All That Glows

Twenty-Seven

The afternoon is perfect. A quilted sky, patched with aquamarine, sieves sunlight over Buckingham’s gardens. Everything is warm, yellow, and happy. As if our world isn’t about to crumble to pieces.

“We don’t have to go if you’re feeling too bad.” Anxiety scores Richard’s cheeks and squeezes his eyes with premature wrinkles, signs he’s second-guessing the pre-scheduled lunch with his sister.

“No, no. I want to meet her.” I pick at one of the larger knots in my hair, impossibly snarled and stubborn, and try not to think of how, very soon, I’ll be facing Breena’s dragon-fire contempt.

The picnic, complete with wicker chairs and a breezy linen tent, waits in one of the garden’s larger clearings. I half expect to see a croquet set leaning up against the folding table or a group of petticoated ladies sipping tea. But no one is under the canopy—Richard and I are the first ones here.

“So Anabelle will be able to see you now?”

I double-check my veiling spell. “She should.”

“Just a warning—she doesn’t open up to new people easily. Not at first.” Richard frowns, his eyes linger on the bloody reminders of last night on my arms, the bruises beneath them. “Is there anything you can do about those? Or should we come up with some excuse about a bad-tempered house cat?”

“Right. I forgot.” My dress is still in utter ruins as well: frayed lace and black. The mending magic threads it back together, new within seconds.

I mutter a few more words and watch the spell unknot my hair, wash my skin clean. I stare at my arms long after the scabs are gone, studying the light dusting of freckles and pinkish skin, how clean and unscarred they are, even after all I’ve been through. If only magic could fix everything this way.

Richard’s hand falls on my shoulder, fills me with shivers despite the warmth of the day.

“Are you all right?” he asks. “You don’t feel sick, do you?”

“I had a fight with Breena. She’s not going to like that I’m showing myself to Anabelle. Not at all.” I swallow, thinking of how the sickness might even be preferable to what I’m about to face. The thought of Breena glaring at me throughout the entire picnic makes me want to curl up under the table.

“I’m sorry—” Richard’s voice stops abruptly, replaced by the Morse code click of heels. “Belle!”

“Hey! Sorry I’m late.” Anabelle slides her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, her chocolate-brown eyes spring out to study me. Her gaze holds the same steel as her father’s did, as her brother’s does now. “Who’s this?”

My stomach drops at the sight of Breena, leaning in the doorway. Even several meters away her scowl is visible, loaded with condemnation. Her distance, her absence feels like I’ve lost a limb, not vital, but devastating.

Breena looks everywhere but at me, her nose slightly raised in the air.

“This is Emrys.” Richard turns me so that I’m completely facing his sister. “My . . .”

The sounds of the garden swell up—the hushed secrets of leaves and birds’ untranslated ballads. I watch as Richard’s face flushes pink. Anabelle’s eyes dart between us.

“Girlfriend,” I offer out of the tightness of my throat. “I’m his girlfriend.”

Richard loosens next to me. Beyond us I hear Breena’s indignant choke.

“Girlfriend?” Anabelle lets the word settle on her tongue. “I knew it! That’s why you’ve been acting so off lately!” She shoots her brother a knowing look, then gives me a triumphant grin. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

“You too.” I steal another glance at Breena’s corner. She’s unmoved, a cross-armed statue of disdain.

Richard gestures to our waiting meal. “Shall we?”

I want to hang back, force Breena into a confrontation, but Richard keeps an arm wrapped around my shoulder. We walk alongside his sister. The sight of Anabelle leaping in her heels, goatlike, through the lawn brings a real grin to my face. I catch that smile, preserve it. As distracted as I am by Breena and the whirlwind of events outside the palace, I need this meeting to go well. I don’t need the other major female in my life to hate me too.

Breena doesn’t join us under the tent. She lingers in patches of sunlight, standing outside of the canopy like the watchful Guard she is. I need to get her attention, tell her about the ravens. . . .

“So, where’d you guys meet?” Anabelle smoothes her salmon pencil skirt and settles into her chair. Richard’s right. She’s stiff and reserved in front of me, like a television reporter reciting lines for an interview. The swearing princess who leaps feetfirst into pools is nowhere to be found.

My mouth is a drought-struck river, dusty and dry as I scour for a convincing answer. Richard senses my panic, reaches across the table to lace his hand into mine.

“At a charity event,” he says. His free hand begins sorting through the picnic basket. “She was one of the coordinators.”

“Let the woman talk for herself.” Anabelle tugs the basket away from her brother. Every action, every word between them oozes familiarity. “You’re squishing the sandwiches. Let me do that.”

“I often think she should have been the oldest,” Richard mutters.

“Me too,” his sister says, looking back at me over the basket. “Funny that you organize charities. It seems like I should have seen you before.”

“It was my first one. I was rather nervous. I actually spilled champagne all over myself.” I manage a light, wind-chime laugh. “Richard was the only one who noticed.”

“Of course, that was a few months ago,” Richard offers. “She’s much less clumsy now.”

“Why’ve you kept her a secret this long?”

“So you wouldn’t torture her with Burberry catalogs and polo matches,” Richard teases.

The siblings begin to banter, but I don’t pay attention to their words. My focus returns to Breena’s storm-cloud stare.

Bree, I need to talk to you.

She doesn’t even flinch. I begin to wonder if the words got through to her.

What? she snaps back. Is it about your hot date? Or are you ready to explain why every soul feeder in London was at Buckingham’s door last night? Maybe you can tell me why Gwyn is dead.

Her words are like a thousand tiny paper cuts, stinging me to pieces. I wince under them, let go of Richard’s hand and grip my chair’s splintering wicker.

“Are you okay?” The princess’s hand lands on my arm, jerking me back into the current, mortal conversation.

I’m clearly not going to get any effective communication with Breena here. But now’s my only chance. I have to tell her while she’s in my reach.

“I need to use the toilet,” I tell Anabelle. “I’ll only be a minute.”

I scurry away from the tent, alter my veiling spell as soon as Anabelle’s attention is elsewhere. Breena doesn’t look at me when I approach. Her eyes lock solely on the royal pair. Everything else about her is void of emotion, like she’s trying her best not to unleash.

“If it means anything now, I’m sorry,” I begin. “I was trying to do what was right for the crown and I failed.”

My friend remains a statue, looking only at the tent’s chatting diners.

“Bree, talk to me. I’m sorry! I should’ve listened to you.”

you.

“But you didn’t,” she cuts in, syllables forged of cruel steel. “You let your love for Richard get in the way. Go and be with him. You’re no longer fit to be a Fae.”

“Maybe that’s true. But you’re going to need me. The ravens came this morning, gave me a message.”

Breena’s frozen state breaks enough to show me she’s interested.

“There were three of them. From the Tower.” I go on to repeat the ravens’ prophecies, watching the horror thaw out Breena’s pretty face.

“So you—we have forced the Old One’s hand.” Her voice fills with cracks. “Five days. That isn’t much time.”

“I’ve sent a message to Mab. I say we follow the ravens’ advice. The palace has already been breached. Who knows if Gwyn’s killer is still around. . . . We need to get the royals to Windsor and ask for Herne’s protection. It’s what Mab wants us to do.”

“Herne? What makes you think he’ll offer us protection? All he cares about are his woods and his hunt.” The words roll off Breena’s tongue with distinct distaste. “As for Mab—she’s been out of the city too long. She can’t even go to Windsor herself! No. We should go north to Balmoral Castle, where Mab can protect us. Think of all the older Fae in the court. Their power will be enough to protect your precious king and the rest of the crown.”

“North is where the Old One is. We can’t go there. We have to follow the ravens’ words. They’ve never misled us before,” I say, firm. I feel the fight dawning between us, brace myself for it.

“They left, Emrys. They know what’s coming. We have to go north. Those are my orders.”

I feel the weight of her age, those extra years between us, pressing down, trying to force me into submission. Normally I would have to bow, let Breena have her way. But I have something stronger than age: Mab’s blessing.

“I won’t let you.” The force of the queen’s magic swells behind my words. Breena can challenge me all she wants, but she can’t outrank me. Not in this.

“What do you mean you won’t let me?” Breena’s magic presses, probes me for weakness. “I just gave you an order.”

I don’t yield. “Mab gave me permission to ignore your orders if I thought they would hurt Richard. I don’t have to obey you. Mab wants them to go to Windsor and so do I.”

“Why would Mab do that?” Breena’s nostrils flare and her eyes turn to cyan slits when she realizes I’m right. “Doesn’t she trust me?”

I say nothing.

My friend buries her anger behind pursed lips and quick breaths. “You already have one death on your head. Are you prepared to handle the others?”

“It’s what I’m trying to avoid.” It’s my turn to be ice. I see her eyes shift to the tent, to Richard. I see traces of her wild spirit behind that stare, and I realize how much I’ve hurt her.

Breena says nothing else. Her glare drills deep into the diners.

“So be it.” I turn and walk back to the tent.

Anabelle is distracted with her shrimp salad sandwich as I approach.

“Oh! You’re here!” The princess nearly drops her sandwich when she spots me back against the wicker chair. “Richard and I were just talking about taking a trip to Windsor. I think it would be great if you could go with us. We’d get a chance to bond. What do you say?”

I force a smile, pry it wide across my cheeks. “I’d love to.”

“Well, Windsor it is then.” Richard holds up his sparkling water. “To Windsor!”

The glasses clink together. I swallow and try everything I can, not to look back to where Breena is standing, staring.

“To Windsor,” I echo.