“Mrs. Lemuria predicted the baby’s death,” I say, my heart sinking.
“Indeed. The party ended abruptly, and all guests were sent away. Mrs. Briar’s son died days later. While it’s a known fact that a banshee’s tears only predict one’s death and don’t cause it, the mahrts insisted the banshee cursed the boy. The Briar family retaliated by orchestrating the death of Mrs. Lemuria’s firstborn, a boy who was still a very young child in fae years.”
My stomach turns. I don’t want to believe my family—my parents—could have killed a child. While I know Thorne can lie, I can’t imagine why he would in this instance. The rational answer is that he’s mistaken, repeating rumors and gossip. I’m almost of a mind to request a stop to his story, but he still hasn’t explained how any of this directly involves me.
Swallowing my pride and my desire to defend the parents I’ve never met, I force myself to speak in a neutral tone. “What happened next?”
“Violence escalated from there until Queen Nyxia was forced to step in. Again, this was before your parents claimed the seelie throne, so they answered to her as their sole reigning monarch. Nyxia punished both clans with a curse. Its terms stated that if a member of one family draws blood from a member of the rival family, their own clan will fall into one hundred years of deathlike sleep. That way, whoever incites violence on the other family punishes their own. Of course, that didn’t stop the violence. The families only found more creative ways to try and kill each other without drawing blood. But that wasn’t the extent of Nyxia’s punishment. To appease both clans and allow them retribution for their perceived grievances, she allowed each side to deal a final curse upon the other. The mahrts cursed the Lemurias’ nextborn to never know his mother’s face, while the banshees cursed Briars’ nextborn to be bound by iron if it ever touches her flesh.”
He gives me a weighted look.
A shudder runs down my spine. “Are you saying…I was the Briars’ nextborn?”
“Yes. You, Miss Rose, are cursed.”
Nausea churns in my stomach as I repeat the terms of the curse in my head. If iron touches my flesh…I’ll be bound by it. Forever? And how? In a coffin? Shackles? It doesn’t matter, I suppose. Iron is lethal to the fae. For pureblood fae, even touching the metal is excruciating. I can’t imagine the torment of being physically bound by the substance. If prolonged contact didn’t kill me, the pain eventually would. I’d…I’d go mad from it. I’d wish for death, beg for it.
My pulse quickens as my eyes dart around the coach. A blanket of dread falls over me, and suddenly everything feels dangerous. The edges of the cushioned seat, the hinges of the carriage doors, the buttons on my dress—
“Miss Rose.”
The sound of my name has my eyes flashing open. When did I close them? I realize I’m trembling, my heart racing. Mr. Blackwood leans toward me, his gloved hand extended between us but not quite touching. Notes of concern etch his face, deepening the furrow between his brows and making him look completely unlike every version of him I’ve seen. He isn’t curious like he is in my dreams. The stoic calm I’ve associated with the real him is gone, as is that rare seductive teasing. Right now he seems…open. Vulnerable, almost.
It’s enough to clear my mind.
With a slow exhale, I settle back in my seat and remind myself that while I may be cursed, I’m safe. There is no iron lurking from the shadows ready to condemn me to eternal torment. Iron was banned from the isle of Faerwyvae upon unification. That was twenty-three years ago. I know from my lessons that the fae royals took severe measures to ensure every scrap of iron that remained in the south where humans once inhabited was discarded. There should be nothing left by now. Not even a splinter.
Mr. Blackwood withdraws his hand, but sits at the edge of his seat, elbows propped on his knees. His stoic mask has returned and he watches me through his spectacles beneath his dark lashes. When he speaks, his voice is quiet. Strained. “Are you all right?” He sounds almost angry. I can’t tell whether he’s forcing himself to voice his concern…or fighting against it.
“I’m fine,” I rush to say. Now that I’ve recovered from my momentary panic, I’m embarrassed by it. “Please continue.”
He slowly lifts his elbows from his knees and returns to his relaxed posture. Mouth pressed into a tight line, he studies me for an uncomfortably long beat, then averts his gaze to the shuttered window. “After the two families cursed each other’s nextborn, both sides tried to avoid having another child for as long as possible, for they knew the other family would scheme to initiate the curse at their first chance. Yet both families did conceive. First Mrs. Lemuria gave birth to a son. Then the Briars had their daughter. You. Princess Rosaline Briar. Your parents had ascended to royalty, now the seelie monarchs of Lunar, which meant your birth was a widely known event.”
“So, my parents sent me to the convent to keep the Lemurias from trying to initiate my curse?” I ask. “Was it not enough that iron had been eradicated?”
“You are twenty years of age, am I correct?”
“Yes.”
“Twenty years ago,” he says, “the isle was still adjusting to unification. Now and then, stores of iron were still found, particularly in the south. I can only assume your parents thought the safest place for you would be in a fae convent in a court up north where the land had never been touched by human metals.”
“Why did my parents only send for me now? The isle has been free from iron for years.”
“I can’t speak for them,” he says, a note of irritation lacing his words, “but I can tell you that even with iron being a rare commodity, they anticipate retribution by other means. While the banshee clan is no longer a threat as a whole, there is one left that they fear.”
“What do you mean the banshee clan is no longer a threat? Are the Lemurias…dead?” Again, I don’t want to ponder what that might suggest about my parents. Could they have used their royal influence to murder an entire family? And if so…can I truly blame them for it?
Yes, half my heart says, while the other insists that the Lemurias were just as guilty of violence as my family was. I cling to the latter, recalling my determination to resist judging my family or take Thorne’s tale as truth until I’ve met my parents. Heard their side.
“The Lemurias are no longer a threat,” he says, “because they’ve since fallen under the curse Nyxia placed on both families—the sleeping spell that is enacted when one member of one clan draws blood from a member of the rival clan.”
Relief washes over me. My parents aren’t murderers, then. If the banshees fell under the sleeping spell, that meanstheyinitiated it by drawing blood frommyfamily.
“But there was an unexpected caveat,” he says. “The one who initiates the curse by drawing blood from the rival family is spared from the sleeping spell, which means there is one person left awake from the Lemuria family.”
A shudder of apprehension writhes through me. “Who?”
“Mrs. Lemuria’s husband—a moon dragon—has been spotted alive over the last several years, so one can only assume he put his bloodline to sleep. He may not have been born to the clan, but if he married into it, or if Mrs. Lemuria deemed him her mate, he’d still count as a member of the family. But since he’s taken on unseelie form and sought refuge in the mountains on unseelie lands, he’s under King Franco’s protection now. Your parents can’t reach him, even with their royal titles. Besides, they have more pressing matters to concern themselves with.”
