Chapter 22

W hen Baron first heard the news, he thought the castle had been attacked. Mrs. Caldwell assured him it wasn't that serious, though everyone remained on edge—a break-in at night, somehow passing every guard without opposition. A threatening message.

He wrote to Aria immediately, asking if she was all right. Receiving her next letter allowed him to breathe again.

The event itself isn't nearly so frightening as the implications. Rebellions, riots, wars—these things are a monarch's worst nightmare. Worse still is seeing the conflict approaching while being powerless to stop it.

May we speak of brighter topics? I am a coward.

Baron couldn't blame her. His own mind grew restless whenever he considered Northglen, and while it was not his responsibility to resolve the matter, he would certainly bear the consequences of it.

For both their sakes, he distracted her with a story from his school years, and he answered her latest question about Casting— Is it possible for a Cast to change over time? —before falling, as usual, into news of the boys. She never chided him for how much of his letters were about his brothers.

They're lucky to have you. A caring, trustworthy sibling makes all the difference when facing the difficulties of life. I would know; I have Eliza.

How often she did that—soothed fears he'd not even meant to express. He hadn't told her of his deep worry that he was failing the twins, that his presence caused them more harm than good.

At times, you seem to read my mind. Are you certain you're not the magic user?

Only after sending the letter did he realize he'd never joked with a non-magic-user about magic. The topic had always been too full of teeth.

But Aria's response didn't bite.

Ah, the mythological third type of Caster—apparently a mind reader. If the ability allowed me to anticipate the needs and wants of others, I would get a great deal more things right in life. Mind Caster Aria. I am envious of the mythological me.

The crown princess envied a version of herself with magic. Baron never could have imagined the day—never could have imagined his part in it. Had he known changing the kingdom would be this enjoyable, he could have spared himself a lot of worry.

After one message handoff, Corvin joked, "You could at least tell me what the princess says, since I'm the best brother and never peek."

She said a great deal of things, and far too many of them stirred Baron's emotions in ways he didn't expect.

All he said was, "She warns you not to climb the palace roof."

After his stories of Corvin's climbing, she'd shared one of her own.

It is best that Corvin made no attempt to climb the palace roof while here, an activity which brings immediate wrath from the guards and many lectures to follow—he may take eight-year-old Aria's word for it.

Corvin's cheeks flushed red. "I don't!" Then, under scrutiny, he admitted, "I may have been tempted by a tower. Once. I may have perched—I have no need to explain myself."

Baron's stomach tightened. Leon still had a good sense of fear in him while transformed—a cautious cat—but Corvin seemed to find as much freedom in transformation as he found in flight itself. He went places he shouldn't. He lost track of time, of watching eyes.

And the most difficult line Baron walked was encouraging his brothers to hide without instilling in them a sense of shame. If they could not announce their nature to the world, he at least wanted them to stand proudly before a mirror.

"Don't be seen," he said, softening the words by ruffling the boy's hair.

Corvin smiled. "Don't worry about me."

Ironic, since Baron did little else. Especially as Huxley's sourness increased. When Corvin spent time under Huxley's tutelage, he left with scratched wrists and desperate eyes, often transforming immediately after. If Baron distracted him with letter deliveries, the boy remained upbeat, but Huxley grew more temperamental. For now, the steward directed his sourness at Baron, assuming Corvin's elusiveness was a direct result of Baron's interference. In part, the man was right, and since Baron could handle the hostility, he continued his path, each new letter renewing his own mood.

In addition to writing to Aria, something else kept him optimistic. For the first time in Baron's life, he was looking forward to a court event.

When he'd asked to speak in person, Princess Aria had responded with an invitation to an upcoming court joust.

Your brother will no doubt receive an official invitation soon, but what it won't include is this: Come to the kitchen an hour early. I'll bombard you with the usual number of questions, and if you're willing, you could make tea. I've not forgotten the incredible effect of the last cup.

As the joust approached, Baron made drinks for his brothers without thinking.

"Glad to see you're back in the practice," Leon said, purring happily. "You must have lemons on your mind, because you made buttermilk, but I'll accept it."

For Corvin's part, he seemed to stand a little taller and more confidently in Mr. Huxley's presence, so Baron resolved to offer him morning tea more regularly.

Leon was correct—besides magic and letters, Baron did have lemons on his mind.

Autumn harvest had arrived.

"My lord, you've no need to overburden yourself," Walter scolded.

"I'm far from overburdened," Baron said. "You needn't worry."

He loaded another bushel of lemons into the wagon, expertly dodging the set of hands that attempted to take it from him. Most of the orchard workers were quietly accepting of Baron's leadership, but Walter seemed to find it necessary to voice his protests in light of that fact, as if speaking for all of them.

"But, my lord, you've gathered more than any of us!"

"Indeed, I have!" Baron gave a roguish grin. "One can't expect to earn a title of such significance as ‘Grand Gatherer' without a little sweat and work."

"That's not official!" Corvin shouted from atop a nearby ladder. "I'm still in the running."

"I'm three bushels ahead of you, Corvin."

"For now!"

The boy attacked the branches with ferocity, dropping lemons to the waiting hands below. Baron chuckled, along with a few of the workers. Walter gave a long-suffering sigh. Secretly, it pleased Baron to hear the man's protests each day.

After all, the same protests had been given to his father.

Through the nearby trees, Baron could see his father's bench. He'd expected to grow melancholy, working in this part of the orchard, yet he found himself surrounded by the best memories of harvests with his father. He also remembered a princess in the orchard.

She was right. It was breathtaking.

The cheerful atmosphere dimmed as Mr. Huxley limped into the workers' circle, accompanied by his ever-present manservant. He took an accounting of the two wagons so far.

With a sniff in Baron's direction, Huxley said, "Not as productive as yesterday."

Walter stiffened as if both his parents had been insulted at once. Some of the other workers exchanged nervous looks. Baron only pushed his hair back to wipe his forehead with a handkerchief.

"Nothing to say,my lord? You are responsible for this harvest, after all."

"Variety is standard," said Baron. "What matters is the accounting of one full harvest compared to another."

"And that is on a downward trend. It seems your expensive fertilizer was a waste, as I said."

Huxley looked up at Corvin. Though he gave no order, his disapproving gaze wilted the boy right down the ladder to the ground.

"Carry on," Huxley said to the rest of them, motioning for Corvin to follow.

Corvin walked with shuffling steps and head down, his enthusiasm drained.

Baron's fingers itched to throw a lemon at the back of Huxley's head, but with great discipline—and his father's imagined disapproval—he resisted.

More than once, Baron had considered writing to Aria about the steward, then retreated from the idea. So far, he had been honest with her as much as he could, only concealing the true nature of the twins. What could he honestly say about Huxley without betraying Corvin's secret?

Nothing, he decided. Though he may have lost responsibility for his title, he'd not lost it for his family. This was his problem to solve.

As the light faded, the fully loaded wagons returned to the manor. A few bushels were reserved for hamlet workers and their families, and a few more were labeled for the manor's personal use. The remainder would be taken to markets in Stonewall and Harper's Glade. The rest of the harvest thus far had already been collected by Mr. Pembroke, who sold to the navy in Port Tynemon, since lemons popularly warded scurvy at sea.

Baron had missed dinner due to a small accident in the orchard. No permanent injury, though they were now short one ladder. He hurried into the kitchen to find Leon studying recipes from the palace cook as if they were the most sacred of religious texts.

"You're late," the boy grumbled without looking up.

"Corvin?"

"Crow-lips is fine. We all survived."

Baron quickly found himself seated at the cramped kitchen table with a warmed bowl of stew and a slice of lemon pie. Leon returned to his recipes.

The kitchen door swung open, allowing Corvin to slip in, his expression creased in a frown.

Baron swallowed. "I'm sorry I missed—"

"We need to talk about Aria."

Leon's eyes flicked up, then returned to his study, though he tilted his head in a clear display of listening.

Raising his eyebrows, Baron said, " Princess Aria. What's the concern?"

"I think she's in trouble, Baron. She always looks so tired. Like she did during the ball, except now it's worse. And I've heard things, hovering around the castle, like how the guards can't stay awake during night watch. They think it's some kind of fatigue illness passing through the castle and that Aria has it. They said she fell from her horse."

Baron's breathing hitched. "Is she injured?"

"Just minor injuries. They said she was lucky. But there's something else—I was listening at the laundry window, because laundry workers always talk the most, and—"

Baron winced. "Corvin, you shouldn't—"

"Yeah, I know. Listen. Aria went to Northglen."

Leon's head shot up at that, recipes abandoned.

"Weeks ago," Corvin said. "Before we met her. Apparently, she didn't tell anyone, not even the king, and she hired her own guard and went to meet Widow Morton alone ."

Leon snorted. "No idiot would do that."

"She's not a—never mind. The king tracked down the guards and brought them in to be questioned and got the whole story. Apparently Widow Morton made a peace agreement, except no one's seen it."

With great calm, Baron set his spoon down. "What are you saying, Corvin?"

"I think something happened!"

Leon rolled his eyes. "Obviously something happened. You can't even speculate right."

"All right, what do you think, since you know everything?"

As the twins fell into bickering, Baron's mind raced. All of Aria's questions about Casting, her interest in magic, in him— what did it mean? Did Aria want a better understanding of Casters because she had to decide upon Widow Morton's offer of peace?

She always looks so tired.

Baron had wondered, of course, the night of the ball—the way the princess stumbled out from behind a pillar, disheveled and bleary-eyed, the way she nodded off in the kitchen. Even the way she responded to his tea. It wasn't normal. Days later, she'd carried that same weariness in his orchard, like a cloud was raining above only her.

Dread constricted his breathing. Had she run afoul of a Caster?

The twins had fallen silent. With a blink, Baron came back to himself.

"Spit it out," Leon said. "You've got a face like the stew's sour, and I know it's not."

"Corvin, run up to my desk and bring the princess's letters, please."

Before Baron even finished the request, the door was swinging closed on Corvin's heel. Baron ate a few more bites of stew, then pushed his slice of pie toward Leon, who'd been eyeing it. By the time Corvin returned, he'd cleared space on the table.

One by one, Baron sorted letters, seeing them in a new light. There were enough now that they crowded the small table, overlapping corners and edges. He'd hoped to send her a response that day, but the harvest had gotten away from him, so he would manage only one more before the joust in two days.

Slowly, with the words on the table, he pieced a narrative.

"No . . ." he whispered.

During the first moments of his study, Corvin had politely averted his eyes, though he clearly fidgeted with curiosity. Leon showed no such self-restraint, craning over the table to read upside-down, and after some glaring at his twin, Corvin's defenses crumbled to join.

"She really did warn me not to climb the castle, even though she climbed the—Baron, how did you not ask for more details on that?"

"I am not afraid of heights," Leon said. "I'm just not stupid. Why is so much of this about us, anyway?"

"She's under a curse," Baron said softly. "She's hoping I'll break it."

"I don't see that anywhere," said Leon.

Baron ran his finger across a few of the details he'd picked out. "In her very first letter, she says she requires the aid of a Caster. Here, she asks about Artifacts, specifically wanting to know if destroying one will break a Cast. She asks about length of Casts, permanence, application.... She even mentions how she's studying the account of the last member of court known to be cursed. Here, she asks if one Caster can interfere with another, and then, here, about my strength as a Caster."

Leon nodded, then reached over to slap Baron's shoulder. "You're right. Good luck."

"Very funny. You remember you're the one who first encouraged me to speak to her."

"I said ‘get a voice at court.' How was I supposed to know this voice runs around drinking everything Casters hand out? I thought she swallowed your tea too quick."

"Aria's just kind," said Corvin.

"Kindness is ‘let me show you the kitchen,' not, ‘let me drink something that might turn me blind.'"

Baron gave him a flat stare, and Leon held his hands up. " I know you wouldn't, but she didn't even know you. All anybody sees is the brand."

Baron's eyes lingered on the words of her very first letter: The man behind the mark . He'd really believed she saw him that way—as Guillaume Reeves, son, brother, lemon keeper. The individual, not just the Caster. In the same way, he'd felt he had started to see her as the woman behind the crown. He'd grown comfortable referring to her, at least in his mind, as simply Aria .

Though they'd discussed magic in every message, they'd also discussed siblings and interests, the way she looked forward to daffodils blooming in spring, the way he wasn't certain he made the best decisions for the hamlet.

It's a hard thing to bear direct responsibility for others, she'd written. In truth, I worry every day that I'll fail as queen, but I can't seem to stop trying anyway. You care for those people, Baron. That means something.

He'd told her about his first spectacular fails in swordplay, about how he loved reading the legends of Einar. She'd related some of her favorite historical accounts, including the story of a woman named Leah, who stood before an angry mob and prevented them from burning a town.

If I could be half the woman she was, she'd written. Brave, resolute, caring.

And Baron had been bold enough to say, It seems to me you already are.

Now he realized she'd been using him all along. Even her favorable view of his magic made sense if he could do for her what no one else could.

In his very first letter, he'd told her, People are content to acknowledge that magic exists when it might benefit them. Nothing else. Somehow, he'd forgotten his own words. Gotten carried away in the dream of something different and forgotten one thing:

When it came to how people viewed Casters, it was always the same.

"Baron?" said Corvin. "Do you think you can break the curse?"

Leon said, "Imagine what kind of reward you can ask for saving a princess. They'd give you the title back for sure."

Corvin's face brightened, and Baron took a deep breath. Leon was closer to the truth than he knew. Baron was an opportunity for the princess, but she was one for him as well. Nothing more.

"We'll find out at the joust," he said.

Either way, their relationship—whatever it was—would end there.