shared a pot of tea and a tray of cold cuts and cheese and fruit in the afternoon before Mazarine called me back to rest in bed.
I heeded her, because only a fool wouldn’t.
My slumber was deep, full of flashes of dreams that I struggled to remember when I woke. My room was dark, lit by the fire in my hearth and a few candles. I slipped from my bed and gingerly reached for a robe and my boots, walking to the door.
Mazarine was in the corridor, on guard. But she allowed me to walk, and she followed me to the courtyard doors. She stood watch as I walked the gardens alone, savoring the quiet splendor of night, how the snow crunched beneath my steps, how the world looked different beneath the moon and stars.
I found a bench and sat, shivering and cold and feeling more alive than I ever had before.
I don’t know how long I was there before he came. But I soon heard his quiet tread on the snow, and I felt his presence draw near.
“Her Grace looks well rested,” said Phelan.
I glanced over my shoulder to see him standing beneath the trellis of glittering vines. He wore simple clothes—just his boots and trousers and a white shirt—and his hair was loose, dark as raven wings. A woolen cloak was fastened at his neck.
“And His Grace looks the same,” I said wryly, and he joined me on the bench.
“How are you, truly, Clem?” he asked, and then noticed what I was wearing—a thin robe. “And why aren’t you wearing a cloak, for gods’ sake!” He unbuckled his and draped it over my shoulders.
I sank into the cloak’s warmth, hiding a smile. “I grow stronger every day. And you? I hear you’ve been busy.”
“To the uttermost. But it’s given me something to do while I waited for you to wake.”
We fell quiet, content to simply sit beside each other.
Phelan whispered, “May I hold you?”
My heart stirred, beating a heady song within my blood. But I said, “Someone might see us.” Which was ridiculous, as I could only dimly discern him in the dark.
Phelan laughed. “I really don’t care.”
Once, he had been afraid of what others thought of him. Once, I had been bent by revenge and coldness and believed myself stronger alone.
I shifted toward him and he drew me onto his lap. Our fingers entwined and I rested in his embrace. We sat like that for a moment, admiring the starlit sky, until I turned to face him.
“What do you dream of, Phelan?” I asked.
“What do I dream of?” he countered, amused. “By night or by day?”
Of course, I wanted to know the things he beheld at night, the dreams that rose from his darkest places. But more than that . . . I wanted to know what he wanted.
“By day,” I said.
He glanced beyond me, where the mountains rested in the moonlight, glazed in ice. “I used to dream of being someone worthy, and so I became a magician. And then I dreamt of finding somewhere I belonged, where I could use my magic for the good of others. I never thought I would find it in Seren, but the past couple of days have proven to me that purpose can be found in unexpected places.” He paused, his gaze tracing me. “What about you, Clem? What do you dream of by day?”
I closed my eyes, as if I could see my desire, resting just beyond my reach. “I dream of finding a new home. Of bringing something broken back together, and not just with magic but with stories and friendship and good food.”
When I looked at Phelan again, I caught a glimmer in his eyes, as if he dreamt the same things as me. I leaned closer to him until our lips met, polite and cautious and then hungry and familiar, and my heart was suddenly racing. But for the first time in months, there was no pain.
“I have something for you,” he said with a smile, drawing away from me.
Intrigued, I listened as he reached for something in his pocket, how it crinkled in his hands like parchment.
“What is it?” I asked warily.
He set something long and square in my palms, hidden beneath paper and twine. There was a hint of joy in his voice when he told me, “Open it later.”
44
I opened it later that night, when I was alone in my bedchamber. I pulled away the parchment and twine, and for a moment I merely stared at what rested within. And then I touched it, hesitantly, as if it might bring me pain to remember.
A sketchbook full of empty pages. Three sticks of sharpened charcoal.