“Stars, no. I can only feign obedience so far. The sisters know my heart is too wicked for religion. Even one I admire.”
“You? Wicked?” The curl of his lips turns seductive. Dangerous. “Now, that I believe.”
He whirls me in another spin. As he returns me to his arms, I frown at him. Thorne doesn’t normally ask so many questions in my dreams. Nor does he hold me so close when we dance. The inches of space we maintained when we first began our waltz have melted away, leaving the fronts of our bodies pressed together. His gloved hand drifts lower to the base of my spine. My pulse kicks up. I know I should push him away and reclaim the space we had before. No matter how many times we’ve danced, and no matter how many times he’s entered my dreams that were of a more…explicitnature…I’ve been careful not to touch him—or dream of him touching me more than propriety would allow. It’s the one boundary I’m determined to hold with him. The one line I won’t cross with my imagined manifestation. Dream or no, somewhere on the isle of Faerwyvae, Thorne Blackwood is a real person. He deserves my respect, not my objectification. Not that I haven’t objectified him before. Mostly at night when I have far less control over the content of my dreams.
I’m about to do the proper thing and take a step back when he pulls me even closer and lowers his lips to my ear. I shudder as his deep voice rumbles in his chest, reverberating against my own.
“Do you believe in fate, Briony Rose?” The question holds a note of jest, but that isn’t what pulls my gaze back to his. He’s never used my name before. I’ve never given it in any of my dreams, not even in the ones where we’ve spoken cordially like friends. When I don’t answer, he speaks again. “Yes, I’ve finally put a name to the specter who haunts my dreams. Who leaves me waking with fleeting images of a girl I saw in person just once two years ago. And who would have guessed her name would be Briony Rose, a fae woman with a moniker so like my lifelong nemesis, Princess Rosaline Briar. You’re the exact same age as she is too.”
A chill runs through me at the shift in his tone. His curiosity remains, but the cruel amusement I sensed earlier has deepened.
“I was never too keen on fate,” he says, “but I do believe in curses. I’m starting to suspect curses are a lot like fate. Curses, like destiny, are determined to come to fruition. Wouldn’t you agree?”
I plant my feet, forcing us to halt our waltz. What the hell is he talking about? Why would I dream of him saying these things?
Thorne releases me, but he doesn’t step away. My dreamscape melts from night to day, leaving us at the center of the glade. I blink a few times, willing him to disappear, for the daydream to end, but he remains stubbornly in place.
“My mother always told me I was named for vengeance,” he says. “Only recently did I understand what that means. Now, will you allow me to try something?”
“What in the name of the All of All is going on here? Why won’t you disappear?”
His cruel grin widens. Then, tugging on the fingers of his gloves, he bares his hands. In a flash of movement, he closes the foot of space I created, his fingertips softly clasping my chin.
“Briony, darling,” he says, his voice a dangerous whisper, “forget we had this dance.”
2
The glade is empty. Wasn’t there something here before? I stare at the grassy clearing, now fully illuminated by the rising sun. The heads of the starflowers bob in the breeze. A breeze that reminds me of whispered words.
Words…
What were they?
I shake my head to clear it, but there’s a fog clouding my mind. I came to the glade to dance my final quadrille. To give up on youthful dreams and prepare for the practical life of a governess. I arrived at first sunrise, but the glade is now fully aglow. My fan dangles from its strap on my wrist. My feet are bare and my slippers lie in the grass a few yards away. I recall removing my shoes, extracting my fan, and…what happened after that?
I place my hand to my forehead. My skin feels warm, and my heart races like I’ve just recovered from some fright.
“Briony!”
I jump at the sound of my name, the voice calling me from a distance beyond the glade. With a calming sigh, I chastise myself for my flustered state. The voice belongs to Lina, a younger girl from the convent school. She’s likely come to fetch me to return for my birthday celebration.
Though I’m not supposed to know, Sister Agatha has been planning my party for weeks. Of our three teachers, Agatha loves celebrations the most. She was the primary advocate for our trip to Lumenas after last year’s meteor shower. She’s also the teacher who allowed me to stay a week longer in the city to participate in a quirky bridal competition at the Church of Saint Lazaro. I lost, of course, for my heart had never been set on marrying Brother Dorian in the first place, and his affection had been captured by a selkie princess named Maisie. To me, the competition was less about securing a husband and more a means to an end. What I truly wanted from the extended visit was to sneak out after dark and watch as many kinds of dances as I could. By the end of the competition, I managed to catch four ballet performances and a burlesque show. It was time well spent.
The topic of dancing has my mind drifting back to its earlier confusion. I came to the glade to dance, and then…
“Briony Rose!” Lina calls again, her voice closer now. There’s no use evading her. The students love Agatha’s parties, no matter how quaint they are. If I don’t come soon, every one of my peers will be scouring the fields and forest around the convent to drag me back just so they can eat a slice of cake.
My shoulders slump. I suppose it’s better this way. Why bother with the sentiment of a last dance when I’ve already made the sensible choice? My days of waltzing in the woods are through.
* * *
I findLina at the edge of the Starcane fields, cheeks red with frustration and her hands on her hips. She’s dressed the same as I am, in a gray wool gown with long sleeves and a high-cut neckline, unadorned with lace or the other ornamentations that would grace more fashionable attire. Her brown hair is pulled into a tight bun, which shows off her rounded ears. Though both pureblood humans and human-fae hybrids have rounded ears, Lina is fully human. Unlike me, she knows who her parents are.
“Briony Rose,” she says, eyes narrowing to a scowl, “you have some nerve leaving your bed before sunrise without permission.”
I do my best not to laugh. She’s about four years younger and a whole head shorter than I am, yet she delivers her reproach with zeal. Her efforts to prove herself a paragon of obedience have been quite exaggerated as of late. I understand why. Those very efforts have gained her parents’ approval and permission to come home.
Not all students are left at the convent as babies like I was. Many are sent to the school for reform, etiquette, or as a respite in the wake of a recent scandal. Lina was sent for reform after her parents deemed her unfit to enter society due to her poor behavior. While the sisters’ methods of schooling, training, and reformation are rather gentle and revolve around hours of tutelage in school subjects and manners, followed by chores and tending the Starcane fields, it’s the boredom that truly inspires obedience in cases like Lina’s. Now she’s set to leave the convent next week, after which she’ll make her debut in society.
