Stray (32 page)

T
he music was always the same, Aislynn thought as she crept through the garden. It was the violins that reached her first, followed by the golden strum of the harp. Giving thanks for the winter wind that cooled her hot skin and the clouds that kept her in shadow, Aislynn walked up the stairs leading to the ballroom terrace.

At the top, waiting for her, was Linnea.

“Aislynn,” the monarch princess breathed, wrapping them both in the warmth of her red fur cape. She looked around quickly. “I don't think anyone realizes I'm out here,” Linnea said. “Yet.” She removed the mirror from her small bag.

A wave of relief broke over Aislynn as she took the mirror and slid it into the simple pouch tied at her waist. “Thank you,” she said.

The monarch princess smiled and then threw herself into Aislynn's arms. “I've missed you so much!”

“I've missed you, too.” Linnea was ice cold and trembling, and Aislynn knew that she could not leave her here.

“They told me you strayed.” The monarch princess's eyes were darting nervously around.

“They lied.” Aislynn pulled back, using the edge of her cloak to dab at her friend's tearful face. “Linnea, you need to come with me. It's not safe for you here—”

“Not safe?” asked Westerly, emerging from the shadows, his red suit opulent and bright. Aislynn bit her tongue as he bowed mockingly. “Please don't let me interrupt the tremendous lie you are currently constructing.”

Swallowing her fear, Aislynn ignored him and tried to tug the monarch princess toward the stairs. But Linnea seemed rooted to the ground, looking from Westerly to Aislynn and back again.

“Darling?” Lifting a hand to her head, Linnea seemed to be struggling against her own thoughts.

“Go back inside, true love,” he said.

Linnea hesitated for the briefest moment, then gently pulled away from Aislynn and walked stiffly across the terrace and back into the ballroom.

“Linnea,” Aislynn pleaded, but the other girl didn't even look back.

Suddenly Westerly's hand shot out, and with a strength belying his slender frame, he gripped Aislynn's arm painfully.

“Linnea!” Aislynn managed once more before a gloved hand was slapped over her mouth, muffling her cries. Aislynn fought him, twisting and squirming as he hauled her down the stairs and dragged her around the side of the academy. He headed with astounding speed toward one of the side entrances, crying out when Aislynn bit his hand.

“You stupid little stray,” he spat, grabbing her cloak and pulling her the rest of the way. She scratched and kicked, but his grip only tightened. As he yanked her inside, Aislynn threw her heels against the floor, slowing him down—but only for a moment. Roughly, he grabbed the back of her neck and lifted her off her feet as though she was an animal.

With a great heave, he tossed her to the floor of the darkened library. She heard a loud rip and landed hard on her hands and knees. Panic rose in her throat. She needed her magic. Westerly came after her again, but before he could touch her, Aislynn punched him. Hard. There was a
crack
, and blood spiraled down from his nose in ribbons, staining his suit. Mewing like an injured cat, he swiped at her once before a voice interrupted them.

“Aislynn! How nice of you to join us.” Madame Moira stepped out of a dark corner. She walked the perimeter of the carpet, the expression on her face both curious and cruel. “We've been looking for you, my dear. How kind of you to come to us.”

Aislynn said nothing, ignoring the pain that shot through her legs when she stood. Where was her magic? The room was large, but the book-filled walls felt as if they were pushing up against her.

Jerking her head in Westerly's direction, Madame Moira dismissed the bleeding prince, who hurried out a second door, leaving them alone.

Madame Moira shook her head slowly. “My dear Aislynn. What are we going to do with you? I assume you have the mirror.”

In spite of herself, Aislynn glanced down at her waist, where the pouch was concealed by her cloak.

The headmistress smiled and held out her hand. “It's time to give it to me.”

“I'm not afraid of you,” Aislynn said, finally feeling the familiar hum of magic vibrating through her. It felt stronger, more powerful than ever before. She stood up straighter and unfolded her hand.

“My dear child,” said Madame Moira, “I will do my best to remedy that.”

The air around Aislynn seemed to crystalize and she thrust her hands forward. A cold wind roared and the icy gust flung the headmistress to the other side of the room. The fire in the fireplace went out. Aislynn turned to run but in an instant felt the headmistress's magic slamming into her, shoving her to the ground. She slid across the floor, and before she even came to a stop, she was yanked up by her hair.

“Shall I tell you your problem, my dear girl?” Madame Moira's voice was a hiss in her ear.

“Please,” Aislynn managed through clenched teeth.

“You never listened. You never
listened
. How many times did I tell you to remain with your own kind? I hope you know”—the breath she sucked in was full of pleasure—“that your friend Ford is dead because of you. And your other friends, the maid and the gardener, they'll suffer as he did. All because you don't listen.”

Swallowing the bile that was rising in her throat, Aislynn willed herself to remain silent. The headmistress continued, “You're not mine to deal with, of course, but that doesn't mean I can't have some fun with you first.”

She forced Aislynn's head back. “You remember my spindle, don't you, Princess?” she asked, pressing the sharp point to Aislynn's exposed throat. “You remember how I drew blood from your fingertips? Now give me the mirror, or we'll see how much blood I can draw from your pretty little neck.”

Aislynn let her entire body go limp, and Madame Moira pitched forward, sending both Aislynn and the spindle crashing to the floor.

On her hands and knees, Aislynn scrambled for the needle. Just as her fingers closed around it, Aislynn felt Madame Moira's hand grabbing her cloak. She tore away and struggled to her feet. Madame Moira lunged, and Aislynn thrust the spindle forward.

“Don't. Move,” Aislynn warned.

The spindle's sharp point was pressed against the embroidered rose on Madame Moira's uniform. Right over her heart.

“You wouldn't dare,” said Madame Moira. She gasped when Aislynn gave the spindle a push, hard enough to pierce the uniform's fabric.

“Test me,” Aislynn said, gritting her teeth. “Please.”

The headmistress narrowed her eyes but didn't move.

“I'm going to leave,” said Aislynn. “And if you follow me, I'll make sure this finds its way right to your heart.” The magic inside her was steady, and Aislynn knew that if she needed to, she could send the spindle into the headmistress—the same way she had sent the ax at the soldier in the forest.

Aislynn began to back away. She had taken only a few steps when the headmistress leaped forward. Aislynn threw up her hand, but instead of the spindle, she released a terrible wish. A wicked, horrible wish that she had made once before—a wish that burst from her before she could take it back.

There was a bright flash of light. When it cleared, a glowing blue orb hovered in the air between them. Madame Moira screamed as her loving heart shot straight toward her chest. She stumbled back.

Aislynn could still remember the pain that had filled her when her own loving heart had been returned to her. The agony. The headmistress sank to the floor.

For a moment, everything was still . . . and then Madame Moira's shoulders gave a great heave. When she finally lifted her head, Aislynn was shocked to see tears streaming down her face. Madame Moira raised her hands, staring at them with astonishment.

“They're warm,” she said, her voice both joyous and hesitant. Slowly she pressed a palm against her cheek, closing her eyes. Then she reached up and pulled the wimple from her head. Her long braid fell over her shoulder, thick and curly with gentle lines of gray.

Suddenly there were footsteps in the corridor outside the library door. Aislynn froze, and Madame Moira's face went colorless.

“He's coming,” she said.

The door opened.

“Good evening, Princess.”

Standing in the doorway, his teeth as white as his suit, his smile as wide as it was loathsome, was Adviser Hull.

Aislynn's feet were as heavy as blocks of ice. She couldn't move.

Raising his arm, he made a dramatic bow. On his lifted hand was a familiar silver ring.

“It was you . . .” said Aislynn slowly. “In the forest. Not Westerly, you.”

He smoothed his thumb over his knuckles, over the ring's white stone, and she flinched.

“Very good, Aislynn.” Admiring the ring in the light, he said, “A kind gift from a generous prince, don't you think?” He took a step toward her, but before he could take another, Madame Moira rose and moved in front of him.

“She doesn't have it,” the headmistress said, but her voice quavered. “The mirror. She doesn't have it.”

“Is that so?” Adviser Hull regarded Aislynn thoughtfully. He smiled. Then, without warning, his hand shot out and closed around the headmistress's throat. She gasped.

“Why would you lie to me?” he asked, pulling her close. “Why would you be so foolish?” He looked at Aislynn. “But you really should give me the mirror, my dear girl. It is mine, after all.” Aislynn backed away, fear freezing the magic inside of her. The spindle dropped from her fingers.

“Don't you want me to punish her?” he asked Aislynn, his fingers tightening around the headmistress's neck. “After all she's done to you. To your friends.”

Aislynn's heart pounded in her ears. “No.”

“Pity.” Adviser Hull stared down at Madame Moira's terrified face and seemed to loosen his grip. “You're useless to me now, Moira. You couldn't even find a tiny little hand mirror when it was right under your nose.” He glanced back at Aislynn. “Shall I show you what I do to girls like you? Girls who stray.”

“I didn't stray,” said Aislynn, her voice even.

Adviser Hull smiled. “It doesn't really matter, does it? You have no idea how easy it is to convince others of the wickedness of a girl like you. Almost as easy as convincing someone of their own wickedness. You know . . .” He tilted his head to the side. “You remind me of someone. She's serving her purpose quite well, I think. All we need to do is send a message once in a while on her behalf. A toe or a necklace.” He winked, and Aislynn felt sick. “A couple of brambles—that's usually enough to breath new life into that story.”

“Josetta,” said Aislynn slowly. Was Hull the storyteller Tahlia had warned her about?

Adviser Hull looked pleased. “It was my idea to call her the Wicked Queen,” he said. “More entitlement than she deserves.” He sniffed, looking at the ring on his hand. “But isn't that the case with all you women anyway? Always taking what isn't yours. Like your dear, darling fairy godmother . . . what is she calling herself these days?”

Aislynn could see all of his teeth as his smile widened.

“Ah, yes, Tahlia. She really shouldn't have dragged you into this mess.” He placed his hand on his cheek in mock concern. “She should never have given you that mirror.” He shook his head pityingly. “But it's too late for that now.

“I was going to show you something, wasn't I?” The adviser looked down at the headmistress. Her eyes were closed, a single tear sliding down her cheek. “Ah, yes. I was going to show you what I do to those who don't follow the Path.” He looked up at Aislynn. “And what I'm going to do to you.”

The stone on his ring began to glow, a bright, blinding white, just as it had in the forest. With a grunt, Adviser Hull pressed his thumb into Madame Moira's neck. Her eyes flew open.

Aislynn watched in horror as the headmistress's eyes rolled back in her head.

“Give me the mirror, Aislynn,” said Adviser Hull. “Can't you see it belongs to me?”

Aislynn looked down and gasped. The mirror was glowing. Through the layers of fabric, she could see an eerie blue light. She dug it out frantically. The blue stone in its handle was now pulsing as white and bright as the stone in Adviser Hull's ring.

“Very good, my dear,” he said, sweat beading on his forehead. He flicked his fingers, and Aislynn felt her feet take a step toward him. Not of her own accord. But by magic. His magic.

It was impossible. Men were unable to do magic.

Madame Moira had gone limp, but Hull kept one hand tight around her neck. The streaks of gray in her hair seemed to be multiplying, and her face looked as if it was aging right before Aislynn's eyes.

“You don't deserve it. None of you do,” Adviser Hull sneered.

Aislynn struggled to stop, to turn around. She couldn't breathe. He reached out for her. He was so close.

Suddenly magic burst from Aislynn like a gasp of air, the force of it knocking Hull back. He released Madame Moira, who collapsed on the floor, her breathing barely visible. The fire burst to life in the fireplace, spitting embers and smoke, and the entire room began to shake, the ground cracking and splintering. Books tumbled to the floor, their pages fluttering as a hot wind swept through the library. The ash bucket overturned, and the air was thick with soot. It filled Aislynn's lungs, settling around her like dark snow.

Adviser Hull stumbled as he stood. And although the sneer was still plastered across his face, Aislynn could see a shimmer of fear in his eyes as he glared at her.

But she was not afraid anymore. She was angry. She was furious. And she despised him. Hated him with every wicked, wild part of her being.

With an outraged roar, he charged toward her. But Aislynn barely noticed. Magic crackled all around her. It no longer felt like a kettle threatening to erupt without her control. Instead, her body felt like an instrument. Like a harp. Her strings hummed. She pressed the mirror against her chest. The stone glowed. It was no longer white, but blue, a deep, bright blue.