Chapter 19

59 days left

W hile the physician evaluated Aria and cleaned and rebandaged her wounds, her father received a report from a guard. Though they stood in the hallway, her father kept one foot in her room, the door propped open against him, and their voices were just loud enough that she heard the news.

The soldiers sent to Northglen had not reached Morton Manor. They'd been met with a rockslide, forced to retreat. Several wounded. The widow had employed a Stone Caster, and she'd made her first open strike against the Crown.

They had no idea it wasn't the first.

Once the physician gave his unintentionally ironic parting words— plenty of rest, Highness —Aria waited for her father to speak.

He did so quietly, retaking his seat. "The physician could find no diagnosis—no seizures, no injury—that would cause you to fall from your horse. Kendall is quite certain the animal did not trip or otherwise throw you. You simply ... collapsed."

Aria's fingers tightened in the blanket, her left arm throbbing. She looked down. "I've been clumsy of late. It's not—"

"Eliza says you've been falling asleep. That you sometimes escape to the washroom or abandon your studies."

Cold settled across Aria as surely as the covers, biting through the thick material and leaving her shivering. She wriggled deeper into the bed, hiding from both the cold and her father's stricken gaze. Finally, she gave a slow nod.

"Aria." Her father's voice cracked. "Tell me."

She wanted to so badly her heart lurched forward in her chest, reaching for him with every straining beat.

I'm cursed! she screamed internally, but instead she whispered, "I'm so tired, Father."

He leaned forward onto the bed, resting his forearm parallel with her legs. "Have you not been sleeping nights?"

"I find myself unable."

"Unable? What does that mean?"

"I ... I mean ..." Her throat tightened. As she drew in a shuddering breath, a single tear dripped down her cheek.

Her father's expression pinched in a frown. "This is my doing. I've put too much pressure on you."

"No!" she gasped. "This isn't you. It's—" Magic. "It's a—" Caster. "It's—"

Gently, he patted her knee. His face said it all.

"This is a small concern," Aria tried desperately. "I'm feeling rested already."

The king shook his head. "I have been blind to an ongoing problem, but no longer."

"Father, I—"

"When I noticed your attention drifting in meetings, I thought it only a teenage rebellion, a manifestation of how our wills seem to be growing at odds. I thought to point you more diligently toward your duty. Now, I ..." He sighed. "You fell from your horse, Aria. You could have been trampled. What kind of father would I be to ignore such a concern?" He clenched his jaw, looking away. "What kind of king?"

While Aria floundered, he stood, his bearing regal. Even with his white uniform rumpled from a worried night, he was every inch the king who'd rejuvenated a kingdom.

"Rest, Aria," he ordered. "I will determine the solution to this matter. In the meantime, you are relieved of all duties."

Relieved of all duties. Mark. She knew he meant it as a boon, knew he wanted to help, but she also knew he could not.

Rest, said the physician. Rest, said her father. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream.

Aria let her head fall against the pillow, pulled by exhaustion, and she watched her father leave through dimming eyes and lowered lashes. She slept.

But half an hour later, she was awake again. Heart pounding. Counting the days.

When the crow arrived, Aria was pacing her room. Despite the chill of autumn, she'd left her shutters open, welcoming the fresh air. Her mind felt like a maze of insanity, one where she grew more lost with each passing moment, trapped in the fog of unremembered nightmares of being chased by death itself. Fresh air at least made breathing easier. Small comforts.

The caw that echoed in the sky was a much larger one.

The crow swooped gracefully onto her windowsill, catching a perch with his talons. Then he peered in, as if evaluating her living conditions.

"Those aren't mine," Aria said as he looked to Eliza's discarded books on her bed, though she had no reason to think a crow cared if she read poetry.

The crow lifted his beak and gave a clicking rattle sound, like staccato laughter. In the slanted afternoon light, his black feathers bore a sheen of blue, and his dark eyes reflected a spark of undeniable intelligence. He pecked once at the sill, then turned to proudly present his message canister.

Aria smiled when she recognized the elegant, orderly script addressed to Princess Aria.

"Baron certainly didn't delay," she said. "I sent my message just this morning."

True, it was nearing sundown, but still. He'd not waited a full day.

The crow cawed his agreement. She thanked him for the delivery and gave him a gentle pat on the head.

The bird ruffled his feathers, stepped side to side, but didn't take flight. Trained messenger falcons always departed after a message had been delivered, but perhaps Baron's crow was more wild-minded.

Since he wasn't harming anything, she left him alone and opened the letter.

Your Royal Highness, Aria,

I was pleased to receive your message. Leon would assure you he is aerating his flour—and he was quick to correct me that it was flour; for my part, I possessed as much understanding as you—and he also humbly requests a copy of a palace menu, should that be possible.

If frankness may be allowed on my part as well, I hoped our discussion in the orchard would not be our last. Also, take care how much charm you assign to the boys. Just this afternoon, Corvin stole Leon's favorite set of tongs and hid them on the roof. I have not heard the end of it.

Aria bit her lip, holding back a smile and savoring every line.

Thank you for your distinction between Caster and individual. Although I am proud to be both, one certainly overshadows the other within society. On the topic of things not said, I don't believe I explained my hesitation to speak of magic. It's not that I wish to be secretive, only that I have never before been asked for honest details. Many people are content to acknowledge that magic exists when it might benefit them or when it might be blamed for their misfortune. Nothing else.

I am grateful you asked, grateful you count me a worthy source of information. I'll do the best I can to provide it.

No, I don't favor yellow.

Sincerely, etc., Baron Reeves

The abrupt ending drew a laugh from Aria. A smear of ink marked the valediction, as if Baron had hesitated, considered adding more, then simply ended it. She'd had the impression when they first met, but now she felt certain—he was not a conversationalist. He spoke haltingly, at times even awkwardly, and yet he became all the more intriguing for it, as if stripping away the easy pleasantries Aria was accustomed to left only the simple truth behind.

I was pleased to receive your message , he'd written.

How she hoped that was true.

It was possible Baron and his brothers were just as they seemed. It was possible there was no underlying plot, no pitfall waiting to snare her. It was possible at least one Caster in the kingdom possessed a kind heart and upright motivations.

Wasn't it?

Glancing up, she saw the crow still perched at her window, pecking curiously at the stone frame.

"Did he instruct you to wait for a response?" she asked.

The bird squawked, as if she'd startled him, but he didn't take flight.

With a smile, she said, "I'll write quickly."

Aria sat impatiently through breakfast the next morning. It was unrealistic to expect every message to arrive with the swiftness of the first, yet she found herself watching windows just the same, hoping to see a crow tap upon the glass.

"You seem in brighter spirits, dear," said her mother from across the table. "A day in bed must have been just what you needed."

Aria glanced at her father, sitting at the head of the table. It was the first time they'd all sat at a meal together in weeks; if her mother didn't take meals in the music room, her father took them in his council chambers. Now the four of them sat together at a long dining table, indulging in heavy food and even heavier atmosphere.

"It was. Thank you, Mother." For a moment, Aria's hand forgot how to conduct a meal, reaching for her glass only to stop short and hover above her fork. In the end, she grabbed her napkin and dabbed at her mouth, though she'd spilled nothing.

Growing flustered. Mark.

Eliza leaned forward in her seat. "Father, I wonder if you might invite Earl Wycliff and his family to court."

The king regarded her for a moment, taking a sip of wine. "What prompts this request?"

"I desire a view of his second-youngest son. The most handsome of the bunch." Eliza didn't bother to conceal her grin.

As their father chuckled, so did Aria.

"Henry, isn't it? He's made no formal request to court you."

"Then give him an opportunity! Something where he may display heroic attributes and I may praise all of them." Eliza interlaced her fingers, pleading. "Please, Father. You keep the earl so busy, he rarely hosts events of his own. I'll never see Henry at this rate."

"Perhaps a sporting competition," Aria suggested, not at all because she was thinking of a certain green-eyed gentleman and the dress sword he carried.

"Yes, that's perfect! Henry is an accomplished jouster!" When their father raised an eyebrow, Eliza amended, "Lord Henry. It's not as though I've seen his skill in action, only heard it spoken of."

The king grunted. "I suppose Kendall claims some jousting skill as well. The two of you could fawn over suitors together."

Aria filled her mouth with eggs to avoid reply.

"It's growing cold for a joust," said the queen. "If it's court events we desire, a musical exhibition would be more appropriate."

The king kept his eyes on his plate. "No, we shall hold a joust. We'll do it quickly, while the weather permits. The matter is decided."

"The matter is always decided with only your voice."

"Perhaps because I tire of hearing yours, echoing at every hour in the music room."

Aria's hand tightened on her fork. Eliza nudged bits of parsley to the edge of her plate with the concentration of a surgeon.

The queen maintained a pleasant expression, pushing her plate away with her fingertips. "I find myself without appetite. Not a problem you've ever experienced."

She left.

Aria's mouth had gone dry around her quail eggs, and she struggled to swallow. She had raised her glass to drink when her father spoke.

"Aria."

She fought to maintain her focus. "Yes, Father?"

"I've considered your situation."

Eliza perked up but remained silent.

"Eliza, leave us."

"Father—"

At his look, she gathered her plate and moved into the smaller, adjoining dining hall. Once the door closed behind her, the king returned his gaze to Aria.

"When did this tiredness first afflict you?"

"I—a few weeks ago, Father."

"After your visit to Northglen."

Goose bumps lifted on Aria's neck, but she didn't deny it.

"Did you drink anything she gave you?"

Aria stiffened. "I know better than that."

Her true mistake had been assuming she would be safe if she didn't drink. Assuming she knew anything about magic at all.

"Widow Morton has my—" Her voice halted abruptly before she could mention the broken teacup. She grunted in frustration. "I mean she had my ... She had me fooled, but not that much."

With a flinch, she retreated to her wine glass, hoping it would hide the burn in her face. Unintelligible speech. Mark.

"You're certain she did nothing to you?"

Aria swallowed. "She ... she lied."

"I'm speaking in terms of magic, obviously."

The frustration in her father's expression could not compare to what she felt straining within her own chest.

"She . . . I watched her . . . after I returned . . ."

"A straight answer, Aria, honestly. It's not a difficult question."

She gave a helpless shrug, tears burning in her eyes.

Her father's expression hardened. "You'll resume your studies today. See that you take them seriously."

Though he'd not finished breakfast, he pushed his plate away just as the queen had, leaving Aria alone at the table.