All That Glows (23 page)

“As your king,” Richard continues, not even batting an eyelid at the wasted alcohol, “I order you to jump in.”

“You—you can’t do that.” Anabelle’s hand finds her hip to punctuate seriousness. It’s her eyes that give her away. Laugh lines, barely formed, appear just beside her lashes.

“Sure I can.” Her brother gives a great kick. A wall of water rains down on the princess—flattening hair and smearing makeup.

“That’s it!” Anabelle flings her high heels to the side and lunges into the pool, evening gown and all.

It’s then I get a good look at Breena. She’s staring at me, jaw set to the side in clear disapproval at my soaking state. I paddle to the edge, grip the wet tiles.

“I see you’re having fun,” she says. Her tone holds something close to disdain.

“There’s no harm in it.”

Instead of looking at my friend, I choose to watch the king and his sister. Their laughter is so loud it rattles the many glass panes that surround us. The pool is now a mess of expensive fabric and well-aimed splashes.

When Breena finally speaks, her voice is robotic, stiff. “Just make sure you’re ready for tomorrow night. I don’t want any distractions.”

“I’ll be ready,” I promise, never tearing my eyes off of Richard. I can’t afford not to be.

***

It’s long past midnight by the time Richard falls asleep. Once I’m sure he’s deep in his dreams, I crawl onto the bed and fight my way through the ridiculous layers of comforter and sheets to be close to him.

I don’t dare move for fear of waking him, so I lie still, just inches away from the harsh angles of his biceps. All my senses are lit with magic. I know everything that moves in this room: from the small family of mice beneath the floor to the nervous twitch of Richard’s pinkie toe. I see and hear everything. The murmur of his heart, the jagged beat of mine. Full of wish and hope and
I love you.

I almost told him. After our kiss at the poolside. I should have.

He’s said so many things that make me think he wants to speak the word too. But I don’t know this for sure. I don’t know it at all.

Not knowing is like a blade just over my heart, with all the weight and death of a guillotine. Every day that passes it grows sharper, more present. Ready to drop.

Tomorrow. I’ll tell him tomorrow.

Then I’ll wait for the fall.

Twenty-Two

A
lthough I can’t see the sunrise, some deep part of me feels the sun’s beams first kiss the earth. Outside the world is just beginning to take shape: a watercolor layered over and over with brighter shades. I stand by the window, greeting the pastel light as it washes through the curtains. When the rosy rays of the sun lap onto the bed, Richard squirms and tries to yank the covers over his head.

“Good morning.” I smile in spite of the Old One. In spite of everything. “I think you should take the day off.”

“What?” His voice is hoarse. “It’s my first official day as king! I don’t think it’ll go over too well if I just disappear.”

“That’s the beauty of magic. I can clear your schedule. No one will notice.” I lean against the bed, hoping he won’t fight much more. If he does I might lose my courage, forget the words I’m so determined to say. “Take a day off. For me. We’ll go out and see the city.”

Richard rakes an absent hand through his wayward hair. Like some grandiose magician, he sweeps the sheets away. “You can do that? Clear my schedule? Why didn’t you do that the last time?”

I fight back a grimace, decide to be honest. “I didn’t think of it. But we won’t make that mistake again. The paparazzi and the public won’t recognize you today,” I call as he shambles off to the bathroom. “Or me for that matter.”

“You?” He pokes his head back out of the doorway.

“It wouldn’t be a very good date if I was invisible to everyone, would it? Now hurry up and get ready.” My insides tremble, but I don’t betray their nervousness. My grin is so tight it’s almost painful as I shoo him back into the loo.

A good ten minutes passes with me alone in the bedroom. I try my hardest not to think of what I want to say. What I have to say. The thought turns my stomach over and over. Far more terrifying than the idea of hunting soul feeders with Breena tonight.

I’m almost to the point of talking myself out of it when Richard steps out of the bathroom. His hair is combed back, a few loose, wet strands hanging over his eyes. His jaw is clean, as smooth as his chest. The fresh scent of soap clings to his skin, the towel around his waist. It’s all I can do to stay by the bed while he disappears into his wardrobe for a suitable outfit.

“Nothing too nice,” I tell him. “Try jeans and a T-shirt.”

His laugh echoes into the cavernous room. “I think I know how to blend in. You, however, are the last one I’d turn to for fashion tips.”

“What’s
that
supposed to mean?” I look down at my outfit. Layer after layer of colors. Sea-foam tulle peeking out from aqua and daffodil cotton. Silver-threaded plum fabric mixes steadily with champagne silk.

“That’s not exactly street wear. Where did you get all of those skirts anyway?”

I spend a few seconds in steaming silence before I decide the anger isn’t worth it. “They were my favorites. I’ve seen a lot of styles over the years. If I saw something I liked, I would snatch it after the queens and duchesses took them off.”

“You stole them?” Richard emerges from the wardrobe fully dressed. I see he’s taken my suggestion, with a simple red T-shirt to contrast his well-worn jeans.

“I suppose you could see it that way. I prefer to think of it as payment for those many hours spent watching them.” I roll my eyes at the memories of teatimes and garden parties crammed with endless, droning conversations about society.

“How morally ambiguous of you.” He pauses and looks around the room. “God, this place is a mess.”

“That’s generally what happens when you don’t clean for weeks on end.” I nudge the nearest pile of shriveled button-ups with my toe. “Or when you lock your door so the maids can’t come in.”

“I just feel weird having them go through my stuff.” Richard moves over to the other side of the bed, makes a feeble attempt at straightening the sheets. “Hey—do you think you could—”

“No.”

His eyebrows arch up in mock plea as he lets go of the sheets and laces his hands together. “Please? It’d just take you a second. Like Mary Poppins.”

“I’m not magicking your room clean,” I tell him, resisting the temptation to ask who Mary Poppins is. “It’s a waste of valuable energy.”

“Oh well. It was worth a try.” He shrugs. “Maybe next year. For my birthday.”

My throat becomes a desert. Cracked and long dry. If we stay in the path of the Old One, this unyielding hurricane, there likely won’t
be
a next year.

Richard is too blinded by the newness of morning and the wrinkles in his sheets to notice my pause. “Where do you keep all your skirts? Like when you wore that other dress. The green one.”

“In an invisible closet.”

“No, really.” He flops forward on the mattress, rumpling the sheets he just pretended so hard to tidy.

“I . . . I dunno. I guess I just wish them away. It’s like anything else. My hair, my skin, my eyes. I decide what I want and it just appears. The green dress was for a special occasion.”

“I liked it. A lot.” Richard is on his hands and knees, crawling forward at the speed of a garden snail.

“It’s not really street wear either. Do you want me to change into something less bright?” I shut my eyes and picture myself in an outfit almost identical to Richard’s. He gives a grunt of surprise and I look down to find myself in a scarlet shirt and jeans. The trousers are so tight, constricting.

“No. Keep the skirts. I like them. They’re you.”

He’s close now. The gravity of him tugs, luring me into his orbit. I want to be as close to him as possible. Even closer.

But the whiteness of the sheets glares back at me. A reminder of what happened the last time we kissed on the bed. How the wildness is still inside me. Ready to kill.

Richard reaches out, his hand grazing mine. The skin he touches becomes hot and biting, sparks of desire. I tighten my fingers around his.

“Skirts it is.”

“So,” he says, all grin and re-mussed hair, “how about that date?”

Twenty-Three

T
he midday sun beats down, glaring summer heat off the metal grating of our café table. The brightness, its diamond-scale pattern of light, forces me to squint. But that doesn’t stop Richard from staring.

“What are you looking at?” I laugh, my finger circling endless laps around the rim of my mug. My latte is untouched despite the hours we’ve lounged at this sidewalk coffee shop talking and soaking up the morning. Always the
I love you
is on the edge of my throat, waiting to be said. But right now, even in this perfect afternoon of coffee and talk, I can’t seem to find the courage.

“You.” His smile stretches long, like a sun-drunk cat. “I was just thinking about how beautiful you are.”

Dozens of men and women shift by our table, gripping packaged sushi and wrapped sandwiches as they plow their way down the sidewalk and back toward their offices. Normally, with my veiling spell down, I would feel naked, aware of every strange look. But here, across from Richard, watching him watching me, I feel like one of the only souls left in the world.

“The way the sun is playing through your hair—you look alight.” Richard reaches out, strokes his fingers through my locks. “And your eyes. Always your eyes.”

He leans in closer, so that I feel his breath grazing my cheek. Deliciously hot. Here (away from the bed’s feathery sheets), I think it will be easier to stop. I let our lips collide, press soft into each other. He tastes like coffee and earth—something rich. I linger in it until I feel the magic buzzing, tearing up my throat like nausea.

For now, it is enough.

I lean back on my chair, its finely wrought iron etching hard into my spine, and try hard not to think about what will happen when it
isn’t
enough. What I’ll have to choose.

“So where do you want to go? Saint Paul’s? The Tower of London?” Richard takes a long sip of his drink and pulls out some money for the check.

We’ve spent the day layered in magic. My energy is stretched, constantly feeding spells to shield the king’s identity from the hundreds of people passing us. Much of my senses are dedicated to being alert. Although the city streets are sunlit and crowded, I shouldn’t dismiss the possibility of an attack.

Richard senses that part of me is on edge. Once we get up from the table and start walking, he pulls me close. His touch brings me back into the moment, into the day I should be enjoying. I’m determined to enjoy these hours. To enjoy Richard before I face the guillotine.

“No, not the Tower.” I shake my head, steer us toward the river. “I have an idea.”

“This is nice.” Richard sighs, contented, as we walk. “I’ve never been able to enjoy the city like this, outside of a car, away from the crowds and security guards.”

A smile flutters, fragile, across my face. I scan the endless string of passersby, going breathless at any flash of green. “Well, you’re not entirely free of guards. You never are.”

“You don’t count, Embers.”

We reach the Thames. Under the full force of daylight, the river seems more disparaging than mystical. Its water is thick and brown, carrying bits of rubbish with every extra push of the current. Tourists and Londoners alike walk past without so much as a backward glance. But then, they never knew what the Thames once was. When the great stretch of water was surrounded by nothing but moorland. When every bend and curve of the great river spoke of strength.

Sickness kicks up in the pit of my stomach with a sudden vengeance. My steps falter and I bend, drawing quick, gritty breaths to keep the queasiness at bay. Richard halts with me.

“Are you all right?”

“It’s nothing.” The words leave me in a gasp. Although the pain has been latent over the past few weeks, its return is fiery and lancing. My knees nearly buckle under it.

“It doesn’t look like nothing.” Richard sets his coffee on the stone ledge and wraps his arms around me. His grip is steady, holding me up when I would have fallen.

In a single moment, I lose all of the sparse contents of my stomach. The sip of coffee I tried an hour earlier and half of a croissant paint the sidewalk all sorts of unappetizing colors. Bitterness curdles, stains my lips. I wipe them hard with my shirtsleeve.

Richard guides me gently away from the puddle of vomit, lets me lean against the stone wall that borders the river. “What set it off?”

“I . . . I don’t know.” My voice is weaker than I’d like. “I think . . . I’ve been using a lot of magic today. More than usual.”

“For us to go on this date?” Richard frowns. “Do you want to go back to the palace? We can sit in the gardens and you could get some rest.”

I stay still for a moment, willing the pain in my stomach to go back to its usual, tolerable ache. Slowly, grudgingly it retreats, leaves me be.

We should go back, considering what Breena and I are going to do tonight. I’ll need as much energy and magic as I can muster. But I know that if I turn back now, my courage will crumble.

“No.” I shake my head. “Not yet.”

“Are you sure?” His fingers tangle into a coppery strand of my hair as he brushes it back behind my ears. “We could do this another time.”

No. The time is now. It has to be. I swallow the tremble out of my voice and start walking, pulling Richard with me. “I’m sure.”

The riverfront passes by our slow, together steps. An artist stands at the far side of the walk, squinting out at the Thames with a brush wedged between her lips, teal paint streaking her cheek. Couples, so much like us, walk with fingers linked, stopping at various points in the stone wall to point at the scene beyond the chocolate waters. A young man with gnarled, knotted hair sits on a bench, plucking a guitar.

If you embrace this city and crawl under its skin . . . there’s something here.
I remember Breena’s words. How, despite the sickness, I’m not the only Fae who’s lost herself to these people, this place. Slowly and surely, it’s swallowing us all.