Chapter 30

28 days left

T he Crown's challenge was straightforward: Any man undertaking it would stay in the castle three days, during which time he would have full access to the cursed Artifact—under guard, of course—and the freedom to destroy it through any method.

After being given two days to prepare, Henry returned to the castle, and Aria had an opportunity to speak with him at last. She met him in the display room where the Artifact was housed. Two guards stood at the door, failing to conceal their curious glances.

"Your Highness." Henry performed a deep bow, then tossed his head to move his hair from his face.

Aria didn't wear a gown as she would have for a suitor. Instead, she met Henry in a silk shirt and vest, armed to help. With a grunt, she dumped a stack of books into a chair at one edge of the room, huffing a winded breath after.

At Henry's wide-eyed blink, she patted the stack. "Any information on Casters from our library, along with my own personal notes. I should inform you—I've been warned by a trustworthy Caster that breaking an Artifact may have unpredictable effect on its magic."

Even so, she could not request he fail the challenge. Not with his own fate on the line. Besides, she couldn't see a better path forward, not when Widow Morton wanted to keep her father distracted. Baron had said breaking an Artifact sometimes rebounded the effect on the Caster, so Aria was going to break the infernal box and hope Morton hadn't anticipated the success.

She'd tried telling her father the Artifact was a trap, but he'd claimed she was under Widow Morton's thrall and would not listen to a word.

Aria gritted her teeth and grabbed her journal.

"This is not ... what I expected." Hesitantly, Henry smiled. "I'm Henry. We haven't even really met."

"Lord Henry—"

"No ‘lord,' please. I've always hated that. Six brothers and my father, and we're all ‘lord.' I'd like to be just Henry."

"Very well, Henry. Let's break a box."

They spent all morning at it. By the time the call for lunch came, Aria's arms ached, either from holding books or making attempts to smash, pry, or otherwise conquer the Artifact. She'd nodded off once, and Henry had continued working without her, drawing no attention to her embarrassment afterward.

They took lunch together in the smallest dining hall. The king was in council with his advisers; the queen was in her music room.

Eliza made an appearance just as the servants brought out plates. She looked pale, her expression clearly composed with great effort, but she asked quietly to join.

Henry lurched to his feet, ready to pull out her chair, but she'd already slipped into the one beside Aria.

Awkward silence reigned. Aria picked at the bones of her chicken.

"I take it you haven't succeeded yet," Eliza said at last.

"It withstands attacks better than any knight's armor." Henry kept his eyes on his plate as he spoke, though he stole one glance across the table at Eliza, barely a heartbeat long. "To be honest, perhaps I'm blunting some of my efforts."

Aria had suspected as much, but she couldn't blame him.

"This is madness," she whispered.

At least they all agreed.

Eliza set her jaw. "You have to give it your best effort, because my father doesn't hold back on punishments."

Ingrained instinct urged Aria to defend her father's sense of mercy, but she only swallowed.

"If I do succeed," Henry said, "would any of us be happy? I mean no offense, Aria, truly."

"Oh, Aria has her own striking hero she's longing to be with," Eliza said before Aria could respond. "Father's taking that from her too. That's what he does best. Take away what everyone else cares about and replace it with what he wants."

"He's only ..." Aria couldn't finish. With a sigh, she reached for her cup.

"Is it Baron?" Henry asked.

Aria nearly spit her wine across the table. Despite the gloom of the situation, Eliza gave a gasp of utter betrayal, her eyes darting between Henry and Aria, jaw gaping.

" Baron ?" Eliza demanded of Henry. "Baron who ?"

"Baron Reeves. That's his nickname, but I always liked it. I think his real name is something hard to pronounce." Watching Aria swipe her napkin across her wine-splattered chin, Henry chuckled. "I just wondered. There was some gossip about you two after the joust, and you mentioned a trustworthy Caster earlier. I'm not judging—I like the whole Reeves family. The twins are hysterical, and Baron always puts my brother Hugh in his place when they duel, which is great, because Hugh is insufferable."

Aria felt Eliza's pointed gaze, felt the betrayal sinking deeper, becoming real. She should have told her sister the truth from the start.

The least she could do was tell it now.

"He's the one Father removed a title from," Eliza said. "Isn't he? The Caster."

"Yes," said Aria softly. "But he's much more than that."

"Obviously, or you wouldn't like him." Eliza sighed. "You could have told me. I know Father would draw swords over the Casting and everything else, but I'm smart enough to know that after Widow Morton, you wouldn't be ten feet from a Caster unless he was the most spectacular man who ever lived. So he must be."

"Sorry, Henry," Aria said wryly.

Henry smiled, tossing his hair. "I'll settle for second place in this tournament."

"You're first place in mine," Eliza whispered, her gaze falling to her plate.

The earlier gloom, banished for a few precious minutes, returned, and they finished the meal in silence. Aria wanted to thank Eliza but couldn't find the words. She reached out and squeezed her sister's hand instead.

She spent so much of her life worrying about mistakes—dreading the making, obsessing once made—yet that very obsession seemed to drive her to make some of her worst decisions, like keeping secrets from her sister. She should have known Eliza wouldn't criticize her relationship with Baron, should have known Eliza would see the truth even before Aria did.

Baron wasn't a mistake.

In reconsidering her sister's opinion, she began to reconsider someone else's.

After lunch, Henry and Eliza headed to the castle armorer for additional tools, and Aria sought out her mother.

The queen was in the music room, of course, and she smiled brightly at Aria's appearance, gesturing her over to the harpsichord.

Though Aria was in no mood for music, she plunked a few keys while her mother sang. After only a handful of measures, the queen laughed.

"Simply dreadful, darling. You may as well play a funeral march."

"It would be appropriate," Aria muttered.

Her mother's fingers took over the keys, light and nimble, chirping a melody like birds in spring.

"Mother ... even if this succeeds, I can't marry Henry."

The queen kept her eyes on the instrument. The notes increased in volume.

"You heard Eliza's interest in him—it was the very reason for the joust! How can Father ... How could he?"

At that, the queen faltered. She heaved a sigh, and the melody quieted into something gentler, like a half-remembered lullaby. Aria blinked hard, forcing herself to sit stiff and upright, defying a widow who couldn't be seen.

"You are a royal, Aria," the queen said.

"A royal in love with someone else." Aria's voice caught, snagging on the hook of tawny waves. She flushed at her own brazenness. Were a handful of interactions and a series of letters really enough to determine love? Such a thing seemed too bold.

Then again, if she had less than a month to live, shouldn't she live boldly?

"I was too."

For a moment, Aria thought she'd misheard.

"I was your age." The queen smiled at something distant. "Wild. Carefree. He was the son of a duke, with a voice to move mountains. It doesn't matter now. Someday, yours will be a forgotten memory just the same."

It didn't sound forgotten. It sounded discordant and sharp against the melody.

"You've never told me that."

"You and I hardly talk, darling. Certainly not about matters of the heart. You've always tried so hard to be your father's child that you don't allow yourself to speak."

Aria sputtered. She struggled to rise, finally untangling herself from the bench. "I don't know what—"

"You know exactly what I mean." Her mother halted the music, gaze intense. "You're no longer a child, and if you're going to be any sort of ruler at all, you'll have to accept that your father will disapprove of the things you do. That does not make them wrong."

"Just because he disapproves of you," Aria said heatedly.

Cruel speech. Mark.

She looked at her shoes. After a few moments, the queen resumed her lullaby.

Is it because you loved someone else? Aria wanted to ask. Is that why he loved someone else?

But her voice lodged in her throat.

Finally, she swallowed. "What do I do, Mother?"

"Whatever is right."

But Aria didn't know what was right.

She knew only one thing—the happiest she'd ever been was on a winding path of letters, bleeding honesty through parchment.