There are Monsters in the Wood

by artsyunderstudy

Summary:

Once, Simon Snow was just a boy—plucked from obscurity and given a place among nobles. A future as a knight. A hero. There, he met Baz, an arrogant young prince who, in a rare moment of trust, revealed himself to be something else—something more. Over the years, as political tensions surged, the two forged a bond deeper than duty. One that could ruin them both.

At twenty-five, Simon Snow isn’t a hero. He’s broken. Disillusioned. Angry. And he’s searching for something.

---

Updates every other Sunday.

Notes:

Hi everyone! It's been so long since I last posted fic, so I'm really excited to be back. A lot of you know I've been working on this story for about nine months now. It was born from a very simple desire to write a fairy tale, and became a lot more in the process. So much love and thanks to my betas, Dre and Dem, who have been so instrumental to making this work. Your feedback has been invaluable and your friendship, incredibly special. Also thanks to my forever beta Jess for her sharp editorial eye and to Val for his expertise and enthusiasm about the Mage, who plays a very large role in this story.

I originally planned to post this fic once it was completely written, but honestly with the way the world feels right now, I could really use some community. And space to just be vulnerable and creative and maybe reach a few other people. So for now this is updating on a bi-weekly schedule so I have time to finish the remaining chapters while also doing art. Once it's fully written, I will likely speed up to a weekly posting schedule.

Thank you for being here. As always, I love you. And I hope you enjoy.

Ashton

“The way you slam your body into mine reminds me I’m alive, but monsters are always hungry, darling, and they’re only a few steps behind.”

—Richard Siken

Chapter 1: The Wood

Age Twenty-Five

There’s no moon in the sky to light Simon’s path. He makes his way carefully through the deserted cobbled streets, a bracing hand on the closest wall as he rounds a corner into a tight, unlit alley. He was never light-footed. It made hunting particularly difficult as a young boy, but he’s learned. 

Now he moves like a shadow. Nothing more than the scratch of calloused fingertips on stone. 

His mark holds a small lantern, a sudden flare of orange light in the dark as he emerges between buildings. Simon quickly follows. The man moves with a slow, unbothered gait, so it’s not difficult for Simon to catch up with him. He hardly has time to make a sound before Simon has a curved knife at his throat.

“My God, what—”

“Be silent, or I will silence you,” Simon hisses, crowding the man into the narrow space between two buildings. 

The stench of shite and sulphur stings Simon’s eyes. He hates the quarter, hates the closeness of everything. The grime. The noise. The narrow, claustrophobic streets between looming brick walls. It reminds him too much of being small and helpless and hungry. 

Being here suffocates. It hollows him out.

The older man’s face is hardly visible, Simon’s arm blocking the lantern’s light. It’s a familiar face. One softened by both age and demeanour. Master Wellbelove always had a quiet, careful nature. Simon used to find it comforting. Now his stomach churns. 

The light shifts and shakes along the wall; Wellbelove’s hands must also be shaking. He’s right to be scared. Lit from below, Simon’s face is all sunken eyes and shadows.

Simon doesn’t speak, just watches silently as Wellbelove’s wide eyes take him in, recognition slowly unfolding in the lines of his face. 

“Simon? Simon Snow, is that you? You look—”

“I know.”

Simon knows how he looks: limp, unkempt curls that now brush his shoulders; dark pouches beneath his eyes; scuffed and soiled leather cuirass and pauldrons. He’s stitched and tied and patched. Dirty fringes, strips of leather, stained linen. All warped and darkened by sweat and rain. 

He is pieces barely held together.

Simon lets his blade graze Wellbelove’s skin, knuckles white from clutching the ivory handle. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet and severe. 

“I need information.”

“Information?” Wellbelove’s eyebrows arch high on his forehead. “If that was what you wanted I would have received you in my home. I’ve not been hiding. There’s no need—”

“Really?” Simon laughs bitterly. “Can you look at me and say you would gladly let me walk through your doors? I don’t think so.”

“If given the chance—”

“No. You wouldn’t.”

Wellbelove’s throat clicks with a hard swallow. “What do you want to know?”

“The same thing I pleaded for six years ago,” Simon growls, his voice nearly cracking. “I know what was kept from me. I know what was done. I will carve the answers out of you and any other person who thinks to lie to me again.”

“So it’s come to this,” Wellbelove whispers, closing his eyes in resignation. “If you already know what was done, then you know I can’t speak of it. You know why. This is better left buried and forgotten. You’re lucky that word of your search hasn’t yet reached the King.”

“Lucky! Hell. He should know. I should tell him myself.”

Wellbelove shakes his head and gives him an almost pitying look. “He would not let you live.”

Simon scoffs. “Tell me, does King Malcolm know that while you tended to his family, you were also sitting comfortably in Davy’s pocket? Does he know you kept Davy’s secrets, lied to his face, betrayed him, betrayed—” Simon snaps his jaw shut, grinding his teeth as he lets the knife dig harder into the tender flesh of Wellbelove’s throat. The man makes a hideous whimpering noise. 

He should do it. He wants to. He wants him to pay.

“I didn’t expect you to be so dedicated to the Crown,” Wellbelove says, his voice tight with the effort to remain composed. “Or to be so bitter on their behalf.”

“The Grimms and the Pitches can rot for all I care. I’ll just assume your answer is no since your head’s still on your shoulders. Did I hear right that you even attended to the delivery of Lady Daphne’s children? That they finally had a son and they are rejoicing?” Simon glares into Wellbelove’s eyes. “And they say I’m a monster.”

“I didn’t lay a hand—I never meant—””

“Liar,” Simon snarls. “I can’t help but wonder how Malcolm might take the news. How slowly you might die at his hand.”

“And who would tell him?” Wellbelove snaps back, his clenched fists shaking. “You? Hasn’t he suffered enough?”

“I’d gladly see him suffer more.”

Wellbelove stares at Simon as if he were a stranger. He may as well be. “Gods,” he breathes. “What did they make of you, my boy?”

Simon goes rigid. For one still moment he resembles a boy more than a man. His eyebrows turn up, and shadows deepen around his over-wide eyes. Wellbelove stares as the lantern light flickers unevenly across the bare planes of Simon’s face. 

Then, just as quickly, Simon flattens—eyes narrowing, mouth a thin line. He is not a boy anymore. 

“What do you imagine your daughter would think of you if she knew?” Simon asks coldly. “Would it break her heart?”

Wellbelove’s face goes deathly pale. “How dare you. How dare you speak of Agatha. As if you have room to talk of any of this, considering your own part and parentage.”

Simon spits on the ground by Wellbelove’s feet, and the other man flinches as the knife splits flesh. The lantern clatters to the cobblestone, illuminating the shallow wound. A small bead of blood bubbles over the sharp blade and cuts a path down the loose, trembling skin of his neck.

“I have no parents, and no fucking patience left.” Simon has Wellbelove backed up against a grotty stone wall, the smaller, older man smothered in shadow. “You know where the hiding place is, and you’ll tell me or Malcolm will find out your part in things.”

“I—I don’t know. I don’t know where it is, only where to start looking.”

“Tell me now, and pray to your God that it’s enough.”

Wellbelove pauses and takes him in again, his own fear and helplessness giving way to something softer and more paternal—the way he used to look at Simon when he was a boy.

“You would damn yourself? For this?”

Simon doesn’t flinch. “Yes.”

“This is suicide,”  Wellbelove says, pained. As if Simon surviving this matters.

“I don’t care.”

Wellbelove closes his eyes. When he finally gives Simon an answer, his voice is a whisper.  

“The Wavering Wood.”

Simon startles, pulling the knife away from Wellbelove’s neck. More blood wells from the wound, black and wet in the darkness. 

“That’s a lie,” Simon says.

“I swear it’s not.”

“No. I’ve scoured the Wood. Don’t you think that was the first place I thought to look?”

“It’s not a lie. I wouldn’t lie to you, Simon.”

Simon slams his forearm into Wellbelove’s chest, pinning him in place. Wellbelove struggles to take a breath beneath his weight. Shallow. In and out. His eyes are locked—unblinking—on Simon’s. 

“I have looked in the Wavering Wood,” Simon repeats slowly. “Try. Again.”

“There’s a door. A stone door. It—it leads underground. It may be obscured, no one wanted it found. You should not want it found—”

“You have no idea what I want.”

“No. I don’t. God help me, I don’t.” Wellbelove’s eyes dart around, searching for an escape he won’t find. “What you’re looking for is in the Wood, Simon. That’s all I know. I do not know how the door opens—be it magick or otherwise—or where it is other than far beyond the border. Well past where anyone would dare venture.”

“Anyone but me.”

Simon lets his arm drop from Wellbelove’s chest, now heaving as he’s finally able to take a full breath. Wellbelove raises a shaking hand to his throat, trying to wipe away the blood, but only smears it further. He stares at the red on his fingertips with raw disbelief.

There’s blood on Simon’s hand as well, and the cuff of his sleeve. It’ll stain brown. Simon looks past it to stare at his dagger—a crescent moon in his palm, blood smeared along the high arch of the blade. His finger remains slotted through the ring at the base of its handle. He has a sword, but he’s using the knife. He’s thrown it away so many times, but it always ends up back in his hands. 

“A good weapon to protect yourself,” he once said. Or something like it. A lie all the same. 

It makes people bleed well enough. 

“This is all you can offer, then?” Simon asks, still staring at his blade. “This is all you know?”

“Yes.”

Simon nods slowly, finally looking back into Wellbelove’s wide eyes. 

“You’re letting me walk away?” asks Wellbelove, breathless with tentative relief.

“Yes.” Simon answers quietly. Wellbelove lets out a breath, but then Simon continues. “I just wanted to ask you one more thing. And I’ll remind you not to lie to me.”

He pales, and responds with forced lightness. “Yes. Of course. Ask me anything.”

“Davy confided in you. Sought counsel with you. I just wonder—did you know of the spell? Or what he intended to do with it?”

“I—” Wellbelove swallows. “Not all—not—”

“Yes or no?” Simon asks, darkly.

Wellbelove’s eyes dart frantically between both of Simon’s. Simon doesn’t soften; doesn’t flinch. There is a long pause before Wellbelove finally whispers, “Yes. Yes, I did know.”

Simon screws his eyes shut, his hands shaking as he turns the blade, its cool ivory handle smooth and sure in his palm. 

“You should know I have regretted it every day since,” Wellbelove adds, pleading.

“Then why?” Simon’s treacherous voice breaks. “Why would you allow it?”

“It wasn’t—it was meant to be temporary. Something that might wake the King up to the demands of his people. The very same thing you once—”

“Stop lying,” Simon snarls. “It was for you. For your own pursuit of power!”

“What power? My family, my daughter …” Wellbelove shuts his eyes and shakes his head. “It was for them. To protect them, everything was—but I don’t know magick. How could I have known how far Davy would go? You don’t understand what he was like—”

“I don’t understand what Davy was like?” Simon spits. 

“No, no of course you do. I—listen, I just didn’t think—”

“Did you think no one would care?”

“No, of course n—”

“Or that no one would ever know?”

Simon crowds in on him again and Wellbelove stays horribly silent, his mouth gaping, grasping for words that won’t come. He has no defence. This is indefensible. The pounding of his own heart fills Simon’s ears. His blood, his veins. There’s black around his vision and an awful, heavy weight to his lungs.

Wellbelove knew. Of course he knew. And he regrets it. 

Simon wants to laugh. Or scream. He wants to empty his stomach on the cobblestone. He thinks—then and now and always—of the things he regrets. And how those regrets mean less than nothing.

And then Simon stops thinking.

“You were wrong,” Simon says, cold and calm. “On both counts, you were wrong.”

Then he buries his blade in Wellbelove’s heart. 

It takes a beat for Wellbelove to realise what’s happened. Another for the blood to pulse out of the wound, blooming into a black stain beneath Simon’s steady fist. By the time Wellbelove slumps to the ground, Simon’s hand is coated—tacky and hot. The shadow of Wellbelove’s unmoving body stretches across the dirty street. 

Only when the lantern’s flame gutters out does Simon finally turn to go. 

He doesn’t slow as he carves a path through the winding alleys. He doesn’t look back. 

Behind him there’s a body, blood that drips and pools in the cracks of the stone. A city swallowed up in the inky black of a moonless night. 

Before him there is only the Wood. It’s waiting.

Chapter 2: The Tower

Age Eleven

The moment I raise my arm against the late afternoon sun, I know it’s a mistake.

The crack of Lord David’s waster across my chest knocks the wind out of me, and I stumble to the ground, knees smacking the hard-packed earth. My wooden sword lies beside me, coated in mud and dried streaks of blood. I stare at it. Then down at my hands, shaking fingers sinking into the dirt as I fail to take a breath. 

Panic is a hand around my throat. I can’t get air into my lungs. I can’t breathe, I can’t—

“Come on, boy,” Lord David says mildly as he steps into view. His shadow blocks out the sun, the world narrowed to the dark space around his boots. “Don’t panic. That’ll only make it worse.”

I nod quickly despite my wheezing and heaving chest. It’ll pass, it’ll pass, it’ll pass.

The grass seems to brown and blur around my trembling hands.

There’s a band on my forefinger, the metal twisted in a tight spiral. I follow the grooves with my eyes. I count them instead of the seconds. I count until I reach the ring’s flat gold face.

Just as my hands and feet begin to tingle, something in my chest unlocks. Air rushes in as I take my first gasping breath. Relief floods through me, nearly bringing me to tears. I don’t want to know what the Lord would say if he saw. It’s probably not knightly to cry. I’m not sure.

I take another, deeper breath, and the Lord crouches in front of me. When I lift my head he’s watching, considering. 

“There. Better,” he says, as if he might be pleased. It’s hard to tell. My muscles relax anyway, and I sit back on my heels. “You can never let yourself be distracted in a fight, Simon. Your enemies will be merciless, so you must be as well.”

I nod again, trying not to bite at my lower lip. He doesn’t like it. Always frowns when I muss up my hair or bite my lips or tap my fingers. Says it’s a distraction. That I should be still. Controlled. Precise.

“Simon, tell me you understand.”

“Yes s-sir,” I struggle to say. I clear my throat. “I understand.”

Lord David stares at me for a long moment before responding. “Good. I think that’s enough for the afternoon.” He glances down at my chest, which is already starting to ache. “I’m sure that hurts. If not now, then soon. Chew on some willow bark and it may take the edge off the pain.”

I straighten. “There are willows in the Wood. Near the river.”

He frowns, but he doesn’t look angry. Not really. It just makes his thin moustache turn down like the shape of an arrowhead. “You know how I feel about you entering the Wavering Wood.”

“S’not dark y—”

“It is not dark,” he corrects. “You must always remember to speak clearly. You do not have the luxury of a title to be taken seriously based on that alone. There are already those dissenting at a commoner training with their highborn sons and daughters.” 

When the Lord grimaces I try not to flinch. He went out of his way to take me in. To give me a chance. He hates the nobility even though he is one. No one listens, he says. No one takes him seriously. It makes him sullen. He’ll glower and pace after returning home from council meetings. I cannot be another strike against him.

He must see something in my expression because he stops frowning, glancing into the trees at my back. Then he shakes his head.

“Never mind that,” he says. “I know the Wood is not dark yet, Simon. But it can be just as dangerous in the daylight. You’ve only ever encountered creatures that readily cross the border. Pesky brownies and sprites. There is far older, wilder magick deep in those woods. All manner of dark creatures that can steal your face or breath or blood.”

“But I like the Wood,” I say softly, trying to put enough space between my words. “S’pea—it is peaceful.”

“You may be the only one who thinks so,” Lord David says, looking thoughtful. “Fine, but you will not venture past where the canopy blocks the sun. You must stay close enough that I can hear you if you call.”

I’m nodding. Fast. And then I remember to say, “I will.”

“Off with you, then,” he says, rising to his feet. “Be back before the sun sets.”

“I will.” I stand, brushing dirt off my shirt and my knees. “I promise I will.”

And despite the throbbing pain in my chest, I can’t help but run.

There are barely any clouds in the sky, and the air is warm and thick. It sticks in my throat and dampens my skin, and I fill my aching lungs with it.

It’s only once I’ve reached the line of trees marking the edge of the Wood that I slow my pace. I turn my face toward the late afternoon sun, shafts of light spilling through the branches, painting the grass and brush golden. The crunch of dry leaves underfoot echoes in the stillness. The Wood is a low hum compared to the clash of metal at the castle training grounds, or the busy chatter and bustle of the market square. 

Here it’s scattered birdsong, the chittering of insects, leaves rustling as the breeze cuts between branches of ash and alder. Sometimes I can make out distant faerie music in the dim twilight hours. All of it blending together like a song. 

It’s not long before the low murmur of rushing water joins the chorus. 

I turn away from the sun and toward the clearing that leads to a narrow bend in the river. After splashing cool water on my face at the riverbank, I remove my boots to cross the shallows to the other side, mud and smooth pebbles shifting under my bare feet. There’s a willow tree with thick, low branches just at the edge of the water and I pull myself up without hesitation, wincing at a sudden throb of pain in my chest. I bite the inside of my cheek, ignoring it until I’m high and hidden, dangling my legs as I straddle a thick branch.

I breathe through the ache, tonguing the imprint of my teeth as I peel off small pieces of bark. The taste is bitter and earthy, but I force myself to chew it slowly as I take in the view through the willow’s drooping leaves.

My caretakers at the convent used to say this place was the Devil’s domain. They warned of its feral magick and cursed creatures that answer to no one, not even God himself. But I can breathe here. There are no walls closing in on me, no narrowed eyes and frowning mouths when I take what I need from it. The willow doesn’t deny me its bark.

I take a deeper breath.

I can just make out the roof of Lord David’s estate from here, its tall stone chimneys billowing with smoke. My home now, I suppose, though it’s still hard to think about. It doesn’t feel like mine. 

It’s almost easier at the castle training grounds, even though I’m surrounded by highborn nobles. I keep up with the best of them, even if Lord David always reminds me that keeping up isn’t enough. I need to be better. Most of them don’t pay me much mind, anyway, especially not when we’re swinging wasters at each other. The crown prince, though, with his cold eyes and sneering mouth, always looks at me like I’m a stray dog. Like I’m there to beg for scraps.

What does he know of begging? Of needing to beg? He’s never wanted for anything in his life.

Sometimes I want to shout at him. 

I screw my eyes shut, focusing on the rub of my hand over my chest, testing the tender bruise. My eyes burn shamefully. I’m glad no one’s here to see. 

Inevitably, I turn my gaze westward toward the castle. It’s visible from here, too. I can make out its pointed towers, covered in a mantle of thick, green ivy and jutting out beyond the tall stone walls. I can see them clearly from the window in my bedroom as well. The high windows go mostly dark at night, but there’s one room that almost always has a light on. Always has the curtains drawn back. It draws my eye like the north star.

I stay in the willow, watching the tower—imagining what the world must look like from so high up—until the sun begins to dip below the horizon. 

 

Age Twelve

For the first time in my life, it feels nice when the air turns sharp and cool. It’s a relief.

Before, the cold meant something else. Cold was a knife at my throat. Cold was scarce food, a hunt for shelter. Blue fingers; blue lips. Cold was something to escape, not something I could enjoy. Not until now.

Now I have a room. Always. With a fire anytime I want it. I've got cloaks to wear and a heavy mound of linens on my bed. 

I get so hot now. All the time. Especially when I train. The sweat builds up under my arms and at the back of my neck, heat trapped beneath my woollen doublet like someone’s lit a hearth in a closed room. Lord David insists on me wearing it when we visit the castle. I’m grateful. Truly. Never had much that was mine. It was all too big, or too small. Thin and patched. This jacket is a deep blue and the finest clothing I’ve ever owned. 

It’s damn stifling, though.

My hand shakes as I fumble with the lacing on my cuffs. What is it with nobles? All these laces and ties and buttons. The first time I tried to undress myself I was forced to use my teeth. 

My leather cuirass lays discarded on the yellowing grass. I’m just off the path to the courtyard, sat beneath one of the yews.

The royal family have a whole grove of yews on castle grounds, the high outer wall curving to the shape of it. It’s like they stole a part of the Wood for themselves. The trees are ancient and looming. They remind me of a giant's hands, great, arching branches reaching out like long fingers from its thick, layered trunk. From where I sit, they blot out the sun.

I knock my head back in relief once I have the ties undone, pushing the stiff sleeves over my sweaty forearms. My skin cools quickly in the open air. My eyes are closed, arms folded over my bent knees as I twist my gold ring around on my finger, and for a moment it’s quiet. The training grounds are cleared out until after the midday meal. For now, there’s only a slight wind and the distant murmur of voices it carries with it from the courtyard. The soft whinny and clop of horses in the stable.

The quiet doesn’t last. There are distant, careful footsteps. Even with my eyes shut, I know who it is.

I almost groan, picturing him tall and haughty, his shiny brushed black hair. When I open my eyes, that’s exactly what I see. He’s already glaring down his long nose at me from across the path. 

Of course. Prince Basil. Basilton. Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, what a name. 

I glare back.

He never wears leathers. Only silk and velvet. Judging by the way the plush of it catches the light, his gown today is the latter. A bold purple lined in fur, though it’s hardly cold enough for furs. The doublet beneath is patterned with golden vines that reflect the light as if made of real gold. What a peacock. Do they not teach him to fight? Is he too fine for that? I wonder if anyone’s ever knocked him into the mud or if his warm, reddish skin bruises as easily as spoiled fruit.

He’s not scared to look, but he’s quick to look away—like he can’t be bothered with me. His top lip curls as he turns to face his companions, the only two boys I ever see him with. 

There’s Dev, who's brown-haired and paler than Basil by half, even though I’m sure they’re blood related. The prince takes after his mother, Queen Natasha, with her dark complexion and thick, raven hair. Dev always throws his arms out as he speaks, nearly hitting the others. 

The second boy—Niall—is willowy, with messy copper hair grazing his shoulders and a thick Gaelic accent. Each time Dev throws out his hands, Niall is there to quietly redirect him.

They seem to like each other more than they like the Prince. The Prince seems to enjoy no one at all.

Prince Basil doesn’t speak, just keeps up his tight, straight-backed stride as they all make their way toward the courtyard. I keep my gaze on the Prince even as he retreats, so when he turns back to glance at me I’m right there to meet his judging eyes.

“Are you and Prince Basil quarrelling?” Penny asks, startling me so badly I jump and clutch at my chest. She’s completely unbothered, gathering her skirts so she can plop down on the ground beside me. She drops a bundle onto my lap, an assortment of food wrapped in thin linen. I make out an apple. And maybe a small meat pie.

“Why d’ya think that?” I ask, fussing to untie the bundle. “Also, thanks. I’m starved.”

“You’re welcome. And I think that because you’re glaring at him like he’s just kicked dirt in your face.”

“I’m not.”

“You definitely are.” 

“Well, he didn’t—he’s just such a prig.”

“Simon, you can’t say that. He’s the prince. What if someone heard you?”

I shrug, poking at the food. “Well, it’s true.”

Penny sighs, bumping her shoulder against mine as she leans back against the yew. “You’re impossible. He’s well-read, you know? Really quite sharp. Of course, he would be, with unfettered access to the Pitch libraries. My mum says their private collection has tomes older than Watford itself, even books on old ritual magicks. I can only imagine what I wouldn't give to get my hands on those—”

“Pen,” I interrupt. “What’s that got to do with anything? Does being well-read and having a lot of books make him less of an arse?”

She raises her eyebrows. “You don’t understand. Centuries of hand-written manuscripts, all the old spells. Knowledge that not even the oldest of noble families have access to.”

“Why would you even want to learn about magick?”

Penny huffs loudly and crosses her arms, like I’m the one being ridiculous. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“Are you serious?”

“It doesn't hurt anyone to read about it.”

“Of course it does. Why else would they lock it up? It’s evil, Pen—just like him.” 

Penny is one exasperated expression away from her eyes rolling right out of her head.

I continue, “You know, last week in the stables a horse reared up on me and I fell in the mud, and I caught your clever prince staring at me, sneering like it was his clothes I’d sullied.” I affect a posh accent, “‘Pick yourself up, you lout. No one’s coming to do it for you this time,’ he said.”

“He did not call you a lout.”

“He might as well have!”

“Well he’s never been unkind to me.” 

I scrub a hand through my curls. “But why would he be? You belong here. You fit. Your mum practically runs the council, besides Queen Natasha herself.”

Lord David talks about Penny’s mum, Lady Mitali, all the time. Mostly how she’s unwilling to do what it takes to “challenge the order of things”.

Both Lord David and Lady Mitali face similar prejudice within the council for not being from one of the Old Families, neither of them as wealthy, well-bred, or set in the old ways as the rest of them. But, while Lord David’s position remains tenuous, Lady Mitali has been able to foster influence despite it. He resents her lack of ambition.

“You’re not like me,” I mumble. “I’m no one.”

She drops her voice. “Well that’s not true, either, Simon. You’re worth much more than you think. Lord David must see it to have taken you in, and I saw it right away.”

I laugh, humourlessly. “You befriended me because I was hopeless. You said so, yourself.”

“Well, maybe at courtly things, but you’re brilliant with a blade.”

My head thunks against the tree, and Penny hits my shoulder in reprimand. I shake her off. “It’s just how the Prince looks at me, Pen,” I explain. “As if I’m—as if he thinks I’m nothing.”

She grabs my shoulder again, making me look at her. The whites of her wide eyes are stark against her deep brown skin. “But Simon,” Penny says, giving me that look like I’m missing something that’s right in front of me. “He’s a prince. He could choose to not look at anyone. But he does look at you.”

I scoff, but even then my eyes are drawn back toward the courtyard. Searching for him, though he’s already out of sight. I don’t—I shouldn’t care. But …

He does look at me. And I always look back.

The sun is already low by the time I’ve returned home with Lord David, and we train for another half hour before he’s satisfied. It’s quickly approaching sunset, but still enough time to take a walk if the Lord allows it.

Whenever I ask, he answers the same way: “There are dangers in the Wood. Never go too far. Always return before twilight.” 

I nod; I agree. He allows it.

The evening air is thin and brisk, my breath misting in pale clouds. They lift before the dark shadow of the trees. I exhale deeply, watching the dense fog rise. Grinning, I start to run. I weave through the trees, their trunks pressing closer the deeper I go. I’m breathing hard as I duck between branches, sharp and leafless, and only slow again once the ground is more shadow than light.

I stand—panting, hands braced on my knees—beneath a massive tree, its gnarled roots poking up out of the ground like the back of a serpent. Yellow and red mushrooms grow abundantly in the surrounding earth. There’s a hole in the base of the tree and it likely only houses common field mice, but for a moment I can imagine it a faerie den. If I stayed past sunset I might see their lights, or hear their song.

I shouldn’t wish for it. I suppose meeting a faerie would be better than getting your face stolen by a changeling, or being pulled beneath dark water by a kelpie, or drained by a bloodeater. I hear there are chimaeras in the Wood, too, the kind of creature you can’t slice with a blade. Faeries are tricksters, but they’ll still feed you before you dance your feet to ribbons. 

Lord David is either brave or foolhardy to live so close to the edge of it. I’m worse still for venturing past the border. 

So they say, at least.

Something rustles in the bushes just out of sight. A skittering, light shifting of underbrush. I whip around in the direction of the noise, but there’s no clear sign of movement. 

The Lord would tell me to turn away. “Don’t be a fool, Simon—not here.”

I don’t turn away. I move toward it, crashing through the dead leaves. I keep listening for something. Anything. But it’s still and silent. 

Until it’s not. 

Behind me, farther back, there’s a muffled thud, then a low whimper. Just once before it’s silent. I quickly turn and run. I wind my way through the trees until a shuddering breath draws my eye further south.

And there it is.

There he is.

I almost don’t believe my eyes, but there he most certainly is. Knelt on the ground, hunched over, black hair falling across his cheeks. Mud clings to his knees and the furred hem of his purple gown. And, off to the side like it’s been thrown, is a longbow. And an arrow. Flecked with red, shot into the earth.

“Prince Basil?” I ask, taking a step forward. 

He flinches, and then straightens. By his knees there’s a rabbit on its side, brown fur caked in blood. Its little chest rises and falls rapidly.

Basil looks up, his face unlike any I’ve seen on him—softer, stripped of its usual disdain or boredom. His eyes are wide with fear. He’s biting his lips between his teeth, his shaky hands in tight fists over his knees. 

But what I can’t stop staring at are the tears falling silently down his cheeks.

“S’alright,” I breathe, taking a small step forward. He straightens further—lifts his chin high. I look between him and the rabbit again. “Why are you crying? Are you hurt?”

“I’m not crying,” he snaps.

“You are. It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

He frowns at me like I’ve said something unkind. Then it breaks into something more like sorrow, and he stares at the ground by his dirty knees. I kneel beside him, and both of us look back at the rabbit at the same time. Its chest heaves with shallow breaths. The prince raises one of his trembling hands out to the suffering creature, but then draws it back before touching it.

“I made a mistake,” he whispers hoarsely. “I thought I could do this. Thought I could prove—but I missed. I aimed poorly, and now it’s suffering, and I don’t know how to help.”

“Oh.” I stare at Basil’s hand, still hovering. 

“I did this. It’s my fault.”

“It’s … well, that—that happens, I think. You just, um. Do you have a knife?” 

The prince blinks at me. “Why?”

I glance once more to the rabbit. To the blood already pooled in the dirt. He looks, too, before shutting his eyes and giving a quick shake of his head. 

Then he says quietly, “Yes. Yes, I have one.” 

He reaches beneath the lining of his gown and after a moment pulls out the strangest looking dagger I’ve ever seen. Shaped like a claw, with a pristine ivory handle and a metal loop at its base.

He must see me staring at it, and he explains, “It’s from my mother. Passed down from my grandfather, my namesake, Tyrannus III.”

I nod, taking the offered dagger from his trembling grip, weighing it in my hand. It reminds me vaguely of the scythes they use for farming. 

“How do you use it?” I ask.

“I don’t know—like a dagger? Just say if it will work,” he demands tightly. I look back up into his eyes. He has grey eyes, like a stormcloud. They’re bloodshot and brimming.

“Yeah. It’ll work.”

He watches me in rigid silence as I settle a hand down on the creature, more like I’d soothe a wounded dog than something I was hunting. Its heart beats frantically against my palm. I grip the dagger tightly. I swallow hard as I press its curved blade to the rabbit’s throat. 

One cut—it’s over fast.

There’s blood on my hand when I pull away, the same hand where I wear my ring. Prince Basil is staring at it. The blood, I think. He watches me place the knife on the ground between us, but doesn't move to take it. For a moment, he just stares at it, and then at the rabbit’s still body. His face, unreadable. Finally, he settles back on his heels, shoulders dropping.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. 

I tilt my head toward his. “You’re welcome, Ba—I mean, Prince Basil.”

“No,” he says quickly, and finally looks up into my eyes. His are still wide, but slightly closer to his usual calm and intentional expression. “No, not—just call me Baz. Some people call me that.”

“What people? 

“People I—I simply prefer it.”

“All right.” That’s strange. But it also makes me warm. That he wants me to call him that. “Baz. My name’s Simon. Simon Snow.”

His mouth twitches. “I know your name, Snow.”

“Oh.” I look down at my knees. My ears are hot. “Wasn’t sure.”

He draws a long breath, like he’s trying to steady himself. Then he finally says, “It’s an odd name. Snow. There’s no one else in the kingdom by that name.”

“You know every surname in Watford?”

“No—not exactly. But you caused such a stir I might have”—he clears his throat—“taken an interest.”

I try to choke back a laugh, but it comes out like a squeak. I look up to see Basil—Baz’s eyes shining with amusement now, not tears. His grin is just a little wider, and I’m struck by it. Because he’s not acting at all like I expected. 

He’s … gentler. He’s affected.

“I don’t know where my name comes from,” I admit. “I don’t have parents. I was left at a convent as a baby with nothing but a ring with my name on it.”

Baz looks down at my hand, and so I hold it out to him. There’s drying blood caked under the textured, twisted gold band, 'Simon Snow' etched cleanly into its face. Baz surprises me by reaching back, much like he did with the rabbit, but this time he closes the distance. 

He holds my hand in his. Carefully. As if I’m something precious, something worth treating with great care. 

No one’s ever taken great care with me. 

“This is quite fine,” he breathes, touching my name with the pad of his finger. 

I don’t know what to say back, so I nod. Dumbly. I’m not sure he sees.

“These letters … I’ve hardly seen anything so precise. And here—there’s an image, isn’t there?”

“Yeah. A sword, I think. One of the sisters said it likely used to be a noble’s signet. My name replaced the crest.” I swallow. His eyes are still on my hand. “She—ehm—said my mum must have been a thief.”

I don’t tell him the rest—that she threatened to take it from me, and said I was unworthy of something so fine. I left that same night.

Baz hesitates just a moment before running his thumb over the surface of the ring again, slower.

“It’s undoubtedly yours now.”

I stare at him. His loose black hair, the streaks of tears still drying on his cheeks. My fingers twitch with the impulse to wipe them away, but I don’t. Instead, I slowly pull my hand back. He doesn’t try to stop me. 

“So. You don’t like hunting,” I say, flexing my fingers. 

He blinks twice. “No. I detest it.” 

“Then why are you out here?” 

He shakes his head. He’s staring at a fresh streak of blood in his palm. It surely came from me. 

“Why would the King and Queen let you come alone?” I add.

“They didn't.”

I want to ask him more, I’m about to, but another noise steals my attention. The Wood echoes with the distant sound of Lord David’s voice, beckoning me home. Both Baz and I turn toward it. Damn it, have I lost track of time? How low is the sun? I start to glance around. There’s no more gold in the sky. It’s that pale blue that’ll soon give way to dark.

“Do you need to go?” Baz asks, already rising to his feet.

“Yeah. And so should you, the Wood isn’t safe after dark. Or ever, some say.”

Baz looks around, considering. “I’ve never felt particularly unsafe here.”

“Yeah.” I’m smiling. “I like it.”

Lord David’s voice is louder this time, and my body stiffens with panic. 

“Go,” Baz urges. “I’ll find my way home before dark.”

“All right.” I’m backing away, but still facing him. He’s giving me a strange, thoughtful look. “I’ll see you, then?”

“I’ll see you, Snow,” he says, voice as steady as a promise.

Later that night, once I’ve excused myself to my room and started a fire, I stick my head out my window and turn to face the high castle tower. It’s dark, initially. But I wait. Within a few short minutes, the light in the tower finally flickers on. It glows warm and orange against the dark indigo sky. 

And I can’t know for sure, but it could be him. Prince Basil. Baz in the tower. The gentle prince.

It’s not impossible.

Chapter 3: Dreamer

Notes:

Soft Content Warning Expand for details.

Imbalanced/coercive relationship dynamics.

I am calling this a soft warning because it would probably only hit a very small percentage of people with a very specific experience, but it is still a representation of a manipulative relationship from the perspective of the manipulator, so I want to be cautious.

I think we, as a society, often look at victims of these dynamics with a lot of judgement, because how could they go along with it? How didn't they see it? When often the answer is, their love was used against them. Their softness, their trust. Because the person who hurt them also touched them gently and looked at them with wonder and made them think, how could this person be bad?

Every person who ever deeply hurt me, that I ever let in enough to hurt me, was on the surface immensely lovable. I write this with compassion for the ones who should have walked away.

DAVY

Age Seventeen

I was six years old the first time my mother told me stories of magick. 

Her intention had likely been to scare me, as any good mother ought to do—or so said the common rabble and the priests. Children should fear magick. They should fear the feral creatures who wield it without cost, without words, without control. They should fear what could be made from blood and sinew and will, and how easily it could pervert the world around it. Man was neither meant to trust magick nor wield it, and those who tried would surely suffer. 

Every child in Watford grew up fearing the Wavering Wood, because it was where the magick came from. But my family, the noble Cadwallader line, had long lived at the edge of it. 

Perhaps it was why, when I heard the stories, I wasn’t afraid. I was in awe. 

Not all creatures of the Wood were born magick; some were cursed. In the chaos of war, men had craved the strength and courage to fight without rest, and their desperate magick had turned them into wolves. Bloodthirsty and cruel, too mindless to be cowards. Then there were those who, in their grief, paid for the lives of their loved ones in blood—and those same loved ones awoke hungry and with sharpened teeth. Their thirst for more had been impossible to quench. 

The message in those stories was clear: man should not try to play God. These creatures are man’s sins laid bare.

What it actually taught me was that man could indeed have the strength of beasts and rid himself of fear. He could save those he loved from death, if he was willing to pay the bloody cost. 

To know someone could want something enough to make it real, to reshape the world around them to their vision? 

No, I was not afraid.

Many had initially assumed it was hubris, the choice to make our home so close to the Wood. They said my father’s father had imagined himself a holy warrior who could take on any beast within. If he could not prove himself with intellect or coin—both of which he had in scarce supply—he could earn respect by the sword. By taking out as many cursed creatures as he could in his lifetime. Many said he was obsessed with ruin. What a legacy to inherit.

To hear my mother tell it, the man himself had been as soft as he was cowardly. He’d lived more by the drink than the sword, and he built his home here because none else would have the land. His bronze-haired wife had been the true warrior. She protected the estate until her legs failed her, and then she passed the sword along to my father. 

And now, the same sword hung at my side as I made my way forward through the bustling courtyard. 

There was a crowd, of course. All eager to greet the Queen and her new husband. Their union had been an extravagance in itself, so I couldn’t understand why they’d insisted on this display.

A hush fell over the crowd, and I went still with it, the chatter of courtiers fading to reverent silence. A single glance told me all eyes were turned toward the arched entrance to the keep—the long, narrow stone staircase. I turned my head along with them, if only to see the spectacle. 

As expected, Queen Natasha wore layers of blue and purple velvet—puffed ornate sleeves decorated with so many pearls. Always ostentatious, that woman. Even before she was crowned. Always pretending at elegance when any fool could see she was simply parading her wealth in front of the pandering masses. No different than a peacock with its feathers.

Beside her walked her husband, King Malcolm, more subdued in his plum-coloured finery.

“Interesting choice, was he not?” a familiar voice said beside me.

I turned. I was met by a wild cascade of golden curls. A wide, genuine smile. A strong jaw for such a pretty girl—square where the rest of her was all curves—not the delicate curves that flattered a bodice, but lush and full. It’d seem wrong on anyone else’s face, but Lucy Salisbury would seem wrong without it.

“Careful now,” I said. “You wouldn’t want anyone to think you anything less than worshipful of the ground our lovely Queen doth trod upon.”

“You beast,” she teased. “I would never speak ill of the Queen. My mother wouldn’t let me. They’re friends, you know. Confections every Sunday after morning services.”

“I don’t know what your mother sees in her.”

“Now you’re sounding bitter.”

“Me? Never,” I said evenly. It was hard to contain my smile. Lucy always made me smile.

“It is odd, though,” she said again, softer. “Mother says his kingdom is nothing but a two-thousand-acre farm. Hardly a smart alliance. Malcolm Grimm himself is as dour as a plow.”

“Are plows very dour?”

Her smile was brilliant white. “Oh yes.” 

I stared forward, catching the shimmer of Natasha’s gown as it swept behind her, rippling down the descending stairs. “So, you think it’s strange she might have married for more than coin or power?”

“I suppose not. He is handsome, even if it's in a way that's somehow both menacing and boring.”

“Natasha Pitch—married for love,” I said. “When support for her family is at such a low, she chose sentimentality.”

“Even the royals can love.”

I shook my head. “The people deserve a monarch who does not sacrifice their subjects’ safety for personal whims. You know, every day another person needlessly starves on our streets while the Queen and the Old Families gather for their monthly hunts and feasts. And every month they edge further past the border for their game.”

She sighed. “Davy—” 

“Truly, tell me. When uprooted, angry spriggans took out half the crops last year, who was it that stayed warm and fed?”

“If Malcolm truly is the dour king of farmers, then perhaps he will be the solution Watford requires.”

“Hampshire has its own mouths to feed, Lucy. And nothing will truly change until the law itself changes.”

When I looked at her, I found her staring back at me with bright, blue eyes. She met my gaze unflinchingly. “Perhaps this is not the time. This is meant to be a happy day. Here.”

Lucy reached for me and—knowing what she intended—I met her. I placed my hand, palm up, over hers, her freckled skin supple and sun-heated. 

She closed her other hand over mine in a simulacrum of prayer, and almost at once there was a shiver of sensation. A fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird between our palms. Her magick—God, it was a wonder. It buzzed and breathed and expanded. I imagined it as something alive, the twisted roots of an ancient tree cutting paths through the resisting earth. It spread all the way to the tips of my fingers before settling.

When she finally pulled away there was a single rose pressed into the very centre of my hand. The petals, full and faultless and the colour of new blood.

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

She smiled her blinding smile and said, “Good. I made it for you.”

I smiled back. I treated the flower delicately, turning it over in my hands, noting its vibrancy and thick velvet texture, and how Lucy had sprung it into being at the perfect point between bud and bloom. To have that kind of power—to create new life with the same effort as taking a breath? I could not begin to imagine. 

But one day I was sure she would show me. 

I was seventeen years old when I discovered how Lucy’s magick worked. 

A week after the King and Queen had been married, she came by my estate in the early morning. She dressed in brilliant gold that complimented her hair, which she wore loosely plaited down her back. Curls had already begun to come loose, framing her face. Always a little less tame than the other ladies at court. I wondered, often, if it was the magick that made her fierce.

I sat up against the ivy-covered stone wall that enclosed a part of my garden, reading while I watched her grow her flowers and vines. At this point, my home was surrounded. Every kind and colour. Primrose and poppies and bluebells. It put the palace gardens to shame.  

The noonday sun beat down on her as she worked, pinking her freckled skin. I watched her careful hands, her bare forearms. 

Beneath her, roots rippled through the dirt as they grew, like restless fish in a stream. 

“Lucy, it’s been hours,” I said, closing my book and setting it to the ground.

She laughed lightly. “Yes? And?”

“I just don’t understand how you do it. It’s as if you never tire, like you have some bottomless well of magick tucked behind your ribs.”

Lucy huffed in a pleased sort of way, and then pulled her fingers from the earth. She clapped the dirt off her hands. When she stood to face me, I could see the imprint of her knees on her dress—the dirt and grass stains. 

I smiled. I shifted to make room for her, watching until she settled near my side, tucking her feet beneath her. 

“Come closer,” I said, hooking our arms and lacing our fingers. Her hip pressed into mine as she leaned in.

“I thought this would be mundane to you now,” she said softly. “You’ve seen all my tricks.”

“Nonsense,” I said. A spiral had come loose from her braid, falling across her eyes, so I brushed it back. I tucked it carefully behind her ear, and my hand lingered. Heat radiated from her skin. “Your gift is not diminished with repetition. Your magick will never stop being a wonder to me.” 

Her cheeks went a deeper pink, and her smile was small and shy. The brush of a vine against my skin made me shiver. I looked down at our linked arms in unreserved fascination as the new growth slowly wound itself around them. Like a living thing. 

My thumb ghosted over the shell of her ear, and her eyes fell slowly shut. 

“You cannot blame me for being surprised at your lack of limitation,” I continued, letting my hand drift lower, the backs of my fingers brushing down the length of her neck. “Even in the old stories where people used magick readily, it was still a delicate and costly balance. And if the cost was badly calculated—”

“I know,” she said, her voice wavering. “It was horrible.”

“It was, and ignorance made it so. You, however, are not bound by these rules. I want to understand.”

She opened her eyes. She looked at me, much like she had at sixteen when I’d first learned of her gift.

That day—the day I’d found out—I’d just had a run-in with the soon-to-be Queen’s mouthy little sister, Fiona. She was a wild thing, raw from her father’s untimely death and her mother’s ugly, consuming grief. With her sister distracted by her sudden rise to power, Fiona was left to fling her anger at anyone who crossed her path.

Still, as she’d echoed the casual insults of the other nobles—‘Mad Lord David’ or the far more crude, ‘Crazy Davy’—I’d itched to separate myself from all of it. In my escape, I’d spotted Lucy’s head of golden curls peeking over a lush bed of roses, like a painting of the sun skirting the horizon. I went to her—closing the distance in long strides. 

Red-faced and speaking too quickly, I said, “Tell me truthfully, is it ‘mad’ of me to expect a seat on the council that’s been my family’s rightful seat for generations? Am I ‘mad’ for recognising the injustice of the council being overrun with members of the Old Families—whose only goals are to keep things exactly as they are—while nearly all others are turned away? Regardless of breeding or common sense.

“The rest of us must scrabble and claw to simply earn entry into the room, much less have a voice in it! My God, is the state of this kingdom and its people merely a joke to the ruling class? Am I ‘mad’ for caring?”

At that, I’d paused for a breath. Then, glancing down, I saw Lucy crouched in the dirt. The sleeves of her deep blue gown were pushed up to her elbows, her hands covered in rich, red earth. She looked up at me through a mess of yellow tangles. All around her hands were signs of new growth—curling green stems amidst a smattering of rosebuds, fully separate from the mature rosebush they grew alongside. 

“What are you doing?” I asked.

She’d sat back on her heels, and the moment her fingers were no longer touching the earth, the flowers noticeably shivered and shrank. A quickening in reverse.

“Lucy,” I said, even quieter. “What are you doing?”

“You can’t let anyone know you saw me.”

I met her wide, worried eyes. “What exactly did I see?”

For a moment we’d stared at each other in long, drawn out silence. Lucy chewed her lip before, slowly, reaching forward again. She dug her fingers into the loose soil, buried them up to the first knuckle, and before my eyes I watched leaves unfurl from once naked stems, rosebuds trembling as they bloomed into broad spirals of red and pink.

Words failed me. They caught in my chest. All I could do was stare and drop inelegantly to my knees beside her. 

I watched her hands: skin the colour of fresh cream, wide palms, and narrow nail beds, a dusting of pale, wispy hairs. Her family ring—so large it hardly stayed on her index finger—bore the image of Excalibur, a mythic blade of deep magick tangled in vines and roses.

They looked so similar to the plants sprouting up between Lucy’s fingers.

“Say something,” she whispered.

“This is magick,” I responded. “You’re creating life—how? Such a thing must cost blood. Life always costs blood.”

She’d shaken her head, and sunlight bounced off her hair. “It doesn’t. Not for me.”

When I asked her how it was possible, she was unable or unwilling to give me an answer. It was something she’d simply always been able to do. 

Though hesitant to say too much, she was beyond eager to share her gift with someone. Over the next months, she made flowers for me. She helped the vines grow lush and tall up the side of my family’s estate, breathing life back into a place that—since my parent's passing—had been bereft of it.

I never stopped being in awe.

She hadn’t explained it to me at sixteen. But now, at seventeen, with both of us curled up together between patches of wildflowers, she might finally give me something more.

“Other forms of magick exist aside from what you've been taught,” she said. Her vines wound tighter around our linked arms, our clasped hands. 

I watched the leaves twitch with her magick and said, “That is abundantly clear.”

She knocked her elbow against mine. “The thing is, while ritual magick may be the most common among humans—clever as they are to learn to harness something they weren't born with—outside of humanity it’s an anomaly. Think of the fae and the magick they freely use to imbue their food or their song or their shifting features. They don’t cast spells.”

“The fae are monsters—”

“They’re creatures. In truth, humans are creatures too, and all creatures have the capacity for magick in their blood. The only difference is for the fae, magick is a given. For us, it’s an inheritance, and a rare one.”

“How rare?”

“Rare enough that there’s hardly anyone I can safely share my gift with.” She looked in my eyes as she said this, dragging her thumb over mine meaningfully. “Though, not rare enough to be the only one in Watford whose bloodline carries innate magick.”

“So, you know others?”

“I know of others.”

“Who—”

“No, Davy. I won't betray them. You can't ask that of me.”

I pressed my lips together, considering. “Does everyone in your family possess this power?”

She looked pinched and conflicted. “No. Not all. My brother Jamie is without, but my mother makes the most beautiful flowers. Our estate gardens are lush with her magick.”

“So it’s always plants, then? Have you ever tried your hand at anything else—someone else?”

“No. That isn’t how it works.”

“You have the power to create life, Lucy, you must have—”

“I cannot push magick into a human the same as I would a rose. Nor would I try.”

“Why not?”

“Because we shouldn’t take what we’re not freely given. This is my power”—the vines writhed along our skin—“and I don’t wish for anything beyond it. The ritual magick we condemn in church is the magick born of desperation and sacrifice. ”

“Sometimes we must pay terrible costs, Lucy.” 

Her brow creased, her eyes shifting downward. She shook her head, and the vines looped around our arms began to wither. 

“What would you have given to save your father?” I asked quietly. “Would you have spared your mother that pain? Yourself?”

She sucked in a breath. I reached my free hand out to touch her jaw—her strong chin. I took it between my thumb and forefinger and tipped her face up to make her look at me. 

“Think of the good that kind of power could do. Your magick is beautiful, but it is limited. Ritual magick has no such constraints.”

“Davy,” she said softly, with a final measure of caution. “People could be hurt.”

“Or they could be liberated. We can’t know if we never try.”

She stared at me. Slowly and with shallow breath, she flicked her gaze between my eyes as if they might contain the answers to all her questions. 

She had to understand. She would, eventually. 

Gradually, like an exhale, she tipped her head forward. She parted her lips. When I touched my forehead to hers, she was trembling. Her vines pulsed and thickened, wrapping themselves tighter around our linked arms. They held us together. 

Lucy Salisbury closed her eyes when I kissed her.

 

Age Eighteen

I was eighteen years old when Lucy gave me magick.

Despite their relentless suppression of it—allowing only its condemnation by the church—the Pitches’ restricted libraries were full of texts on ritual magick. There was a time, long ago, when it was more common to learn spells. Simple ones, imbued potions for healing or rituals to bolster your crop.

But, as understanding of its potential broadened, so, too, did its consequences. 

Some said it went too far before the church stepped in, but I believed theirs was a swift response. One motivated less by danger and more by the fear of common folk having access to such power—power that rivaled not only kings and queens, but God.

The books were meant to be destroyed, but the Pitches proved more rational, choosing instead to lock them away.

I’d learned of the libraries from Mitali Bunce. She’d only ever suffered my presence for Lucy’s sake, but months ago, in her excitement at finally being granted a council seat—and with it, access to the royal libraries—she had been incautious. She’d always had a voracious appetite for knowledge, and the pragmatism to put it to use. 

In her enthusiasm, she’d lamented the fact old spellbooks would still be locked beyond her reach. Her interest in magick was, “Merely academic,” she told Lucy. “But how can we avoid failure if we lock away all knowledge of it?”

This was where we diverged. Mitali saw ritual magick as a cautionary tale. A dead end.

She lacked vision—a weakness I’d never shared. 

Lucy and I were walking together in the castle gardens, the sun setting behind a sheet of grey clouds, when I finally broached the topic of it. It was the first time in weeks we’d managed to find time alone. Her mother had grown more and more wary of my presence the closer we became.

“So it’s true, then?” I asked.

She stopped to take my hand, eyes pinched in confusion. 

“The royal family,” I clarified. “They kept all the old texts?”

“Oh. Well, yes. My mother was granted access years back and I’ve visited with her once. Queen Natasha may be conservative, but she understands the value of knowledge. I don’t think she has it in her to burn a book.”

“Your mother is interested in reading about ritual magick?”

“No, no. She just loves books of all sorts. And the spellbooks are breathtaking. You know, my mother always brings Natasha new books from her travels. Natasha’s eyes light up at them—even the crass and the silly ones.”

My mouth tipped up on one side. “Lady Ruth Salisbury is giving the Queen crass books?”

“Yes,” she laughed. “All the time. I catch them giggling together in the solar.”

“How far apart in age are they, again?”

She grinned and rolled her eyes. “Two decades, darling, but a good friendship doesn’t care about age.” 

“No, I suppose not.” 

Thunder rolled in the distance, gently vibrating the ground beneath our feet. The air was alive and static with the promise of rain. It clung to and frizzed Lucy’s hair until she resembled a pincushion flower. I touched it. I smoothed it down and cupped it against her jaw. The blacks of her eyes widened. 

“Lucy. Don’t you find it odd that they insist on hiding this knowledge, while keeping it freely available to themselves?” I asked. “Is this truly about safety if there are exceptions? If some people have access and others do not?”

“They would never use it.”

“I don’t believe that. Why keep it close if not to use it?” I touched the edge of her mouth with my thumb. “Even if you’re right, if I knew my neighbor had a sword, I would arm myself as well.” 

Her thick, pale eyebrows lifted. “Or else?”

“Or else he has power over me.”

Her gaze flicked around, uncertain. Not meeting mine. “What if your neighbor wishes you no harm?”

“Perhaps he doesn’t. I cannot know his heart,” I said, staring down her narrow nose to her thin, bowed lips. “I cannot know anyone’s heart unless they hand it to me. Even then, people keep their secrets.”

My thumb ghosted over her bottom lip. She shivered and closed her eyes, and her mouth twitched a smile. 

“We should not do this,” she whispered, though she leaned into my touch all the same. “We’re not courting, Davy. We’re not anything.”

“I’ve asked,” I said.

“I know.”

“Why does your mother refuse to accept me?”

“You know why, darling. She doesn’t understand your … intensity.”

I laughed quietly. “Intensity?”

“You take up so much space, don’t you know? You fill the room even when you’re silent. People can’t stand it.” Her voice sounded awed.

“But you can.”

She nodded. “I can.”

I lowered my voice to a whisper. “What do you want?”

Without looking, she turned her face into the cup of my hand. She pressed a kiss to the centre of my palm, where she’d once magicked a perfect red rose. Her feather-light touch left my skin buzzing.

Her answer was the one I’d hoped for. “I want exactly what you want.”

Only a month later, Lucy led me into the restricted library.

“Enough teasing, Lucy. How did you ever get the key from your mother?” I grabbed her wrist to stop her barreling ahead of me, and she turned back, laughing with all her teeth.

“I told you, I’ll take it to my grave.”

I tugged her into my arms. My hand threaded into the mess of her long hair, clasping the back of her neck. She tipped her face up to kiss me. And kiss me.

She smiled into every one—all mirth and teeth—but when I finally opened my mouth, hers fell open as well. For a second, we just hovered there, breath mingling as the wet of her mouth grazed mine. Then, as if pulled under, she softened. Her hands clutched my tunic and pulled it tight across my back.

I let myself indulge in her. This woman of contradictions. Powerful and delicate. Broad shoulders, slender wrists. My fingers sank into every part of her, like sinking into a firm but downy pillow.

The echo of a closing door forced us to remember ourselves.

I pressed my forehead to hers, both of us shaking with restrained laughter as we waited, anxiously, to be found out. When there was no second sound to follow the first, however, we relaxed. We breathed in the still air. The drifting motes, the earthy scent of pulp. The echoing sounds of the empty library bounced off the ceilings, blanketing over us like a fine layer of dust. 

Perhaps she felt it, too—the sudden magnitude of the space, of what we were planning to do.

Lucy’s eyes pinched. Her brow tipped with worry. She left a lingering kiss on my cheek, nudging her nose into it once more before taking my wrist and leading me—more subdued—toward the far oaken door.

The room itself was small, the walls hidden by towering bookshelves full of the most vibrant spellbooks—blues and purples and emerald greens. The high vaulted ceiling was slatted with narrow windows, letting in orange shafts of light. The colour of sunset. The room should've been darker than it was, but there was a warm glow—wisps. It made no sense, but there they were. At least half a dozen will-o'-the-wisps drifted between the stacks like incandescent dandelion puffs, the room full of their low, melodic hum.

It did not seem the kind of room that should be locked away and forgotten.

Lucy stood quietly aside, locking us in as I approached the tomes and scrolls. As I ran a hand over the bound leather spines with their strange and intricate gilding. I kept a small library in my home, but the books were all the colour of earth. Nothing particularly special to behold.

These books were impossible. They seemed to thrum with power even before I held one in my hands. 

“How long do we have?” I asked. “Is there a chance we’ll be discovered?”

“It’s unlikely. The Queen is on bedrest, her pregnancy has been difficult and Malcolm has hardly left her side. Other than the two of them, I can’t imagine anyone else would have reason to be here.” 

I ran a finger across the smooth, dark wood of the nearest shelf, drawing up a thin gathering of dust. 

“Such a waste.”

“It is beautiful,” she sighed. “Too beautiful a place to never be seen.”

I dragged my finger down the spine of a thick tome—deep blue leather with gilded stars. “Yes. Beautiful.”

Then, I got to work. I gathered a stack of books and settled onto the mosaic tile floor, forgoing the dusty chairs and tables. I leaned back against the flat base panel of one of the cabinets, and began to devour what turned out to be a bounty of knowledge. I’d always prided myself on my knowledge of magick, of the truth hidden within the superstition, its uses and effect, but it was nothing compared to what I found in those books. 

Spells. Actual spells. Words and ingredients plainly stated. Histories uncoloured by petty superstitions. 

We spent hours there. In silence, as evening turned to night. When the room grew too dim, we lit candles so I could read by the flickering orange light of the fire.

I’m not sure what time it was when I looked up from my reading. My eyes landed on Lucy. She paced slowly around the room, more entranced by the grandeur of the space, the gentle wisps who made it their refuge. She'd tried to speak with them more than once that night. I wasn’t sure if they understood, but their hums swelled in response to her. The air shifted. Their pulsing light made her skin luminous. 

“Lucy,” I said, “sit with me.”

She looked back at me. A gentle, candle-lit smile stretched across her face. 

When she slid to the floor beside me, I looped an arm around her waist, pulling her closer. She tucked herself briefly into my neck, kissing my pulse. I touched her hair in turn. I combed it through with my fingers, watching the curls stretch, then settle back into their shape.

“Do you know why ritual magick so often costs blood?”

“No,” she said into my neck. “Why?”

“Because there is magick in living things. Even those not born with the capacity to wield it.”

“Hmm. A beautiful thought,” she said, leaning back to look in my eyes.

I threaded my fingers through her curls, pushing them off her face. “Give me some of your hair.”

Her brow creased. “Why?”

“I’d like to try something.”

She hesitated a moment, but it was only a moment. Then, she took a small knife out of the belt of her gown and held it against a lock of hair. Her hands trembled slightly, so I stroked my thumb across her cheek to soothe her.

“How much?” she asked.

“Just a little.”

She nodded, and cut the smallest bit of length. She cupped her hand as she dropped the hair into my waiting palm. With my other hand, I touched her chest. Just over her beating heart. 

She sucked in a breath, still trembling, but she didn’t move away. 

I closed my eyes and concentrated. On the thrum of her lifeblood against my palm. On the simmering potential clutched in my other hand. I focused on the feeling, on the taking. The drawing out of magick—the tendrils that connected my will to these pieces of her. I focused on what was mine.

The moment I said the words, Lucy’s heart skipped a beat. 

More like it was stolen—sacrificed. The true cost of the spell. 

The room plunged into darkness and unnatural, suffocating silence. The black seemed to stretch on forever, like a deep hole, a devouring thing. I couldn’t even see Lucy a breath away from me. I could still feel her racing heart beneath my hand, though the sound was eaten up by the void—the night sky without stars. I couldn’t even hear the rush of blood in my own ears. 

A person might lose themselves in this. For a few maddeningly endless seconds, it felt a sure thing. 

Then, in a blink, it was over. 

I could see Lucy again, the whites of her eyes, the parting of her trembling lips. My heart was no longer silent. It drummed a deafening rhythm in my ears, throbbing in my temples and throat and chest. From the tips of my fingers to the arches of my feet. When I opened the hand that’d held Lucy’s hair, all that was left was a dusting of ash. I let it spill to the floor.

“You did magick,” she whispered.

I nodded, and, without words, I leaned in. Her pulse quickened beneath my palm as I kissed her with a feral hunger I’d never once allowed myself. 

I did magick. Actual magick. 

It was still coursing through me, like my veins were full of buzzing static instead of blood.

And I wanted her. I wanted all of her, with the same ferocity I wanted magick. I wanted to draw her into me—her power, the breath from her heaving lungs. I coaxed her onto her back. I knelt over her on all fours, and she gazed up at me in awe, haloed in rippling gold. Light sparkled in her watery eyes, and she looked like she’d been caught in that breathless instant when a spark becomes flame. 

“Davy,” she said quietly, reaching up to touch my face. “You’re radiant.”

I kissed her. 

I pushed up her dress and sunk my fingers into the thick meat of her thighs, the fine wisps of her hair tickling my palms. She arched her back and drew me closer, arms around my neck, whimpering into the curve of my shoulder at the meeting of our hips. At the urgent rocking of our bodies. 

She whispered, “Yes,” as I reached beneath her skirt. 

I found her hot. I found her wet and wanting.

She clutched at me when I entered her. A tear spilled from her pinched eyes. She dug her nails into my naked hips and pressed her sweat-damp face into my jaw and told me, gasping, “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

And, like the magick, it felt like power.

 

Age Nineteen

I was nineteen when Lucy told me she was pregnant.

In the months following our foray into the library, I’d been consumed. It wasn’t as if I could take the books with me, so I’d written down as much as was possible in a single night. 

And what a night it’d been. 

We’d both been pleasantly sore in the aftermath, but stiff and exhausted, so the walk back to her estate was long. She kissed me deeply as we stood there on the moonlit terrace of her family home. I held her close. I pulled her by her broad hips until her plush stomach pressed into mine. I felt the rise and fall of her still restless breath.

More than her lingering touch, when I returned home, my fingers itched with the memory of the magick.

So yes, I was increasingly impatient to learn more. 

At the same time, I grew increasingly impatient with the monarchy who’d once again ignored my petition for a rightful seat on the council. Lucy said they could not deny me forever. I agreed. They could not, and they would not. 

So when Lucy came to me one evening, her face ruddy and with wet tracks down her cheeks, it sent everything awry.

My heart quickened at her immediate distress, and I reached forward to touch her face. I wiped at her tears, cupped her jaw, and caught her bloodshot eyes.

“Tell me what happened,” I said.

She did. Through barely restrained weeping she told me the truth of it—what we’d done. When I failed to find the words to respond, she took my wrists and guided my hands to her stomach. Beneath the silk of her gown, I felt the new swell of it. Our child. Lucy’s and mine. Lucy, who had boundless magick in her blood.

For a moment, I was swept up in the possibility of it. But it was quickly replaced with dread. A hook in my chest, dragging me down into the earth.

“Have you told your mother?” I asked.

“No. How could I tell her? She’s refused even the idea of our marriage. Once she knows I’m with child—your child—she’ll send me away. To a convent or distant family member. Somewhere I won’t be seen.”

I shook my head. “She wouldn’t.”

“She would—and she should. An illegitimate child? They would never be accepted. And even if she didn’t send me away, she would most assuredly keep us apart. She will never accept this, Davy. Us. Together.”

I took her face in my hands again. I looked very seriously into her brimming eyes, starkly blue. My gut twisted with understanding. There was no scenario in which I could have all of what I wanted.

“Davy,” she said. “We have to go. Let’s—Please, let’s just go.”

“Go?”

“Please. We’ll find a place in the country, we can have a life.”

“What? What kind of life?”

“One where we have each other. One where we keep our child.”

“Lucy, I—you know what you’re asking of me, right? You understand?”

She shuddered through another barely contained cry. “I—I can’t bear to do this without you,” she whispered. “I won’t do this without you. He needs you.”

“He?”

“Your son.”

“You can’t know it’s a boy.”

“Davy, please.”

I shook my head slowly. She couldn’t ask this of me. To leave Watford would mean to abandon everything, everything I’ve worked for. It would mean leaving the Pitches and Grimms to their weak rule and the people to suffer beneath it. 

I was promised more. I was made for so much more. Lucy knew this, but still she asked me to walk away.

My hands dropped from her face, and at once her expression fell. The skin around her eyes was blotchy, her nose red. Cheeks streaked with tears, with more following their tracks. 

I shut my eyes, and reached once more for her stomach. She placed her trembling hand over the back of mine, pressing me deeper into the yield of it.

It was easy to imagine the space where we touched alive with magick. With potential. With promise. 

Perhaps. Perhaps we could go—we could nurture this promise. And I could hone my power away from the prying eyes of the court. From their frivolous, meaningless pursuits. Their opulent displays of wealth. Perhaps my leaving the border would also remind them of my family’s legacy of protection.

And it wouldn’t have to be forever. Once the child was born, I could find my way back. I refused to be denied my rightful place.

“All right,” I said, pushing her hair back. I leaned in to kiss her temple, and felt the sigh of her relief more than heard it. “All right. We’ll leave. Give me two days, and then we’ll leave all of this behind.”

She laughed wetly, and I kissed her again. I squeezed my eyes shut.

“I only ask one thing,” I said. “Can you get me into the library? One final time?”

She tipped her head back so she could meet my eyes. 

She said, “Yes.”

Lucy arrived at my door in the crisp, early dawn two days later. At our back was the Wavering Wood, steeped in a thick, grey fog. The air was charged with the echo of the previous night’s heavy rain. Though, above us, the sky was clear and blue.

Amongst our scant belongings, there was a stolen book, the deep purple of a royal gown, gilded in gold. 

There was also a gold family ring with a twisted band—the sword and flowers that once adorned its face now filed down. A promise and a sacrifice. Lucy’s way of forsaking her birthright, her mother’s expectation, the constraints and disappointments of this life.

I took one final look at the place that had always been my home. The clusters of wildflowers and vines that crawled up the side of it, shifting in the slight breeze. The things Lucy helped grow. They would keep growing. Blooming. Climbing. Long after Lucy and I had left. Even with no one left to care for them.

Before the mist settled, we were gone.

Chapter 4: The Bond

  Age Thirteen

I find Baz sat in the shade of one of the yews. He's far off the main path, his nose buried in a thick book. I nearly miss him because he’s dressed in a green silk tunic that matches the bright spring grass. His hair is fluffy. He must have recently had it washed. It’ll smell like orange blossom and cedarwood for days.

He doesn’t hear me coming, even though twigs keep snapping beneath my boots. Or, at least, I don’t think he does, but as soon as I come to a stop, he raises one thick eyebrow without glancing at me. 

“I thought you’d have gone already,” he says.

“No. Sorry.”

“You should be,” Baz responds, drolly. 

I exhale a light, startled laugh. “Might be a while yet before we go. Lord David is stuck in conversation.”

Baz looks up, his gaze sharp. “With whom?”

I shrug as I drop to the grass in front of him. My legs are crossed, knees nearly touching the toes of his pointy leather shoes. “Someone from the council, I think. What’s that?”

“What?”

I point at the book. 

“Oh. It’s Geoffrey Chaucer. Have you heard of his stories?”

I shake my head. “Are all storybooks that big?”

“Never seen a book, Snow?”

“‘Course I have,” I grumble. “Lord David has a modest library. It’s not as if I—I just—is it a long story?”

“It’s multiple, in fact. It’s called The Canterbury Tales and there’s stories about all kinds of people: A friar, a summoner, a man of law, a knight—”

“A knight? There are tales about knights?”

Baz raises both eyebrows now, like he expected this. Like he plotted it. “Of course you would want to read that one.”

I start nodding, but then I slump, staring down at my knees. “I mean. I can’t, though.”

“I could lend you the book. It’s no trouble.”

I kick a foot out, bumping his. “No. I mean—it’s just …” 

“Oh …” he says slowly. “You can’t read.”

I shake my head, kicking him again. Gently. I can’t look at him. Sometimes I’ll tell him something I think is mundane about myself that makes his face go all drawn and miserable. I hate it. I almost preferred it when he only looked at me with contempt.

Baz doesn’t say anything more, and neither do I, but in the quiet of the grove the soft rustling of pages is unmistakable. And then:

“Once, as old histories tell us,” Baz reads crisply, “there was a duke who was called Theseus.” 

“Baz, you don’t—”

“Shh. Quiet, Snow. I’m reading.”

I struggle not to smile.

The story is about two knights: Palamon and Arcite. While imprisoned by Theseus, both knights fall in love with his sister-in-law, Emelye, and soon their friendship turns to rivalry. Arcite, having been freed, disguises himself and deceives his way closer to Emelye, while Palamon admires her from his tower cell. Once fate intervenes and Palamon, too, is freed, Palamon uncovers Arcite’s betrayal. They duel for the right to her hand. However, Theseus intervenes. Emelye pleads with Theseus to spare their lives, and so instead he proposes a formal battle to decide Emelye’s fate.

On the night before the battle, Palamon prays to Venus for Emelye’s love, Arcite prays to Mars for victory, and Emelye prays to Diana to remain free from marriage.

When it becomes clear that Arcite is getting what he prayed for—victory—a frown pulls my cheeks tight.

“I can’t believe he won.”

“The story isn’t over yet, Snow.” 

“I know that, but … Arcite was reckless.” I watch Baz out of the corner of my eye as I pluck blades of grass by our feet. “He threw everything away. He betrayed his friend, his code—everything he stood for. He lied to get close to the person he claimed to love. All he actually cared about was getting what he wanted. He shouldn’t win.”

“You think so?”

“Well, uh, yeah. You don’t?”

Baz tips his head. “I think he was desperate. He thought it was his only chance; the only way. People do terrible things for love.”

I scrunch up my nose. “They don’t have to, though. Palamon was in love, but he was patient and honourable and wanted to prove himself worthy. He was the one who put love first, yeah? Arcite prayed only for himself.”

“All their prayers were selfish, in the end. Palamon prayed for love, yes, but did he know what Emelye prayed for? Did any of them? None of them saw her as anything but a prize to be won. Even the gods ignore her prayer.”

“I—” I chew on my lip as Baz watches on. “Maybe they didn’t love her. But … I still think if I truly loved someone, I wouldn’t lie, or, or abandon my friends. I’d like to be worthy of love.”

“Of course you would,” he smiles. “Perhaps instead you would be Theseus, with all his lofty ideals of knighthood, strength, and justice.”

I grin back at him. “Arse. You know he’s all pomp.”

Baz laughs, revealing his sharp, slightly crooked eyeteeth. It’s a rare sight, his teeth. I love it when he laughs. 

This time when I kick my foot against his, he kicks back.

“What about you?” I ask. I’m still staring at his mouth.

“What do you mean, Snow?”

“I—”

Before I can answer, the crunch of footsteps draws our attention back toward the path, the sound still distant but edging closer. The low murmur of voices accompanies it. One of them is clearly Lord David.

Baz’s gaze is fixed toward the sound, too, his expression shifting from open to something like the face of still water. Unmoving. Shoulders, stiff. 

My heart sinks when Baz closes the book—I nearly beg him not to. I don’t beg, though. Lord David is always strange about Baz, watching him and his family with a tight-lipped disapproval I don’t fully understand. He says they’re dangerous. Anyone with absolute power is. Anyone who hoards that power.

But, Baz …

Lord David wouldn’t like finding us together. 

I watch between the trees as the footsteps grow louder—the crush of twigs and brush.

“Stop that.”

I turn to Baz. “Huh?”

“Stop looking so miserable.”

“You first.”

Baz raises an eyebrow, lips pursed in a thin, unimpressed line.

“I—I wanted to hear the ending,” I grouse, swiping dirt off my hose as I lift to my feet.

“I can read it again later. I could bring it to the Wood.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course. Though, it would be quite the task. It is very heavy.”

I huff, reaching out to help Baz—and his very heavy book—off the ground. He accepts easily. His grip, firm. Warm. Our hands are still clasped when I remember to ask:

“Who would you be, Baz? In the tale?”

“Oh.” Baz considers for a long moment. His thumb moves absently over mine, and a shiver curls down my spine. Light and cold—like the too-soft brush of fingers. I keep very still. “I’d be Emelye.”

A laugh bursts out of me. “What? Why? You like the idea of people being willing to kill for you?”

“No, Snow,” Baz says quietly, his stormy eyes locked on mine. “Emelye never wanted that. She just wanted to be free.”

His hand slips from mine, leaving my palm strangely cold. I stare down at it. The lines in my palm disappear beneath the curl of my fingers. Grasping at the open air. 

I don’t have enough time to ask him what he means.

 

Age Fourteen

The sweat beading off my curls glints in the noonday sun, but I resist shaking it off.

A small crowd has gathered around. Among them, Penny, who refuses to learn swordwork despite watching our sparring with relentless focus—the way she does everything—and the daughter of the court physician and Lady Wellbelove, Agatha, who couldn’t appear less interested. Her waist-long hair is plaited down the centre of her back, and Penny keeps tugging at it whenever she releases a soft, restrained sigh.

I can make out the crowd’s rising voices, even if I can’t understand the words. I’m too focused on Dev, red-faced and splayed out on the ground beneath me, chest heaving as I dig the dull point of my waster under his chin. His finely embossed leather jerkin is freshly scuffed and coated in mud.

“Do you yield?” I smirk, locking my elbow to steady my sword arm against the creeping exhaustion.

Dev glowers up at me, dragging his pink tongue across his split bottom lip. I shift my weight, driving the sword tip closer in warning. His head jerks back, and pain flares in my ankle—sharp enough to make me bite the inside of my cheek. Still, I don’t stumble.

His eyes burn with defiance before he finally mutters, “Yes, yes I yield.”

My sword arm drops, and I extend my free hand to him instead. He stares at it for a long moment, as if touching me might sully him more than sitting in the dirt. He can hate this as much as he wants—I’m not pulling away first. 

After a few more beats, he relents, finally reaching back. His hand is sweaty in mine, his grip limp and reluctant. I pull him to his feet all the same.

“You’re relentless, you know,” he grumbles, rolling his shoulders back as if it might make him taller than me. Then, more quietly, “Lord David trains his dogs well.”

My face heats, and my voice drops to a growl. “Knocked you on your arse well enough, didn’t I?”

“This time.”

I glare at Dev’s back as he stalks away, past the others still waiting to spar. Toward Niall and—oh. Baz. 

Baz.

He looks like always—tall and composed. Regal. A polished gem amongst muddy grey stones. His burnished gold skin nearly glows against his doublet's emerald silk and floral brocade. Always flowers and vines. Such a pretty thing. Even Agatha, with her milky, pale skin and cornsilk hair, struggles to compare.

Baz glances away from his companions for a moment to find my eyes, and a soft breath rushes out of me. Heat strokes up my neck and the pleased curl of my lips is reflexive. Baz's cheek dimples briefly as he suppresses a returning grin. He smiles with his eyes, though, even as he fights it with his mouth. I can’t help but grin wider.

How long has he been here? Was he watching?

Did he see me lay his cousin flat?

“Who’s to face Simon next?” 

I stiffen at Lord David’s voice, whipping my head around. His eyes flick between me and Baz briefly, as if he’s bitter at my distraction. Or—more likely—the person who’s distracting me. 

I pull myself taller, and the motion puts weight on my tender ankle—damn. I bite my cheek again to keep from wincing, flooding my mouth with the taste of metal. My pulse drums through my aching muscles, the throb behind my eyes and in the sweaty palm of my hand, and I’d like a moment to breathe. But I’m not sure I can ask. 

I never know what answer he wants.

“Come now, Davy,” the physician, Wellbelove, cuts in jovially. “The boy has bested the last three you put up against him. Let someone else have a chance to prove themselves.”

The warm gratitude that floods through me at Master Wellbelove’s intervention is undercut by the hardening of Lord David’s eyes. “Simon has proven that he can withstand more than this, and a Knight’s strength is forged in persistence, not in coddling. Surely, you must have pushed yourself to achieve such great heights in both your profession and in securing such an advantageous marriage. All despite your lack of title. This is what Simon faces, as well.”

Wellbelove’s eyebrows drop, his smile uneasy. “You’re not wrong. But even the sharpest blades dull with too much use, My Lord.”

Something rotten curdles in my stomach, and my arm falters. I haven’t dulled. I can fight again.

I turn my face away, seeking Baz out in the crowd, even though the Lord is watching and I know I shouldn’t. Baz is already looking back at me. Everything else fades. I try to smile at him, but his lack of expression tells me he’s overheard too much. That he disapproves. The only true giveaway is in the pinch of his eyes. 

It’s always in his eyes. His smiles, his frowns. I wish he would smile. 

He turns instead. 

It only takes a moment to understand why. Queen Natasha is striding across the grass, her purple gown pooling around her feet. All of her is as sharp and narrow as a blade: her shoulders, her chin, her cheeks. Her long, straight nose. Even her hairline is severe, her thick, black hair pulled tightly back in a spiralling braid that circles the crown of her head. Other than a row of pearl pins, her hair is unadorned, but she still looks as if she’s wearing a crown.

The noise of the crowd dims to a reverential murmur as The Queen leans in close to speak to Baz. She’s so tall. Taller than nearly every man at court. Even though Baz has pulled himself up as straight as he can, he seems small in her shadow. 

I can’t tell what they’re saying, but I watch Baz glance between his mother and the ground before tipping his head to look past her. He fixes his gaze on Lady Agatha across the yard. 

His face stiffens. 

The lines slice deeper into his cheeks at the edges of his tight lips. He’s rigid everywhere like he’s bracing himself against something. Against Agatha? Against whatever his mother is there to ask of him?

My chest tightens, heat prickling at the base of my neck.

Then, his mother’s hand touches his face, her skin a few shades darker than his own. Her thumb brushes his cheekbone, and the tenderness in the gesture startles me. I don’t expect it. Not here. Not in the middle of the yard with all these people watching. She tilts his face upward, her eyes on his. Her eyes are like his. Deep-water grey and telling. 

She looks like Baz when he wishes he could say he’s sorry. When he knows he can’t. 

Lord David’s voice echoes in my head: “Dangerous.”

What is she asking him that demands an apology?

“Relentlessly conservative.”

Baz’s shoulders fall as he leans into her. Turns his eyes down. Nods.

“They cannot see beyond the scope of their own power and wealth, and we must change things or be complicit in our own ruin.”

I know. I’ve seen the ruin. When you have nothing—when you are nothing—the world shows you its cracks and tears with alarming indifference. 

But Baz isn’t what Lord David says. He wants to make his family proud, but I don’t think he cares for power—not the way they do. If anything, he seems to shrink under its weight. He stands taller among the trees of the Wood than he ever does in the shadow of his mother. He hates to hurt anything, even when it’s necessary. He wants to play his music and read his clever stories.

He dreams of being free.

“Simon. Ready yourself.”

The voice slices through my thoughts. I jolt, turning to Lord David. His icy eyes are narrow, and his mouth pinched. I grip my waster, realising how slack my fingers have gone around it. 

I cut my eyes back toward Baz for a second, but he’s already stepping away from the Queen, disappearing into the crowd.

“Take your stance,” the Lord commands.

I turn my eyes down. Nod. 

I take my stance.

Hours later—far from the scrutiny of Lord David and half the court—I find myself slowly limping through the Wood.

I brace myself on the trees as I pass and it almost hurts to move this slow. Whenever I visit the Wood, my first instinct is usually to run. I feel the way the dogs in the castle kennels must after hours locked up. It’s not like I don’t have other ways to get the energy out, but something about racing through the trees feels necessary. Feels free.

“You’re late,” says a familiar voice. 

I smile and turn to see Baz sat in the shadow of a tree. “Didn’t know we’d planned to meet today.”

“We didn’t. I thought you might be here. And if not—” he pauses, exhales. “I needed to get away. Are you disappointed?”

“Nah. ‘Course not.”

Baz’s head is turned up toward the canopy, but his eyes are on me. He’s still in the same emerald silk as earlier, but the laces near his neck are loose and I can see all of his throat. He starts to frown as I limp toward him. 

“You’re hurt.”

“M’fine. Just tired, long day.”

“Lord David did seem keen to push you past your limits.”

I huff as I drop down beside him, knocking our knees together. “I’m fine, Baz. I’m not going to improve if I don’t train.”

“You can’t fight at all if you break your leg.”

Shame burns up the back of my neck. “Let’s not do this, all right?” I snap.

“He does this all the time, Simon,” Baz presses. “You should be tired from training, not injured.”

I turn on him, frowning. “How would you know the best way to train a knight? You never train at all. Have you ever even picked up a sword, princeling?”

Baz glowers back at me. “Is that what he calls me? Princeling?” He spits the word like a curse. His eyes are hard, eyebrows up, and a pit opens in my stomach. My head turns away from him as I scrub a hand through my dirty curls.

“M’sorry,” I mumble to my knees. “Shouldn’t have said that.”

God, I don’t know why I’m so angry. I don’t care if Baz wants to learn swordwork. He just doesn’t understand what it takes, that this is what I need to do. Lord David would never do anything to harm me without purpose. He just wants to see me succeed. He wants me to be great. I’ve withstood worse than a sore ankle and for so much less. 

Baz is right, though; that’s exactly what Lord David calls him. Princeling. He says it like a curse, too. 

While the silence lingers, the hum of the Wood settles in. Wind whips leaves off the trees, and one lands on Baz’s knee. I pluck it off him without thinking, brushing at the dirt clinging to his hose. Baz lets his knees part a little, his leg dropping closer to mine. I set my hand there. I rub the hem of his hose with my thumb.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, quieter.

He exhales sharply. And then again, softer, before he finally whispers, “It’s all right.” His voice is rough, but the edge is gone. He tilts his head back toward the sky, cutting his eyes away. “I hate to see you hurt.”

I swallow. “I know.” 

When he leans into me, his shoulder pressed against mine, I relax. I sink into him. 

“Will you show me your ankle?” he asks carefully.

I look up. “Why?”

“I may be able to help.”

I’m unsure how, but I don’t want to muck things up again. I’ve had a hard day, and I just want to be close to him. So I remove my boots and push my hose up to my calf. My ankle is swollen and already bruised a deep purple. Not horrible, but worse than I expected. I look at Baz and his expression is tight, but thoughtful. 

“Can you move it?”

I try, rolling my foot in a slow circle. I have to suck air through my teeth against the sharp, steady pain of it, but I’m able to push through.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” I tell him.

“No. I don’t think it is, either.”

And then he starts unlacing his doublet. 

I’m so startled by his sudden undressing that I simply gape at him as he gets it open enough to pull his arms free. He’s left in only a thin, linen shirt. It’s when he takes out his curved knife that I finally find my voice.

“What are you doing?” 

All he does is raise an eyebrow before cutting the seam open at his shoulder and tugging the entire sleeve off his—now very bare—arm. Heat pulses in my cheeks like a sudden fever. 

“What are you doing?” I ask again, higher.

“Wrapping your foot,” he says like it’s obvious, and then moves to kneel at my feet. 

He’s always kept his black hair long, but it seems so much longer right now, draped across his cheeks and spilling over his shoulders. The lean muscles in his bare arm flex as he winds the linen securely around my ankle. There are wisps of dark hair on his forearms. When he touches the bottom of my foot, I nearly jump. 

“Lift this,” he directs, not looking at me. 

Thank God he’s not looking. I have no idea what my face is doing right now, but it can’t be good. 

The Prince of Watford is knelt in the dirt at my feet. Baz is—

“Snow.”

I lift my foot. 

He holds me under the heel, wrapping the rest of the linen around the arch. Once he’s tucked in the edge, nice and tidy, he lets me go.

“That should keep you from moving it too much and making it worse. Is it too tight?”

“I—ehm …” I wiggle my foot; it’s stiff, but not impossible. “Don’t think so.”

“Good.” He pushes himself to his feet, pulling his doublet back over his ruined shirt. He doesn’t do the laces back up. 

“We could have used my shirt,” I tell him, my face still flushed.

Baz huffs and tugs his sleeves straight. 

“My clothes are far less fine than yours,” I continue.

“I have an abundance of fine shirts,” he says dismissively. “Stay here.”

“I—what? Where are you going?”

“I’ll only be a moment.”

I almost argue with him, but when I sit up Baz sticks me with a cold glare. “Fine,” I mutter. “Have it your way.”

“Thank you, I will.”

I snort, watching him until he’s disappeared into a tight copse of trees. He doesn’t take long, returning a few minutes later with a clutch of small yellow flowers. 

“What—”

“It’s arnica,” he explains as he lowers himself once again to the ground beside me, already plucking droopy petals off the flowers. “It can be used to reduce swelling.”

“Ah.”

Once he’s done with his plucking, he starts to carefully tear the petals into small pieces. 

“How do you know how to do this?” I ask.

“My Aunt Fiona is versed in all sorts of mad potions, so I’ve learned a little.” 

Baz apparently keeps oil on him, producing a small vial from a pouch on his belt. He rubs the torn petals between thumb and forefinger before dropping them into the oil. It leaves his fingers shining. 

“I just wish we had more time,” he sighs. “This works best when given a few hours to steep. It’d be more effective. I’d just rather not wait until tomorrow.” 

His eyes are narrow, all his focus on the task as if he’s trying to keep his gaze from meeting mine. Each motion is sharp and deliberate as a knife. His brow is so low. He seems … angry. 

I reach out and touch his cheek, almost like his mother did earlier. Light—just enough to nudge his chin up. Just so he’ll look at me. When he does, his sharply furrowed brow melts into something with curves. His eyes are wide, and I recognise that look. It’s the same as the one he gave the injured rabbit years ago. The one he couldn’t help.

“What’s next?” I ask, instead of, “What’s wrong?”

He has me hold the vial as he piles a few rocks nearby into a tight circle. Then, with a whisper, he lights a fire in his palm.

I nearly drop the vial. 

“You did magick,” I breathe.

Baz startles, staring over at me in confusion. The tiny flame flickers just an inch from his skin, orange light dancing on his fingers. I can’t stop staring at it. 

“Have you never seen magick before?” he asks.

I shake my head. “It’s forbidden, isn't it?”

“Well, no, not this—not exactly.”

“No, it is. It’s chaotic and—and dangerous. Something used by the fae or, or other monsters, or humans who defy God’s will. There are stories of it going badly wrong, Baz—I’ve heard all of them.”

“It can be dangerous, yes,” Baz says slowly, looking back at the fire. He moves his fingers and the flame follows, undulating like a dance. “But it’s like much else, I think. A benign force that’s neither good nor evil. It only matters how it’s used.”

“Then why do so many say otherwise?”

“Why are we warned not to enter the Wood?”

I bite my lip, and my question comes out smaller than I mean it to. “How do you know magick, Baz?”

“It’s not learned. It’s not the same magick the priests warn us about. There’s nothing to be paid. This is—it’s … in my blood.” He says it hesitantly, the orange light reflected in his downcast eyes. It makes them seem bottomless. “Fire is in my blood.”

I’ve never heard of humans having natural magick. I thought they had to steal it, from words and other living things. I thought all magick had a cost.

My caretakers at the convent had told us stories of magick. A village burned to the ground. A child turned to ash by their own hands. Twisted, complicated curses that brought generations of a family to ruin, paid in their blood. A lover lost to a wrong word. And now here it was, small and alive, cradled in Baz’s palm.

And I’m not afraid of it.

“What else can you do?” I ask, smiling.

He smiles back.

Once Baz has heated the rocks, he places the vial in the centre and covers it with green leaves so they’re less likely to burn. Then he sits himself beside me again, shoulder to shoulder. I lean into him.

“It’ll be an hour before it’s usable,” he tells me.

I nod, glancing between the trees, and the sun is low but nowhere near the horizon. We have more than an hour of daylight left. “All right. How long can you stay? Maybe after I’ve rested we can go to the river?”

Baz frowns, looking at his hands in his lap. 

“My leg will be fine. We can take it slow. I—”

“It’s not a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“I have to—” Baz cuts himself off, shaking his head. When he speaks again, it’s strangely detached. “I’ll need to go. Lady Wellbelove and her daughter are visiting, as you probably know. They’ll be joining us for supper and I’m expected to be … in attendance.”

“Oh. All right.” I chew my lip, staring at the side of his face. “Is that bad?”

His lips part, but nothing comes out. His eyes stay fixed forward. After a long time, his answer is one word: “No.”

I watch as his hands curl in on themselves, nails digging into his palm. He’ll have marks. Little red crescents. Without deciding, I take his hand. I press myself into the tight space between his fingers and palm. I lace us together. His grip is rigid at first, still far too tight. I brush my thumb over his knuckle, back and forth.

When I open my mouth to ask him why a dinner with the Wellbeloves makes him so unhappy, the words won’t come. I wish they would. I want to know about what happened earlier, too. Why the sight of Agatha made him shrink. Why did he need his mother’s comfort? 

I’m just not sure he’d want me to ask about any of it.

“I’m bored,” I complain instead, even though it’s a lie. “Tell me a story while we wait.”

Baz’s laugh is a huff of air, and his hand finally unclenches, fitting more comfortably into mine. “Let me guess. You’d like to hear ‘The Knight’s Tale’.”

“Yeah,” I smile, dropping my head on his shoulder. “Always.”

He tenses for only a moment before leaning against me as well. His head atop mine. I breathe in the warmth of him—as earthy as the bark at our backs, as sweet as a flower in bloom. 

I’d be happy like this. I am. Here, with him, in our place.

We sit with the silence for a while, the cool breeze, the shimmer of light through the branches, dappling the ground by our feet. In the distance, something stirs the dry leaves, snaps twigs, growls low in its throat. But it keeps its distance, and—like the fire in Baz’s palm—it doesn’t scare me. 

Baz’s breath is warm and damp. It rustles my hair. 

I close my eyes once he finally begins.

Notes:

Aren't they precious? This chapter makes me melancholy. They’re so young, and so innocent, and on the precipice of danger.

So! If you've checked out the playlist, just some info. It isn't just vibes, it actually moves through the beats of the story. It's in order, but not in order of the actual chapters. Chronological order. Mostly. All the Davy songs are just cram jammed in there, so there's a bit of chaos here and there. It's a massive playlist and I'm still adding to it because I'm still toiling away on this fic. I've listened to all of these songs so much. Right now my favorite is Once I'm Gone by Finnegan Tui. It's so vibes, and so Simon. 90% of the songs on the playlist are about this Simon. Then there's The Wolven Storm from the Witcher soundtrack, which feels so perfect for their romance. Especially the part of the story I'm writing right now.

A song I love for this chapter specifically is Grow by FACESOUL. Oh and an old favorite, Somewhere Only We Know. If there ever were a song that gave me nostalgia …

If I don't say it enough, your kudos and comments mean the world to me. I appreciate every one of them. And just knowing you're reading along, sharing in this experience with me. Posting this fic has made the hard times a little easier. ♡ ♡

Chapter 5: The Ruin

Age Twenty-Five

The yew grove hasn’t changed much since Simon was a boy. The realisation unsettles him. It’s the same patchy grass, twisting wreaths of branches, and shivering patterns of pale dawn light dappling the ground. It’s wrong, somehow, that this place should remain untouched, as if it hasn’t noticed how the world has shifted irreparably around it.

He’d never intended to return here. He wouldn’t have come within spitting distance of castle grounds if he’d had any other choice.

Simon knows, though, that once he crosses the threshold into the Wood, he is unlikely to ever return. Not if he succeeds. So, he needs as much information on Davy's spell as it's possible to get before he goes.

There are precious few people left alive that knew Davy back when he was making all his clever fucking plans. Even fewer with intimate knowledge of them. One such man has been locked up in the castle dungeons for the past six years. Getting past the guards and into the underground cells hadn’t been easy. But it’d been worth it. Despite Penny's insistence that her brother knew nothing, he'd given Simon exactly what he needed.

Perhaps he believed that if he told Simon the true cost of what he was seeking, it would be enough to make him turn back—to see reason. He has no idea what Simon is willing to bleed for.

All Simon needs now is to leave this place for good.

Simon’s breath mists in the chill air of early morning. A grey cloud that glints orange as it rises through a strip of dawning light. The first chirps of birdsong, thrush and wren, cut through the still and the quiet as he winds through the gnarled, reaching trees with ease. The path should lead him to the high outer wall—to a yew that grew so close to it the branches touched the stone, twisting into the gaps of mortar. The highest limbs once blotted out the sun, arching over the wall and spilling down the other side.

As a boy, those same branches had been his footholds, steady enough to carry him safely over.

What Simon finds instead is a ruin. 

The yew’s once sturdy branches are cut down to jagged stumps, none substantial enough to serve the purpose they once had—or any purpose at all. He’d snapped one in half when he was fifteen, watching it dangle there over numerous winters, stubborn in the face of clumsy human hands. That branch has been cut with the rest of them.

Simon stares at the damage, his hand clenching around the hilt of his sword. He draws it from its sheath as if he might drive the blade into the tree’s wounded heart. Put it out of its misery.

Before he moves, a hand takes him by the shoulder. Simon responds immediately, grabbing them by the wrist, wrenching and twisting it forward as he turns. The tip of his sword is thrust against the intruder’s stomach, their arm held at a sharp, painful angle. Simon’s grip is unyielding.

“Not much has changed, has it, Snow?” The man’s voice is far too calm for someone a twitch away from being gutted. 

Simon finally looks at him, his cold blue eyes meeting a too-familiar grey. Despite the casual tone, Simon can read genuine fear in those eyes.

“Dev,” he growls. “Why are you here?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that same question?” Dev says, dropping his voice. “Malcolm might have absolved you and allowed you life and freedom—not that you've done much with either—but I recall the terms were very specific regarding your presence here. ‘You’re not to return under pain of death,’ I believe he said.”

“So you’ll be the one to kill me?”

Dev sticks him with a hard look, pinching his thin mouth in a thinner line. Simon avoids his eyes.

After a long moment, Dev finally sighs, “No.”

“No?”

“No. I’m not here to kill you, Simon Snow. And unless you’re dead set on killing me, I’d ask you to kindly let me go. We both know I cannot best you with a fucking sword.”

Simon briefly squeezes the hilt of his sword, leaning in and relishing the sink of the blade against the thick material of Dev's doublet. Dev is hardly breathing. His stomach rises and falls shallowly beneath the sharp edge. 

“How did you find me?”

“You’re not as covert as you think.” Dev’s voice is tight through his sneer. “You were seen leaving the dungeons. You’re lucky the squire didn’t recognise you.”

“And so you chased after the faceless intruder yourself?”

“Let’s say I had a feeling.”

Simon narrows his eyes, taking in Dev’s expression. He’s not like the rest of his family. Not as good a liar. As much as he hates it, Dev’s always been more like Simon himself: brash and impassioned. Too cocksure to be subtle. Right now, his discomfort is written across his pale face. But there’s no deceit there. No malice.

Simon stares down at the blade. At the reflections of green and gold, trembling as a cold wind rushes through the trees. For a moment, he doesn’t move, his breath coming slow and steady as he weighs the risks of letting go. Dev’s pulse is a hammer against Simon’s palm. 

One of the last times Simon saw Dev's face, he’d been openly weeping. Dust and grime had clung to his wet cheeks, eyes sunken as if he hadn’t slept in days. 

They’d never grown to care for each other, but in the moment their eyes met, they’d understood each other. 

Simon exhales, lowering the blade until its tip brushes the ground. His fingers slacken just enough to let Dev wrench his wrist free.

Dev steps back, holding his arm to his chest. He rubs at his wrist as if to chase away the lingering ache, the bruise of Simon’s fingertips. Then he squeezes it. Simon doesn’t miss the faint tremor in his hand—or the way Dev struggles to meet his gaze.

“You may not be allowed here, Snow,” he says as he looks Simon over warily from beneath his furrowed brow, “but news of you certainly never lets up. I’ve heard all sorts of sordid things about you.”

“Your lot don't have better things to talk about?”

“Better than the golden boy’s fall from grace?”

“Fuck you. You of all people should be grateful,” Simon snarls, raising his sword again. 

“I am,” Dev bites back. It’s loud enough that a fat, twittering thrush flees the branches overhead, rustling the leaves. “I am grateful, which is why I’m not here to kill you or drag you in front of our weak-hearted King. If whatever you’re doing here hurts him, he deserves it.”

“Then why come find me at all?”

“Because someone who cared for you would never forgive me if I let you get hurt—even by your own foolish hand.”

Simon flinches. Someone. The name hangs between them—the one neither of them can say. It’s a rope around his neck, a fist in the centre of his chest. It’s cold and tight and cavernous. Simon looks away from Dev, fingernails cutting lines into his palm.

Then his eyes fix once more on the ruined yew. His only way out.

“After the coup, Malcolm had the grounds stripped of any means of escape,” Dev explains.

“Your uncle destroyed one of the yews.” 

“He is no longer my uncle. We have no remaining blood ties.”

“The King, then. He desecrated it. He wouldn’t have dared six years ago.”

“Well, he dares now, and he’s done worse. All in the effort to keep what remains of his family ‘safe’,” Dev sneers.

Malcolm Grimm keeping his family ‘safe’. Simon would laugh at the idea if it didn’t turn his stomach.

“This was my only way over the wall,” Simon says. 

“Not quite. There’s still a way out—one the guards don’t know about. Only myself, Niall, and—” He pauses and fixes his gaze on the sharp edge of Simon’s blade, still angled toward him. “Only we knew the way. I can show you if you’d stop pointing that in my direction.”

Simon squeezes the hilt. His arm doesn’t shake.

“Fine,” he says. “You lead. And don’t call me Snow.”

Simon and Dev make their way along the wall, the long shadows cast by the rising sun shielding them from any prying eyes. The grounds are the crisp quiet of early morning. They walk mostly in tense silence, pausing only when they reach a break in the trees between the grove and the castle gardens.

With the view suddenly unobscured by a canopy of leaves, Simon’s eyes lift to the tallest tower, its stark stone walls veined with twisted, leafless vines. The black hollow of the highest window. He thinks of it as a pit. As a sinkhole. As dark water. Something that would inevitably pull him under. It drops his heart to his stomach. It fills him with such an intense and sudden urge to climb his way inside it that he seeks out the ivory handle of the knife in his belt. Not to draw it out, but as a tether. It’s a solid, steady weight.

Simon swallows hard and finally forces himself to look down, staring instead at his feet.

“Why would you risk coming back here?” Dev asks. “After all this time?”

“I was owed answers.”

“Well that clears things right up. What answers might you be seeking in the dungeons?”

Simon picks up his pace to cross the vast open space before the gardens. Dev follows quietly until they’re tucked behind overgrown shrubbery. Sharply pronged leaves prick at their necks. Then, Dev’s hand comes around his bicep, holding him back. Simon bristles at the contact.

“What answers are worth your life?” Dev asks, harsher.

“What did you say before? That you’d heard all sorts of ‘sordid things’ about me? You should know I’m no stranger to risking my life. Unnecessarily or not.”

“I’ve certainly heard that you’re merciless. Possibly suicidal. Is it true that you take any employment without discernment? You, the fucking best of us. Simon Snow—brave, relentless, and idealistic to a fault.”

“And what good did any of it do me?” Simon seethes. He finally jerks out of Dev’s grip, shoving a hand into his too-long hair, his fingers snagging on knots. 

“Fuck, you know he wouldn’t want—”

One glance into Simon’s cold, furious eyes, and the words die on Dev’s noble tongue. 

“You should know I’ve heard more than tales of your mercenary work,” Dev continues, quieter. “People talk of you frequenting the brothel. They say you only seek the company of other men.”

“Is that so?” Simon asks, his voice empty. “What else do they say, Dev? Do they talk about how I’ve lowered myself? How I’m shameless? Perverted?” 

“Simon—”

“Do they talk about how I’m always the one on my knees, or is that too much?”

For once in his life, Dev is speechless.

Simon thinks he might have once cared if anyone were to find out. To see those parts of him on public display. All that fucking ruin. But there are worse things than bored nobles wiling away their time talking about who the deposed heir of David Cadwallader lets fuck him.

Dev doesn’t say a word as he steps in front of Simon, leading him down the worn garden path. He doesn’t have to ask Simon to follow.

The garden is immaculately tended as it always was, but a late spring chill has wrung the life from the newly budding flowers. They wilt, their gold and pink petals less vibrant than the ones in his memory. Everything is more vibrant in his memory. The roses persist, though. They reach their way through thorny branches. Blood red.

Dev breaks the silence first. “I don’t care who you bed or whose blood you’ve spilt, but I care what it’s cost you.”

Simon huffs a laugh. “Why?”

“You know why, Snow. After it all went to hell, nearly everyone around me just buried their grief and waited for the world to forget—but you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t hold your tongue.”

What he means is Simon broke himself on the cold tiles of the castle floor. Begging the King for a pittance. For nothing. Nothing more than a chance to ease some of his suffering. He hadn’t known to demand more.

He’ll take it now.

“I came back here because Malcolm and his ilk kept the truth of what Davy did from me,” Simon admits. “And now that I know, I can’t rest.”

For a moment, Dev says nothing. He searches Simon’s face. For what, Simon can’t be sure. 

Then, he smiles—a small, brittle thing—and says, “You weren’t the only one they lied to.”

They make it to the far northeast edge of the outer wall just as the sun has peaked over it. The area has been poorly tended to, overgrown with weeds and withered flower bushes. Dry, twiggy branches snap as Simon follows Dev through the mess.

“How long have you known the truth?” Simon asks.

Dev exhales sharply. “A few months. They did their damndest to keep it from anyone who might not be perfectly content to let it lie. They were concerned about what I’d do if I found out—and they’d have done anything to keep it from you. But there are records. And I am still a Pitch.”

“Months?” Simon stops abruptly, and Dev turns to face him. “And what did you do in all that time?”

Dev avoids the question, his eyes scanning the shadowed path ahead. “How did you find out?”

Simon looks away. The past six years are mostly a grey haze—a fog he can’t escape. But this he remembers in perfect detail.

A month ago, Penny came to him. It’d been weeks since his last job, and he can’t sit well with the quiet. He can’t be with anyone, and he can’t be alone. She found him on the ground by the foot of his bed in a puddle of sick, spilt mead a sticky patch on the wood floor. She washed him up without a word. She put him in clean clothes and tried to work the knots out of his hair. When she was done, she moved to touch a bruise on his cheek, and Simon finally flinched away from her. 

He saw the way it hurt her. The way he kept hurting her.

“Simon,” she said, clenching her outstretched hand. “I have to tell you something. Just promise me you’ll be calm.”

“Penelope told me,” Simon says.

Dev nods, a wry twist to his mouth. “And who do you think told her?”

“You?”

“Don’t act surprised, I do have a heart. You inspire quite a lot of loyalty for someone who’s so deadset on ensuring you end up completely alone. I’m not sure I would have ever found out if not for your girl and her love for you. I’ve never met someone so stubborn and single-minded. Or clever—she is clever.”

Simon bites the inside of his cheek. “Still. Why not find me yourself?”

“And risk being caught?” he scoffs. “No. Let’s not pretend I’ve ever been brave.”

Simon startles at a sudden crush of leaves at his back. He spins and gets an arm around the intruder’s neck before they have time to take another step. He holds their body against his, back to front.

“Simon—no!”

The person scrabbles at Simon’s arm, trying to get him to loosen his grip. Nails scrape at the exposed skin of his wrist. Simon only squeezes harder, his crescent knife already clutched in his other hand, blade pressed beneath their ribs. They’re panting and shaking against his chest.

“Snow, let him go.” Dev’s voice cracks. It’s more fraught than when he was the one at the end of Simon’s blade. His eyes are watery and wide, hands raised in shaking surrender. “Please let him go. Please. He—he’s not here to hurt you.”

“Then why is he here? What is all this?” Simon growls, pressing the knife in harder. The man in his arms gasps and stills. “I’m not a man you want to fuck with.”

“Simon, it’s all right,” the man says, tremulous but gentle. Simon knows his voice. He knows. Knows his narrow shoulders and copper hair.

“This isn’t all right,” Dev snaps. “Niall, please—” 

“I’m just here to help,” Niall continues. “I’m with Dev. Both of us just want to help.”

“Help?” Simon barks. “How?”

“Please …” Dev tries to take a step forward, and Simon jerks back. “Fuck, Snow. If you don’t let him go—”

“Dev. Stop. Simon isn’t going to hurt me.”

Simon tightens his hold. “How do you know?”

“Because,” Niall says with so much tender conviction, “you know we loved him, too.” 

God.

Simon … he shakes his head. He tries to breathe through his teeth. 

They loved him, too. Loved. Loved. 

He can’t hear over the pounding of his own heart. The knife is shaking in his clenched fist. He can’t move. He knows he needs to move. He knows, but all his muscles are locked tight—his body aches.

It’s only the gentle way Niall whispers to Dev, “Darling, it’s all right,” that makes Simon finally drop his arms.

Dev is on Niall in an instant, hands on his neck, tipping his head back and looking him over. 

“Fuck,” Dev mutters, pushing his hands into Niall’s hair. “Why did you come?”

Niall shakes his head. “I told you not to go alone.”

Dev exhales shakily, and whispers, “Bastard.” 

Simon looks away. At his hands. His white knuckles. The blade.

He expects Niall to move away from him—to run away—but he doesn’t. He turns to face him. He places a warm hand on Simon’s neck. Not tenderly, but with a firm, steady grip. Simon’s first instinct is to knock it away, to shove him off. Instead, he shuts his eyes and tries—once again—to breathe.

“Are you all right?” Niall asks.

Simon laughs—one hollow sound. 

When he looks up, there’s a cold threat in Dev’s eyes. Dev stands just behind Niall with a hand on his waist. His thumb brushes over the side laces of Niall’s doublet, a soothing, unconscious motion. Back and forth. Simon fixates on it. He never knew about them. Never even suspected. 

He wonders if all of their touches are this easy. He wonders how much they have to hide.

He clutches the cold hilt of the knife in his shaking fist and wonders, darkly, what Dev would have done if he hadn’t let Niall go.

“You’re not helping me out of some misplaced sense of loyalty, Dev,” Simon says, finally. “It’s time to tell me what you actually want.”

The look in Dev’s eyes shifts to something harder and more resolved. Like he’s come to the edge, and all that’s left is to jump. 

“If you are seeking what I think you are, all I want is to make sure you succeed. Whatever comes of it.”

Simon lets out a breath; he leans in. “Do you know how to open the door?”

"The door to—"

"Yes."

"I don't," Dev says. "But I know how to find out."

The three of them stand at a gash in the stone wall. 

It’s meant to be Simon’s escape. His only true remaining option. Time and disuse have left it obscured by overgrown, thorny bushes. 

Without hesitation—without words—Simon reaches out. He plunges his left hand into the tangle of thorns, grasping them thoughtlessly in his fist, needles scraping and sinking into his palm. It draws sticky, warm blood, but it’s a distant ache compared to the withering cold that pushes from his chest and out through his fingers.

“What are you—” Niall starts, but he quiets as the plant shrivels under Simon’s grip.

The magick comes to Simon without resistance. Without thought. It eats away at the green and red until all that’s left is dull, lifeless brown. The stems brittle and curl in on themselves until they’re weak enough to crumble, and Simon clears them away with his bleeding hand and the stomp of his boots.

Dev sucks in a breath, but no one says a word.

Simon hesitates before he moves to fit himself through the dark, narrow space. He takes in the castle grounds one last time. The black silhouette of the yew grove against the rising sun. The reaching tower. The black pit of the highest room. 

He looks at Niall. At Dev. They were never friends, but in this they understand one another. 

Simon’s intact hand lingers in the air, caught between instinct and doubt. Finally, he holds it out. For a brief moment, he meets Dev Pitch’s storm-grey eyes—wary, guarded, and painfully familiar. 

Dev reaches back.

Chapter 6: The Rift

Notes:

There's a song in this chapter. This is the song.

Age Fifteen

I haven’t seen Baz in weeks. 

It’s been long enough that even sparring can’t distract me from his absence. During today’s training, I kept looking over my shoulder foolishly hoping to see him pass by. Someone got a lucky hit because of my distraction, the crack of the waster leaving my shoulder sore and bruised. I rub at it now, digging my thumb into the ache as I make my way across the grounds.

We finished relatively early this afternoon, and if Lord David were here, he would likely tell me to practise on my own. But he isn’t. He used to attend all my sparring sessions, but lately he’s been too busy. Distracted by his counsel duties, he says. The endless meetings. 

Today’s appointment will continue until sunset, giving me a rare chance to search the grounds for one elusive prince.

It’s been harder to see each other, admittedly. Ever since Baz broke his nose in the early spring, we’ve had to be careful. 

It happened as we tried to cross the creek that cuts through the yew grove. Baz slipped on a mossy stone, tumbling headfirst into the icy shallows. For a moment my heart seized as blood coloured the water beneath his head. It seemed like so much at the time—too much. Too red. It was hardly better when he turned his face up from the stream. I couldn’t tell how much of the mess was tears, or water, or blood, all of it winding together and dripping over his mouth. 

I held his chin, my hand shaking as I wiped his face gingerly with my sleeve. Then I walked him back to the courtyard.

His father, King Malcolm, was quietly furious. His Aunt Fiona, less quietly. Seeing the blood on my hand and sleeve, they both immediately assumed I hurt Baz on purpose. Lord David stepped between us as Baz assured them—wincing through the pain of it—of my innocence. He didn’t shrink at his father’s cold appraisal, but he did turn his eyes to the ground. 

As the King led Baz inside, I couldn’t help but stare at him. At the horrible purple bruise blooming beneath his watery eyes. The stain of blood on his skin, blotchy and pink between his mouth and nose. 

I wanted to follow, but Lord David held me back. He turned me toward the exit. 

We try to avoid seeing each other openly on castle grounds, but the Wood is still ours. We always find each other there. Since becoming friends, we’ve hardly gone a few days without each other. A few weeks feel like a lifetime.

“Simon!”

I turn to spot Penny striding toward me, her curly brown hair wild and tossing in the breeze. She usually starts the day with her hair plaited or pinned back, but by the afternoon it’s always like this. It sends her mum into fits.

Penny comes to a stop in front of me, hands on her wide hips.

“Hi, Pen—”

“Where have you been? Are you actively avoiding me? Gareth—of all people—had to tell me where you were.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes. And he’s wearing that dreadful codpiece again. I swear it was pointing right at me the entire time.” She jabs her pointed finger at my stomach in demonstration. I knock her hand away and she replaces it with the other hand, jabbing harder.

“Hey! Stop that. I was just looking for Ba—uh, Prince Basil. Have you seen him?”

“No, I haven’t seen Baz,” she teases. “Haven’t you?”

I drop my hands. “No. Not since the solstice.” 

“Oh. That long?”

I nod. The last time we were together, it was in the Wood. Golden-hour sunlight caught the edges of his hair. He was trying to hold that stern expression, but it cracked the moment I lifted the cloth to find a basket of fresh sour cherry tarts. 

“For your birthday, Snow,” he said, “since I know you can never get enough of these. Perhaps it’ll allow Cook Pritchard a few days of peace.” 

I nearly knocked him over in my rush to hug him. His hair smelled of peeled fruit, his nose cold on my neck and his quiet laugh rustling my collar as he hugged me back.

“That’s unusual,” Penny continues. “If he were ill, I’d have heard of it.”

I hadn’t considered that. That he could be sick. Or hurt. Or something worse. Why hadn't I thought of that? I was only worried he might be avoiding me.

“When was the last time you saw him?” I ask.

“A week, perhaps? I’m truly not sure. I don’t follow him around the way you do.”

“I don’t follow him around.”

She raises both eyebrows pointedly, and I sigh, stalking past her as my eyes scan the grounds. If she wants to talk, she’ll follow.

There’s nothing in the gardens except the familiar fat spirals of English roses. The courtyard is quiet, too. When we check the stables, Baz is nowhere to be found, but his inky black horse, Nightmare, is there. She’s brushed to a fine shine and her mane is full of delicate braids. He must have been here. Baz prefers to groom her himself. King Malcolm isn’t much for tenderness, but he gifted Baz that horse two summers ago—broken and trained by his own hand—and Baz dotes on her.

“You know, I did want to do more than chase you around today,” Penny gripes as I lead her in yet another direction. 

I shake my head and push a hand into my hair. “Yeah?”

“Yes, Si—wait, hold a moment!” She jogs to follow me as I veer us off the path and into the yew grove. 

I should’ve checked here first. He might just be tucked away, face buried in a book. In perfect health and sorry for his weeks of distance.

“You’re exhausting,” Penny says, breathless, once she’s caught up again. “I have enough to deal with, you know. Mum and dad have been arguing for days. It’s driving me mad.”

“It’s that bad?”

“Yes. They never fight.”

“That can’t be true—”

“They don't. Truly. Not like this.”

“Why are they fighting now?”

“It’s …” Penny pauses, and then she says, unusually hesitant, “Mum’s just worried, I suppose. She's insisting there’s talk of ‘treason’.”

“Treason?” I gape down at her, finally slowing.

“Well, some of the nobility are losing faith in the King and Queen.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s not ‘treason’ to question them.”

“It sort of is.”

Huffing, I pick up my pace again. 

“You know who’s leading the charge, Simon,” she shouts after me. “Holding all these ‘unofficial meetings’, defaming the Old Families and promising council seats that aren’t within his power to give.”

I shake my head, turning toward a narrow shaft of light between the trees. Penny double-steps to keep up.

“I mean it,” Penny says. “All he’s done is further destabilize the nobility and put off those in power who might have actually heard his concerns.”

“What, like your mum?”

“My mum just spent a month drafting a proposal for fairer grain distribution—in fact, Davy’s open disdain toward the Old Families and their greed is partly why her proposal was ignored. They're too proud.”

“You can’t know that's the reason. Not for sure.”

“You’re missing the point,” she says. “She’s hardly a traditionalist.”

“Yes, but she’s also not on his side.”

“Simon, his methods actively undermine his aims. He refuses to engage with incremental reform, actively embitters the Old Families to his concerns, all while riling up those that feel slighted in secret. Change can’t possibly happen without open discussion.”

“Hells. You sound just like your mum.”

“And you sound like Davy.”

I exhale sharply. “I hate it when you call him that. And good, I’m glad I sound like him. He’s right. The council won’t even hear him when he does speak openly—he’s silenced at every turn.” 

“Perhaps if he could temper himself—”

“The council is meant to be the voice of the people, yes? But it’s not. There’s no discussion. Hardly anyone outside of the Old Families hold seats.”

“I know that, Simon. Better than most.”

“Then you know the rest of us are powerless—”

“Simon.”

“—I mean, just, just look at me, Pen. Where would I be if not for Lord David? Without him I was—I am nothing—”

“No. Stop saying that. You’re not—” 

“It’s true,” I say emphatically, and her expression drops. “Who else would’ve given me a place to belong? What chance would I have had?”

“I understand what he’s done for you,” Penny says carefully. “But the balance of power is only one of many things he’s concerned with.”

Clenching my fist in my hair, I turn away from her. I can’t do this—not right now. 

Instead, I step into a subdued patch of sunlight, most of it diffused behind darkening clouds, and then pause in front of the high outer wall. There's a yew that’s grown up against it. It leans as if in an embrace, its lush, curved branches laddering the wall, following the paths of mortar between the grey stones. My gaze trails up the crooked trunk—it wouldn’t be difficult to climb.

“Simon,” Penny says quietly, settling at my side. She presses her shoulder into mine. “The things mum says he’s proposing? It’s dangerous. I just—it’s not just about fairness, though I know you wish it were. There are reasons certain things are the way they are. It protects people.”

“What does that mean? What people, Pen? What protection?”

“What happens when we fill the council with people who have no experience, or stretch our meager resources thin? Should we allow—”

“Resources? Like medicine and food, you mean?”

“Well we don’t have an endless supply. Without some regulation, all of us suffer.”

I shake my head. “The nobles keep more than their fair share, while the royal family risks our safety going past the border for their game. People like me have suffered for it—starved for it. Lord David wants to change that. So should you.”

“I do, I truly do. But he might—” Penny cuts herself off, biting her lip as she searches my face. Then she says, slowly, “My mum believes he wants power. If that’s right, it is treason.”

“He’s not in this for power.”

“Everyone wants power. And what would it mean if he succeeds? For my family—for your future—for Baz since he’s all you seem to care about. What do you think your prince would say to all this?”

My—the Prince would have a lot to say. If he were here. 

Damn him. I turn back to the dark cover of trees. My eyes pass over the empty grove again as the wind stirs the browning grass. It’s as if there’s a band around my chest. It’s getting tighter.

“So—what? Your parents completely disagree with Lord David?” I ask, trying to shake the feeling off.

Her shoulders slump. “Well, no. Mum and dad are hardly on the same page about it,” she mutters. “That’s why they’re fighting. And now that Premal’s old enough to petition for a council seat, he’s getting involved too. A lot of the lesser nobles support some sort of reform. Dad—well, he can’t hold a seat himself, but now Davy’s speeches have him all stirred up. He thinks this is a rare chance for real change, and he and Mum haven't stopped shouting at each other since.”

“Well there, exactly. That’s what we’re fighting for—what Lord David is fighting for. People shouldn’t be denied a voice because they were born with less.”

“I just don't think it’s that simple. I know things need to change, but tradition can’t be done away with overnight. There’d be chaos. Who do you think would suffer most? Not the nobility.”

“I—” I start, not quite knowing how I’ll finish. All I can hear is Lord David telling me, “Tradition is just another word for control.” 

I exhale. “What do you expect from me?”

“I don't know—a modicum of cynicism? And—well …” Penny bites her lip. “You do have Lord David’s ear.”

I bark a laugh. “What? No. He wouldn’t listen to me, even if I wanted to—which I don’t.”

“Things are shifting, Simon. It’s only whispers now, but they are. And now Baz is avoiding you. Do you think it's a coincidence?”

“That’s not it,” I say, too quickly. “Baz wouldn’t stay away over something like that.”

“Over politics? You don't know. He’s a prince, Simon. He is the prince. He’s not like you or me.”

“I know who he is, Penny,” I snap.

I close my eyes, scrubbing a hand up the back of my neck, and inhale slowly, the air thick with the promise of rain. I listen. There’s only Penny shifting from foot to foot, the faintest shiver of pine needles in the stilling breeze, the distant murmur of voices from the courtyard. I open my eyes again and find the grove is eerie in its stillness. 

It’s a dead end. All of it.

“I don’t think he’s here,” I say.

Penny sticks me with a frowning, impatient expression that reminds me of Baz. “God above. I’m surprised you have time to have opinions on the royals beyond your prince.”

“He’s not mine,” I say, kicking at the dry leaves underfoot. He’s really not.

“Hm,” is all Penny says in reply.

We turn back. The sun is getting low, anyway, and storm clouds have begun to roll in to blanket the sky in puffs of black and grey. I won’t find him today. The realisation settles uncomfortably in my churning stomach.

But then, as we close in on the main path, I can make out the hum of distant laughter.

It only grows louder as we approach, soon mixing with the sound of low voices and footsteps over packed earth. When we break through the line of the trees, I turn my head toward the noise and there’s Lady Agatha. And Baz. Arm in arm, lost in what looks like comfortable conversation. 

Agatha’s pale, slender hand drapes over Baz’s, a thumb at the split velvet burgundy sleeve of his jacket. I’ve touched him there, my own hands rough and clumsy, leaving streaks of dirt he quietly wipes away.

She leaves no marks.

Penny tugs at my sleeve. “Oh, Agatha and her Lady mother are visiting again.”

“Again?” I ask, unable to peel my eyes away from them. The way Agatha leans in, tilting her head up to look at him, her loose hair rippling like gold silk in the breeze. The way he doesn’t move away. I’ve never seen Baz like this. He’s rarely alone with anyone but me. 

“Yes. She was here only a few weeks ago. Well, perhaps he’s been busy with her. I heard he’s declared his intention to court her.” 

“His—he what? When?”

My heart is in my stomach. The rising, unsteady beat of it rattles my ribs.

“I heard of it just after the solstice. Agatha wouldn't budge on details aside from the fact that her mother is overjoyed at the match. I can understand why—to be courted by royalty in spite of her father’s humble standing. The Prince must truly love her.”

“Must he?” The words come out a flat whisper.

How could I not know that he loved someone? How could he not tell me? 

He’s never even spoken of her, or turned his head when she walked by. I would have seen it if he had. I know him better than anyone. 

I would know—

I should—

Penny tugs me again. Harder. “Simon? Perhaps we should go.” Her voice has that careful, measured tone she uses when she knows I’m getting worked up. But I don’t turn around. I can’t.

Baz's shoulders are low, his mouth tipped in a soft smile. He looks comfortable—mostly—except for his eyes. They’re a little distant, a little flat. 

I stare at them like the intensity of it might draw his attention.

Thunder rolls in the distance, and—as if I’ve willed it into reality—Baz’s eyes are suddenly on mine. They’re wide beneath his dark, turned up brow. His body is drawn as taut as a string on his vielle. His jaw ticks, and for a moment it seems his lips might part—like he might say something. Explain this. Explain himself. But he doesn’t. 

And I know I should smile. I should be happy for him. For them both.

Agatha is beautiful and they look beautiful together, side by side. The pale rose of her gown is perfectly complemented to the deep red of his. They are both elegant, poised, well-read.

He must love her and so I should smile. Even though this is no reason to avoid me. Or lie to me. 

I should smile.

I try.

He doesn’t return it. His grey eyes pinch before he turns his face from mine. 

My heart hammers in my throat. In my palms. A single raindrop hits my face, sliding down my cheek. Penny’s saying something, but I can’t focus on it, I can’t be here anymore. Without a word, I stalk in the other direction. Away from them. Him. Baz, who turned away like we don’t mean anything to each other.

It starts to rain in earnest as I make my way toward the gate. 

I don’t know how long I sit there in front of the hearth—smoke stinging my eyes raw and watery—before the main door to the estate slams shut. A rush of humid, stormy air followed by the shudder of hollow wood. It muffles the drum of rain. Only slightly louder is the echo of Lord David’s footsteps moving far too briskly down the long passage.

When he says my name, his voice is sharp enough to carry over the din. 

“Simon?” 

“In here,” I return, automatically. 

I stay hunched over, elbows braced on my knees, hardly doing more than to dig and scrape my nail against the pad of my pointer finger, or to twist my gold ring until the skin beneath it is rubbed raw. I want to move. I should move to stand for his arrival. Urgency buzzes under my skin, but I’m rooted. I’m made of lead. 

It’s only when the clatter of his boots crosses the threshold from the stone passage to the hollow wood floors of the hall that something in me finally unlocks. 

I turn my head up to Lord David just as he enters. He’s frowning. Not in his usual stern, controlled way, but more like despite his best efforts he can’t seem to make his face do anything else. He advances quickly, closing the distance in overlong strides. 

When he stops in front of me, I sit up straight and fist my hand to stop my fidgeting.

“What happened?” he asks. “Lady Mitali’s daughter let me know you’d left in a rush. You've never left without me.”

“Apologies, my Lord,” I say quietly. It makes him frown harder, so I cut my eyes away.

“You’ve reached an age that you can come and go as you please, within reason, but I expect—” He stops himself abruptly, and I look back. His expression has dropped. It's less angry, more … concerned? His brow lowers as he carefully looks me over. At my mussed hair, probably. My blotchy cheeks. Baz says I go scarlet when I’m upset.

“Something happened today,” he says. “Tell me.”

I shake my head. “Nothing—nothing important.”

“Is that so?” 

Lord David’s blue eyes narrow. He stares at me for a moment longer before he brings a hand up to his face, rubbing at his lightly stubbled jaw, his thin moustache drooping with the downturn of his lips. I watch the divot in the centre of his chin—a hard line like the nick of a knife.

He turns away before I have to answer, and I let out a breath. 

I can’t tell him what’s wrong. Even if it didn’t involve Baz, it’d still be impossible to find the words for why I’m so cut up about it. 

Penny was right about Baz—about us. He’s different from me. Baz is made for silk and velvet and courtly love while I’m made for leather, sweat and blood. Perhaps one day steel and iron as well, but that’s all. That’s all I should ever need or want.

I twist my ring over and over. The skin pulls. 

Damn the Prince and his secrets. Damn his silence. He knows how this must feel, doesn’t he? He has to.

My eyes sting and water, and I blink rapidly to clear them. My cheeks are too damned hot from the open flame. There’s a leak in the chimney and rain keeps dripping onto the burning wood, sending smoke piling out of the hearth so my every breath is tinged with ash. I’m focusing so hard on the tightness in my chest that I’m surprised to hear wood scraping the floor as Lord David pulls up a chair beside me.

He hands me a mug of mead, settling down with one of his own. He motions for me to drink, and so I do. It’s good. It heats my chest on the way down. We drink in silence for long enough that my thoughts begin to dull and bleed together.

“It was suggested that you might have been upset at the news of the Princeling’s courtship,” the Lord says, finally.

“What?” I straighten. Would Penny tell him that?

“Ah. So it’s true. I didn’t realise the young Lady Wellbelove had drawn your eye.”

I stare at him, even more lost for words. Because she … I mean. Anyone with eyes could see her beauty, trees might even bend her way, but—

“I suppose I can see why,” he continues. “Her mother is a silly woman, but incredibly wealthy and well-connected. She married beneath her station and suffered barely any consequence. The Lady would make a good match for you. And it would not do for you to be heartsick.”

“No, I—no,” I sputter, setting my mug down before I spill the drink in my lap. “I-I’ve never even spoken to her. She is—I am—” I nearly tell him I don’t want her. I’m not heartsick. But what comes out is, “I’m the lowest of everyone at court. She would not choose me. She cannot, even if she wanted.”

It’s not Agatha’s face in my mind when I say these things.

“Don’t speak that way, Simon. You are going to be a knight and you remain my ward. Perfectly worthy of a notable marriage.”

“She’s being courted by royalty,” I say quietly.

Lord David’s brow lowers. “I believe the Wellbeloves are overreaching. Their ambition will outpace their sense soon enough.”

I don’t know what to say to that. I can’t imagine anyone seeing Baz as a mistake. Or a bad match. He’s perfect. 

I mean, not perfect. He’s arrogant and headstrong. Biting. Frustratingly defensive, especially when he’s most affected. And he is so affected. He can’t hide any of it. Not from me.

I find myself nodding, though. Lord David might have it completely wrong, but it’s rare for him to even attempt to comfort me. I can’t help but let some of it in, heating me from throat to stomach like a long sip of mead. I grab for my drink and bring it to my mouth. It’s dry and honey-sweet. 

When Lord David reaches for me, my heart jumps at the suddenness of it. He very lightly touches the hair at the top of my head. The whisper of it makes my skin prickle. I tense and almost lean into it in equal measure. 

“You’ve cut your hair short again,” he says.

“Yeah—um. Gets in my eyes when I train.”

He nods slowly. His brow is furrowed, his narrow eyes slightly glassy in the flickering firelight. The drink may have softened him as well. 

He’s finger-combing my curls to the side when I let myself relax. My eyes fall closed. My head tips into his hand, chasing the strange comfort of it. 

The effect on him is immediate. 

Lord David tenses, and then abruptly pulls away. His expression closes off so quickly it’s like the snuffing of a candle wick. Now he’s looking at me with that sternness I’ve come to expect, eyes as blue and pale as a winter storm. I sit taller.

“Be sure to communicate with me better in the future. I don’t have the time to worry over your whereabouts. I need to be able to trust you, Simon. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my Lord,” I whisper. My fingers curl in, nails digging into my palm to keep from touching my ring—from twisting it until my skin reddens.

I watch silently as he stands, barely glancing at me as he leaves for his chambers. Once I can no longer hear his footsteps I throw back the rest of my drink. Then I’m at the barrel to fill it again. Between the mead and the fire I’m sweltering. Sweat winds from my temple to my jaw, and I wipe at it with my hand. I run it through my hair.

I close my eyes and try to picture Agatha: Her beautiful face; her thin, curved, pink mouth; her round, golden-brown eyes. She’s everything a man should want.

But all I see is Baz. Turning away.

The mead puts me to sleep, but I twist and turn and wake no more than two hours later. Wrapped in sweat-soaked linens, my heart pounding so hard I’m surprised I can’t hear it over the ebbing storm. 

At least the weather has settled somewhat. My heart, less so. I lie in my bed, staring at my ceiling in the dim stillness, trying to focus my swimming, bleary vision. The bed seems to rock and sway beneath me. When I close my eyes, it’s like I’m adrift on the churning sea—my stomach roils with it—so I open them again. 

My eyes eventually adjust enough that I can make out the individual slats of wood above me. I stare. I breathe. I breathe again. 

I spend a few long, muzzy minutes trying to slow my heart enough to go back to sleep, but my body refuses to settle. 

Sighing, I push myself out of bed, stumbling toward my open window. At least I had the awareness to let the air in before passing out. When the damp, cool breeze hits my overheated skin, I shiver and grip the window frame. I lean out and a light, steady rain hits my face. My overheated skin could be steaming the way the hearth did.

The stars are barely peeking between the grey cloud cover, and they smear and wobble in the night sky. I blink until the distant lights shift blurrily into focus. It’s so dark. I can hardly make out the line that splits the horizon from the sky. I can’t see any of the paths I’ve worn between the estate and the Wood.

No one could blame me for seeking out the brightest light in the black. The castle tower is a beacon. It’s orange, warm and pulsing. Awake. 

Baz is awake.

God. I miss him. 

There it is. The truth of it. I miss him and I’m angry with him and I need to talk to him. I need to see him.

My feet are moving before my mind can catch up. I have enough sense to tug on my boots before nearly falling out of my window in my rush to leave—my rush to get to Baz and make him explain himself. 

I’ll make him tell me to my face that he doesn’t want to see me anymore. He doesn’t get to be a coward about this. He doesn’t get to give me a basket of tarts and then never speak to me again. Who would do that? Pretty, arrogant princes. No—petty. Petty and arrogant. Thoughtless. Disloyal, and, and I need to see him. 

I need to look at his pretty—petty face. Tell him so. That he’s a prig. 

That my chest hurts because of him.

I have to fight to keep my footing on the narrow outer ledge of the estate. Luckily I’ve done this before—left out my window to meet Baz in the Wood, or to simply get away. Usually not after so much mead, though. And not on a nearly starless night. I can hardly see my hands less than a foot from my face. 

I grip the window frame, teeth clenched, and dangle off the side of the house. The wide-open space behind and below pulls at me. I edge along the uneven stone, each movement slow and deliberate, until there’s a tree at my back. I pause only briefly before I leap into it. 

My hands slip once against the rough bark, the scrape biting into my palm as I clutch and dangle on a wide branch. I hold tight and kick my feet forward until I find my footing. Then I keep moving. Once I’m close to the bottom, I drop the final distance with a soft thud into the muddy earth. My vision swims for a moment and I stumble forward. 

Hells, am I still drunk? 

I curl over, hands braced on my thighs, sucking in air slowly through my nose against a rush of nausea. 

The breathing helps. A little. The air is chilled from the storm. A light rain still falls, soaking my thin cotton shirt until it clings to my shoulders and drips down my forearms. It collects in the mess of my hair. I try to shake it off, and I pay for it with another wave of nausea. I gag, spitting into the dirt. It tastes like metal.

Brilliant plan, this. 

Despite feeling foolish and unwell, when my dizziness finally subsides I turn myself toward the outer wall of Watford Castle. Toward the light in the tower. Toward Baz. 

I start running.

I’m halfway up the side of the tower when it dawns on me that I might have made a mistake.

These vines seemed much sturdier when I was on the ground. When I could still see the pruned hedges against the outer wall of the keep instead of a plunging column of grey stone disappearing into a black pit. Rainwater slides off the edge of my nose and is quickly swallowed up by the dark. 

My stomach drops with it. 

It’ll be a long way down. A lot of time to think. A lot of time to dread.

The muscles in my arms and shoulders are burning. My palms are raw. My head is still swimming from the drink, though I’m beginning to sober. I wish I weren’t. This was easier when there wasn’t so much space between thought and action. I press my forehead against the damp, chilled stone, closing my eyes. 

For a moment all I can hear is my own heavy breath. The light patter of rain and distant thunder. A whistle of wind. But then there’s something else—music? Music. A whisper of a song. ♬ It’s pretty and sad. Reminds me of the chants the nuns would sing back in the convent. A slow, deliberate, winding melody. Reverent. But, no. This isn’t reverent. Not in the way people are reverent to God. When people sing to God, it’s as if the song moves outward. It’s not for the singer—it seeks to be heard by the revered. 

This feels like something that moves inward. Like a secret that wants to be kept. 

I climb with renewed vigor, pulling myself up and up with shaking limbs. The vines, which had become more and more brittle the higher I climbed, seem to pulse and writhe, fat and alive against my palms. They stay true.

The sound is above me, and around me and inside of me. My eyes burn and my throat is clogged. As I close in on it, it becomes clear it’s an instrument, but it resonates like a small chorus of voices in an airy open room. The way some voices shudder through a note, that little wobble and variation. 

It’s Baz. Of course it is. I know it before I’ve pulled myself up onto the ledge of his window, braced on my elbows, the toes of my boots balanced on the lip of the tower wall.

I’ve never heard him play his vielle. 

I’ve never seen so much of his skin. 

He’s stood by the foot of his massive bed, lit in flickering orange candlelight. His feet are bare. His slender ankles, his calves—they’re covered in wisps of black hair. Like the hair on his arms, but thicker. His brown, fitted breeches only go down as far as his knees, and his linen shirt is open and too large, the muscles of his exposed shoulders shifting above his collarbone as he plays. 

His eyes are closed. His brow is pinched. His mouth is open as he sways with his music, as his long, deft fingers slide along the strings.

It’s beautiful. All of it. 

I can’t stop looking. 

I can’t stop the thrum of my heart, even as it drowns out the song. That’s for the best, because every mournful note makes me want to weep.

And then it abruptly stops.

It takes me a moment to register Baz’s eyes. They’re wide open, unblinking. And they’re on me. 

The shift from shock to anger happens like a whip-crack—immediate and stinging. He tosses his vielle to his bed before he stalks toward me, saying words like “foolish” and “reckless” and “what were you thinking?” and I flinch backward—

Backward—

Into nothing. Into open air. 

I pitch myself forward, chest slamming against the wood frame. Splinters dig into the pads of my fingers as I scrabble for something to grip. 

Then the window flies open and there are hands around my wrists. Warm hands and blunt nails digging into my numb, wet skin. I’m yanked into the room, and then I topple to the floor. I end up curled on my side, hands splayed across my chest as I gasp.

My heart’s racing. It only quickens as I stare up at him. At his pink, angry mouth and his—his throat. His exposed, heaving chest.

And what comes out of my mouth is, “You’re a prig.”

He gapes at me as if I've gone mad. And then, wordlessly, he conjures a pulsing ball of flame in his hand. He’s shaking. His fingers are stiff and claw-like, and for a second he seems furious enough to kill me. But then he points the fire toward the unlit hearth and, with a flourish, sets it alight. I wince away from the burst of heat.

“Dry yourself before you catch your death, Snow,” Baz snarls, turning away. Refusing to look at me. 

I drip water onto his polished stone floor and glare at the back of his head. 

“You’ve been avoiding me,” I say. I accuse.

His shoulders stiffen and he says nothing.

I push myself up to sit, braced on my palms, arms shaking and weak from the climb. “You have. I-I don’t hear you denying it.”

“What do you want me to say?” he asks icily.

“That you’re sorry.” My hands curl into fists. “That it was a mistake.”

“I—” He shakes his head. “And what of you? Coming here, climbing those god-forsaken vines in the midst of a storm. So you can, what, insult me? Fight with me? You could have fallen—you could have died. For what?”

“I didn’t fall.”

“That’s not the point!”

“You ignored me,” I say, louder. “You’ve never—never. The last time I saw you it was good, right? It was the way it’s always been. Then you disappeared. I was—I am … and then I saw …”

“You have no idea what you saw.”

“You’re in love with her, right?” The question comes out softer and far more pathetic than I mean it to. My hands are shaking. 

Baz finally turns to face me, and his eyes are clouded over. His cheeks are pale. He repeats, “You have no idea what you saw.”

“Then tell me.”

Baz closes his eyes, shakes his head, and heads wordlessly to his bed to collect his discarded vielle. 

Done with me, then. 

My face is flushed, and my eyes are burning, so I look down at my knees. My wet clothes are stuck to my skin. I try to peel them apart, and I am foolish, foolish, foolish. I shouldn’t have come. Something’s broken between us and this is just making it worse. I’m making it worse. 

So what if he’s happy with her and doesn’t want me anymore? I want him to be happy. I do.

But I’m not happy without him. I don’t know if I can learn to be.

I stare into the flames so I don’t stare at him. It sears bright, white light into my eyes that turns red when I blink them shut. The air is thick and so damned quiet that I’m startled at the soft padding of Baz’s bare feet as he comes closer. The air shifts as he settles down beside me. 

He doesn’t speak for a while. I don’t either. The fire pops and crackles. I fiddle with my ring, the metal overheated from the flame. It’s a brand on my fingertips. A drag on my already raw skin. When I finally chance a glance in his direction, I find him sat with his knees pulled to his chest, staring unblinking into the fire. His eyes shift like a million thoughts are spilling through his head at once. 

Then, without looking at me, he says, “Agatha and I are courting.”

It’s worse to hear it from his own mouth. My teeth grind together as I work the muscles in my jaw. I look away and say nothing.

“I didn’t know how to tell you.” 

“Seems a simple enough thing to say.”

He huffs tightly. “I didn’t want to tell you.”

“Why?”

“I don't—I can’t explain.”

“Why?”

“What does it matter? What does it matter whom I might marry, or that I don’t wish to speak of it? Why does it make you angry enough to risk a suicidal climb in the dead of night just to confront me? You overstep. You cannot demand or expect that I tell you everything.”

I laugh joylessly. “Can’t I? Hell and horrors, you—” I growl, spinning my ring faster and faster. “You’re impossible. You act as if you can do whatever you like and I should just stomach it. How wonderful it must be for you. To be so free.”

Baz shoves me hard enough that I list to the side. It sends the room spinning and I close my eyes against it. My head pounds.

“I can’t do what I like, Simon, that’s the point. I cannot choose my circumstance any more than you.”

“God, I am so sorry for you,” I spit. “Poor little privileged prince.”

He grabs my arm this time, choking my bicep. He doesn’t pull me close, but the strength of his grip tightens and relaxes like maybe he’d like to. Had it been anyone else’s hand, I’d have jerked away. With him, my muscles relax, though my heart doesn’t stop racing.

“What have I chosen for myself aside from my imprudent friendship with you?”

I scoff weakly. “Just tell me if you love her.”

His nails dig into my skin. His voice is carefully calm. “Tell me why you care. Why should this matter? Would you—” He falters. His hold slackens. “Would you prefer to court her yourself?”

My eyes shoot open, and then I’m staring back into his. Milky grey. Swimming in firelight. 

“No,” I say, watching his expression shift, his eyebrows lower. “No. I don’t want her. I want you … I, I want you not to avoid me or lie to me as if we haven’t told each other everything for years.”

“I don’t tell you everything,” he says quietly.

“Tell me if you love her.”

“Simon.”

I frown, and then I take the wrist of his gripping hand. I don’t push him away, or pull him close. I just hold it. His skin is smooth and colder than mine now, despite the fire. I keep my eyes locked on his.

“You think I have power in this?” he asks. “I don’t.”

“You always say this as if you aren’t the crown prince. You have everything you could need or want. Who aside from you has more power?”

“My family, Simon—the court, the country. They all demand that I marry, and I cannot say no. How can I say no?”

Right. Of course he must marry. Eventually, he needs heirs. He needs a queen by his side. It could have been any one of the ladies at court, or even someone from a neighboring kingdom whom he’s never even met. He could have had anyone. 

But it was Agatha. Agatha, with her arm in his, her hand on his sleeve. 

“Answer my question,” I say.

“What?”

“Why her and not anyone else? Do you love her?”

He blinks at me, and the whites of his eyes shift to a watery pink. The flush rises in his cheeks, and then he’s flicking his gaze between my nose, my mouth, my throat. 

I'm holding onto him. My thumb arches across the inside of his wrist. He shivers.

“I do not love her,” he says.

My mouth is dry.

I move my thumb again. Slow. I rub it over the delicate, thrumming rise of his blue veins. His eyelashes dip, and his voice is even slower, even more pointed when he tells me: 

“Simon, I do not love any woman.”

Something twists in my stomach. Something between relief and the same plunging feeling I had when staring down the side of the tower into that bottomless pit of black. 

“Oh,” I breathe.

Baz’s expression has been tight through this entire conversation, but it’s finally dropped, like his muscles gave out. Now, he seems younger. Sadder. Exhausted. His eyes are red and shining. No tears, but I haven’t seen him earnestly cry since we were children. I hadn’t realised the rarity of it at the time. How precious it’d been.

Baz squeezes my arm once more before finally letting me go. I let his wrist slip through my fingers.

“I thought you were done with me,” I whisper, turning away. I draw my knees to my chest, a mirror of him. 

He laughs, all breath. “Snow, I fear you may haunt me for the rest of my life.”

I knock my elbow into his. He leans into me.

“I didn’t tell you,” he says quietly, “because there's nothing about this situation that's my choice. There’s nothing about it that I want. It is my duty, and you … Simon. You have always existed outside of that.”

I lean back into him. I turn my face into his shoulder, my forehead touching his bare, cool skin.

“I’ll never be done with you,” he whispers. 

We watch the fire burn down.

Eventually, I try to leave. I don’t really know what I was expecting, but when I open the window and stick my head out to look down the side of the tower, Baz immediately wrenches me back inside.

“That’s enough risking your life for one night, Snow. Don’t be a fool.”

“I could climb it,” I mutter. My head aches. I’m very sober.

“I have no doubt you believe that, but I’ll not have your death on my conscience. The guard changes at dawn, we can sneak you out then. Down the stairs this time, for God’s sake. It is what they’re for.”

“Oh, is that it?”

Baz laughs, and it warms me. And I don’t really want to leave him. I just don’t want Lord David to wake and find me missing. Not after I just promised him I wouldn’t run off again. After I promised that he could trust me.

My eyes droop, though, and my limbs are still shaking and weak. The strain of earlier is settling in.

“I’m dead on my feet,” I admit.

“All the more reason not to go. Come on, I’ll get you some clean clothes. You can rest for a while, if you like. It’s hours yet before the sun rises.”

“If I fall asleep, might not wake in time to leave.”

“I’ll wake you,” he promises easily, already padding over to his wardrobe. He picks out long braies and another oversized shirt.

“Do none of your clothes fit? Don’t you have a master tailor?”

“I like them large. They’re more comfortable to sleep in, and keep me cool in the summers.”

“You have special clothes just for sleeping?”

Baz arches an eyebrow. “You don’t?”

I shake my head.

“What do you sleep in?”

I gesture to myself, my split yellow hose and white linen undershirt. 

Baz stares at me like he’s just now noticing I’m underdressed. His eyes linger on my chest and stomach for a beat too long, and then he asks, “Even in the summer heat?”

“God, no. Then I just take it all off.”

“Ah.” Baz nods slowly, and then seems to remember that he’s holding clothes. He extends them out to me. “I’d prefer you sleep in this.”

I shrug and grin before taking the bundle from his hands. I turn away and start to strip down. 

When I’m done, I look back to find him even less dressed than before. His shirt is so long it reaches the bottom half of his thighs, but the fabric is thin and his long legs are completely bare. The shadow of his wispy body hair is visible beneath the linen, across his chest, down his belly, circling the full, dark shape of his nipples—

“Come to bed, Snow.”

My heart skips, and I look up. “Your bed?”

“I see no other option.”

Right. Of course. I follow Baz to his enormous bed with its large oaken frame. Winged-backed beasts have been carved into every bit of the wood. My own bed is fine and soft, but it’s made for one person alone. Another rare luxury—my own bed. This bed, however, could hold three without ever needing to touch. 

I suppose we won’t have to touch, then.

I climb into his bed as he snuffs out candles around the room, leaving only one lamp flickering at his bedside. When he climbs in beside me, the light shines through the thin fabric of his shirt and shows me the full shape of his body. Long and thin and unguarded. 

I turn my face into the pillow. Having him this close? My cheeks are burning, and I’ve no idea how I’ll manage to sleep beside him. What if I make noise? Or move too much? Sometimes I wake up clutching my blankets to my stomach, and what if I do the same tonight? What if I do it to him? Would he hate that? If I held him in his sleep?

Should I be thinking of any of this?

I’m jostled about as he gets comfortable beneath the blankets. With me. Beside me.

I don’t look back at him until his toe gently nudges my shin. He’s on his side, facing me, his cheek resting on his hands. His hair has fallen in front of his face, and so I reach out to fix it. He startles at the contact, and I nearly pull back, but then he goes still. He doesn’t try to retreat. He never has. He watches me silently as I comb it back behind his ear. 

“I’m not sure I can sleep just yet,” he whispers.

“Me neither.”

“What do you do when you can’t sleep?”

I shrug. “Stare out the window, I suppose. At least on cloudless nights when I can see stars. There’s a fae den not too far into the Wood and I can hear their music at night.”

“You cannot.”

I chuckle. “I can. That and more. I think there’s a kelpie in the river. Sometimes it splashes about.”

“Or it’s just a horse that’s been liberated from its master.”

“Enjoying its freedom, no doubt.”

He smiles softly. “Well, I usually read. Or play music until I’m too tired to lift the bow.”

I’m tempted to ask him to play his vielle again. But then he’d have to leave the bed, and I’m not sure I’m ready for how his music might make me feel. 

So I say, “Let’s have a story, then.”

“All right,” he says, turning toward the side table and picking up his copy of Chaucer’s tales. “On one condition.” He drops the book on the bed between us and pushes it close to my face. “You read.”

I sigh heavily and take the book, opening it to a random page and staring down at the text. It takes a moment before the shapes on the page start to make any sort of sense. 

“What would you like?” I ask.

Baz grins and props himself on his elbow so he can stare down at the book. Then he laughs and turns it back three pages and taps at the section he’d apparently like me to read.

“This isn’t the beginning. Which tale is this?”

“It’s ‘The Miller’s Tale’.”

“We’ve never read this one.”

“You haven’t. Let’s remedy that. Start here.” He taps the page twice more and then settles back down on his side, watching my face and waiting patiently for me to begin. 

I read slowly, and I understand slower. But it’s easier out loud. 

I start, “When the fie—first cock has crowed, about … mid … midnight, at once, up rises this elegant lover Ab—um. Abso—”

“You’re doing well, Snow,” Baz says gently. “Break it into parts.” 

He covers most of the name with his finger, and I read the part left uncovered. “Ab.”

“Correct.” He slides his finger. “Next.”

“Uh … sah?”

“Yes, the ‘a’ is like ‘ah.’” He moves his finger again to reveal the last. 

“Lone?”

“Very close, but it does not end in ‘e’, so again the vowel would be soft. Lon. Now put it all together.”

“Absalon.”

“Perfect.”

My ears go hot at the way he says ‘perfect’.

I keep going. This Absalon makes himself fresh and handsome before going to the window of his desire, Alison, to charm her. Instead of returning his affections, she teases him and tries to get him to leave. So he pleads with her.

“‘Then kiss me,’” I read. “‘Since it can be no better, Jesus' love, and for the love of me.’"

“He is certainly not one to be spurned,” Baz says. His mouth is tipped in a grin and his eyes are closed. 

I stare at his face, smiling back even though he cannot see me, and then continue, “‘Wilt thou then go thy way with that?’ said she. ‘Yes, certainly, sweetheart,’ said this Absolon. ‘Then make thee ready,’ said she, ‘I come right now.’” 

I turn my eyes up and grin. “Christ. Is she truly about to kiss him? After all her protesting?”

“Keep reading, Snow.”

I keep reading. Alison opens the window and tells Absalon to take the kiss. And he does.

But it is not her face.

“And at the window out she put her … her hole,” I say, shaky and breathless with held-back laughter. “And Absolon, to him it happened no—no better nor worse, but with his mouth he kissed her naked ass.”

Baz has his face in the pillow. His cheeks have gone a deep red and his shoulders are shaking with amusement. I finally break, laughing through the next words, “With great relish.”

“Great relish,” Baz repeats through his own tittering laughter, his voice higher than usual. 

My smile is so wide my cheeks hurt. His tiredness has turned him silly, and I love it. I want to fill myself full of it. Setting the book behind me, I lay down on my side to face him. I watch him until he peeks his flushed face out from the pillow.

“You’ve stopped,” he whines. “But there was more.”

“That was filthy enough.”

“So fastidious.”

I lightly hit his shoulder, and then I rub the spot to soothe it again. As I touch him, his smile shifts from mischievous to deeply content. All his features smooth out. My own laughter fades into soft, simmering silence. I focus on my hand—the gathering of linen beneath my fingers, the slow opening of his eyes, his honest, serious expression.

He searches my face like he’s never seen it before. And then he reaches out and touches my cheek, right below my eye. 

“You have a mole here,” he says.

“Do I?”

“Have you not seen your own face?”

“Rarely. There’s one mirror in Lord David’s estate and it’s in his private chambers. I don’t often think to look beyond to cut my hair, and it’s hard to see.”

“Well, you are covered in them. That, and freckles—so many of them. Just here.” He drags his finger across the bridge of my nose. I shiver. “And ... another mole here”—he touches me—“and here”—again—“and three clustered together just below your ear.” He touches my neck and I close my eyes and try to keep my breath steady. He traces lines between my moles, and then murmurs, “Draco.”

I snatch his wrist and say, “You’re mad. There aren’t constellations on my skin.”

“How would you know, Snow? You’ve never seen.”

I laugh. “Next you’ll convince me my eyes are brown and my hair is straight.”

He tugs free from my grip so he can reach for my curls, twining one around his finger and pulling it straight. “I don’t think we can deny these curls. And your eyes are bluer and brighter than the sea.”

I swallow, and I can’t stop myself from reaching for him in return. I touch the bridge of his nose. 

“Your nose starts too high.” I drag my finger slowly down to the bend where it was broken. I rub it gently. “And you look more interesting with a broken nose.”

“Bastard,” he teases. His eyes are shut.

“Your face is all sharp lines,” I whisper. I touch his jaw, dragging a knuckle down the edge of it to his pointy chin. “So severe. Except—” I press my finger to his bottom lip. “Except this. You're soft here.” His mouth drops open and his eyes are on mine. His breath is hot and damp. 

God—my heart is racing. When did that start?

I push my thumb up, catching his top lip and moving it back so I can see his teeth. “Your eyeteeth are as sharp as a bloodeater’s.”

He slaps my hand away and then tugs one of my curls in retribution. I let him. I lean into the touch instead of away. Soon he’s turned to carding his fingers through my hair, pushing it off my face. His nails on my scalp are bliss, and my eyes fall slowly shut.

In the sudden quiet, on the very edge of sleep, I hear the moment his breathing changes, shallows.

He says, so quietly, “I’m sorry.”

“For pulling my hair? You should be.”

“No,” he says. “I’m sorry. I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have avoided you.”

I tip my head further forward, into his hand. “Okay. Don’t do it again.” 

“I won’t.”

I touch his wrist, his arm. I wrap my fingers around it and hold him steady. 

‘I missed you,’ I almost say.

His hand starts to move in my hair again. Firm and rhythmic; back and forth. Eventually his touch lulls me into a deep, comfortable sleep.

The next morning, when it’s still mostly dark, I wake to find Baz has pressed his body to mine in the night. He’s on his stomach, curled toward me, his head tucked up in the crook of my arm. I don’t move. I don’t even breathe. I just watch him. The steady rise and fall of his shoulders. His slightly open mouth. The wild, wavy nest of his black hair.

I watch him until the sun begins to rise. Until it’s time to go.

Notes:

Welcome to the slow burn.

Real quick, you'll see that the chapter count has gone up from 18 to 20. This is because I'm ridiculous. Pray that this number does not continue to climb, because I fear I will be writing this story forever. Also check the note below this one for a MAP I made, also because I am ridiculous. I was doing that productive procrastination thing because I was scared to write the next chapter. Now I'm writing the chapter, because I skipped over it ages ago and despite being pretty far ahead on writing this fic, the posting date for this particular chapter is VERY CLOSE.

Next posting is going to possibly be weird. I'm traveling during that time, and while I intend to get the chapter queued up before I leave, and posted on my regular Saturday night/Sunday morning schedule, I may have to scoot the posting. Either early or late, we truly don't know, but still AROUND the same timeframe.

One of the major songs on the playlist for this chapter is The Loneliest Whale on Earth which is a song that has been my BAZ SONG for so many fics honestly. I'm glad it finally landed on a playlist actually, because this Baz. MY GOODNESS, my sweet baby bird. He is possibly the loneliest whale on earth.

Thanks for everyone who is reading this! It means a lot to me.

Notes:

Listen to the fic playlist here.
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