Before the Snow (5 page)

They were leaning against one of the stable walls. At first Nepenthe assumed it was a stable hand and one of the maids. But it was Ora and the Prince. And they were kissing.

Nepenthe felt her breath catch. She should have kept walking, but she didn't. She watched as Lazar leaned closer into Ora, pressing her against the wall. When the light shone through the space that finally separated them, Ora—radiant Ora—smiled up at him.

Nepenthe watched them longer than she should have.

Finally, she turned and returned to her walk. Suddenly dizzy, she gripped a tree for balance.

Lazar's memory was gone. He did not know what Nepenthe had done for him all those years before, and he was falling for Ora.

It shouldn't have been a surprise. Ora was beautiful. Everyone thought so. Every boy in her orbit looked at her, and everything and everyone else fell away. Nepenthe should have expected it. But what did startle her was the way she felt about it. There was a stinging sensation somewhere beneath her ribs. She waited for the discomfort to pass, but it did not. Not until she finally found the pond.

The water never talked to the River Witch, exactly. Sometimes it carried other people's voices back to her. She caught parts of conversations. She caught bits of other people's lives. For the first time in her whole life, Nepenthe felt jealous of a life that wasn't her own.

She kept their kiss a secret. One that burned like wax spilled from a candle.

“Isn't it marvelous?” Ora said when she saw her the next morning.

Nepenthe waited, half expecting Ora to tell her about the kiss, but Ora didn't say a word about it.

“What's so marvelous?”

“The Prince is throwing a party for us, and he's inviting half of Algid. The younger half.”

Soon after Ora's announcement, the Prince sent them dresses. Or rather he sent Ora dresses and he sent Nepenthe a single dress.

The royal dressmaker accompanied the dresses and explained the disparity.

Nepenthe bit back her own explanation.
Perhaps there is a dress for every kiss Ora has shared with Lazar?

Pretty didn't mean anything to a witch. Pretty was a spell, meant for human consumption. But it meant something to Ora. She spent hours in front of the mirror enhancing her natural gifts the same way Nepenthe spent hours changing the currents and making tides.

But the night of the ball, Nepenthe let Ora work her magic on her. A little color on her cheeks and lips and above her eyes was all she would let her do. Ora chanted over little jars of various colors. Their contents drifted over Nepenthe's face and landed exactly where they were meant to go, like the Prince's Snow, only more precise.

“If I didn't know better, I'd say you looked almost human, River Witch,” Ora said affectionately.

“It's dangerous what you're doing, Ora,” Nepenthe said while Ora was making the finishing touches.

A
ribbon that tied all on its own took hold in Nepenthe's hair.

“What are you talking about, Nepenthe?”

“I saw you and the Prince by the stables.”

Ora reacted, her pretty, lips sucked in and pouted outward.

“I am not the first witch to kiss anyone. How exactly do you think there are so many witches . . .”

“Lazar's not just anyone.”

“Don't you ever get lonely?” Ora asked suddenly.

“How could I be lonely? I have our Coven,” Nepenthe answered quickly.

Lonely isn't in our vocabulary. We are a part of something—always.

But the word lingered. Nepenthe could see it for Ora. She could see how Ora had always felt that way. She had never been like the rest of the Coven. And even though they were a part of her, there might be loneliness in that.

But when Nepenthe thought of the boy she'd met when she was small . . . she could not see how he could be Ora's answer to loneliness. He had a hole in him that was bigger than hers. How could two empty things fill each other up?

Lazar was not like Ora either; he was more like Nepenthe.

The thought, errant and reckless, took hold. He was more like Nepenthe. She had been so sure about not being with someone of the land. Someone so different. But he wasn't so different.

“I love him, Nepenthe,” Ora said quietly.

The words stung more than any curse Nepenthe had ever heard.

This was much worse than any dalliance. Much worse than Nepenthe imagined. There was perhaps nothing more dangerous than a witch in love.

13

The palace was glorious every day, but when there was a ball it became sublime.

The Prince bowed low when Ora and Nepenthe entered. And the crowd of finely dressed ladies and gentlemen gasped in response. He was making a statement. They just didn't realize it was that of a man in love.

Ora looked north of beautiful, her blond hair half tied up in elaborate knots that cascaded down her back. The effect was breathtaking. Still, the Prince spoke to Nepenthe first.

“You wore the dress,” Lazar said. “I wasn't sure if you would. I didn't want you to think that I wanted to change you. But it was the color of the River.” “It's lovely . . .”

Nepenthe asked him the purpose of all this dressing up and trotting them out. What was the point?

“My father thinks that he can keep my gift a secret. But I don't think magic is something that should be kept in the shadows. Not anymore.”

“So you're going to debut your gift in front of everyone tonight?” Nepenthe asked.

“Father says that it's too soon. But I want him to know you and Ora. To know that you are just like everyone else.”

“But we're not.”

“You are more like me than anyone I have ever met. And Ora . . . The King and all of Algid will fall in love with both of you as I have.”

He tossed the word love around so lightly, unaware of its effect on Nepenthe and on Ora. Nepenthe felt a sudden surge of anger.

“So you bring us out into the public as your test case? To prep the masses for accepting you?” she said, her ire suddenly rising.

“It's not like that, Nepenthe. Let's not quarrel. Let's dance.”

Lazar led her out onto the dance floor.

He bowed to her. And when he took her in his arms, he whispered in her ear, “You should always wear this.”

The words stopped Nepenthe for a second.
Had he actually said them?
she wondered as the music swelled and the dance began.

She was used to practicing dancing with her father. It came flooding back.

“She dances . . .” The Prince looked at Nepenthe, a little surprised at her ability.

“I was not always in the water,” she reminded him.

Ora was holding court in the corner of the room, surrounded by women in gorgeous dresses who were busy complimenting her own. She cast a look at her sister and waved.

Nepenthe felt her heart lift and sink at once. She was happy for Ora in her element. And Nepenthe became more aware than ever before, even in the blue water dress, that this was not where she belonged. But Lazar squeezed her hand, pulling her attention back to the dance and to him.

Her hand in his begged to differ. So did her slippered feet that felt more comfortable moving in time with his than at any other time since she'd stepped out of the carriage. Perhaps even before that.

As a woman took a turn near her, though, Nepenthe overhead her say in a loud whisper, “Of course that Ora is the most beautiful woman here. I bet she used magic to make herself that way.”

Nepenthe
could see Ora's face fall. The River Witch felt the water rise in her in defense of her sister. Nepenthe probably had made that same joke more than once to Ora's face. But this was different. In the mouth of a Marquise or whatever she was, it was a weapon.

The woman's companion meanly joined in, “Then what happened to the other one? Doesn't look like she has a stitch of magic on.”

His words should not have hurt Nepenthe either, she thought. But she was not in the water now. And somehow the dry Nepenthe, the land Nepenthe, was more vulnerable than the water one. She looked away from the couple and from Lazar.

“Don't give them the satisfaction, Nepenthe. Just keep your eyes on me,” the Prince said, looking intently at her.

“If you tell me I'm pretty, then I'll drown you where you stand.”

He didn't say another word. He just kept dancing. He pulled Nepenthe a little closer, spun her a little faster. And when the music changed, he did not let go.

After a few dances, she realized what he was doing. He would stay on this dance floor as long as it took for her to stop looking like she was about to flood the ballroom. But with his hand on her waist, his other in hers, it began to feel like something more to Nepenthe. She remembered his kiss with Ora, and she knew that this moment was wrong. Flustered, she let go of his hands.

“You should dance with Ora. I need some air.”

He looked at Nepenthe, confusion crossing his handsome face.

She pushed through the crowd to the patio, feeling like she escaped something dangerous just in time. But Lazar was there beside her a second later. He took off his coat.

“You'll catch cold.”

He helped Nepenthe into the coat. It was softer than anything she'd ever felt. The inside of the coat was downy soft fur, fit for a prince. Even in her land days, she had never worn anything quite as fine, and her family was not poor. The coat smelled like him. The Prince's expensive cologne was a heady mix that brought back the flush of their proximity on the dance floor.

“You can't let them chase you out like that,” he said, referring to his less than polite guests.

“It wasn't that.”

“Then what was it?”

“I just felt a little flushed. So much dancing.”

“You're a brilliant witch. But a terrible liar.”

“You should get back inside.”

“If I didn't know better, I'd think that you were trying to get rid of me.”

“You're right. I'm so bored. It's exhausting spending every minute with a handsome, magic Prince,” Nepenthe teased.

“I have a secret, Nepenthe,” he said suddenly, his eyes lighting up with mischief. “One I could not bear to tell Ora.”

“And yet you want to tell me. Why?”

“I think she likes the Prince in me better than the witch. I think I can get inside people's minds. I can see with my Snow—”

“And I can fly,” Nepenthe joked back.

But his face grew serious. “I can see with my Snow—I mean, I can feel things.”

“Are you saying you're clairvoyant . . .”

He
shook his head. “It's something else. It's like my Snow is more than snow. It feels things—”

Nepenthe had never heard of magic like what Lazar was describing. Nepenthe's water could reach well beyond her, but it couldn't read anyone else's thoughts or feelings.

Had he lost his mind? Had all this time being mind warped actually affected his sanity?

“You don't believe me . . . Watch the guard by the door.”

He took a deep breath, and a sprinkling of snowflakes fell. Some of the snow hovered in his palm. He blew it away like you'd blow out a candle making a birthday wish. The snow traveled with purpose toward the guard at the door. It went into one of his ears. The guard swatted at it as if to wave a bug away.

“The guard has a massive crush on you. He wants to move to the Hinterlands with you,” Lazar said.

“You could be making that up,” she countered. Strangers swooned over Ora, never her.

“Watch. I'll make him take out his sword and have a fight with that shrub over there.”

They watched the soldier a beat. Nothing happened, and Nepenthe began to laugh. It was a good joke.

“It's hard to fool a witch. But you did it.”

But a second later, the guard lifted his sword and began stabbing the nearest topiary.

Nepenthe knew that Lazar was powerful. But she had never seen a witch who could control a mind before. Read it, yes. Predict what it might do in the future, yes. But not this. This was too much. And it was wrong.

She had played pranks in her youth. Mainly on those who had called her names. Sometimes on Ora when she had been particularly, insufferably cheerful. But this broke a rule that Nepenthe had never seen as a witch, because no one had ever been able to do it. Will was at the center of magic. And to take it away from someone, anyone . . . there could be no greater crime.

“Promise me you won't do that again.”

“I can't promise that. I want to use it on my father. I want to know how he really feels about me.”

“You can't do that, Lazar. If you do that, you are worse than him. You are worse than anyone. You can't use magic on people without their consent. It goes against everything that magic is about. That you are.”

“Okay, okay . . . I promise.”

Nepenthe caught his eye as he said the words. She did not see a hint of guilt for the violation of his servant's mind. But she did see the eagerness to please her, his teacher, his friend . . . whatever they were to each other. She knew she should have pressed him further until he saw not just what it meant to her, but what it meant to him. She cared about who he became even if he was not hers.

“Shall we be friends again?” he said, turning his charm back on.

“We are always friends. We should get back inside,” she said quickly.

Sometimes the Prince was like the Lights, dazzling and possibly without conscience. And like the Lights she felt his pull on her and on her fate.

“I wanted your advice about something.”

“I don't think we should do any magic here. Your father is not ready.”

Nepenthe had seen him throughout the ball. The King hadn't bothered hiding his disapproval. And he had drunk more ale than half the guests.

“
No, I'm not talking about magic. I wanted to show you this. Do you think she'll like it?” Lazar asked, fishing in the pocket of the coat she was wearing.