You don’t have to do anything to earn their love.
You are enough exactly as you are.
Your efforts are wasted on them.
I argued back, and I remember every word, every ounce of conviction I felt.
It doesn’t matter because I love them.
The words rang true in my heart and…they still do. Of course they do. Nothing has changed since then, so why…
Why do my legs flinch as if they’re desperate to run? Why can’t I forget that my family forbade Minka from shifting into her feline form after she made one mistake? Why does Mr. Boris’ sympathy over my sacrifice pierce my heart? Why do I feel so sick whenever I imagine the catacombs burning, coffins filled with my family’s rivals—but innocents too? Thorne’s youngest sister, who would be the same age as Angela, and all the other banshee clan children who might be under the sleeping spell.
Something sharp and fiery wends its way through my veins—anger. Forthem. For Thorne. For a family that isn’t my own. My mind fills with images of his mother and sisters choking on powdered iron from a grenade my kin threw. The screams Thorne heard. And even before that, when that same cousin used his magic to lift Morgana’s veil and forced Thorne to see his mother’s face, enacting the curse my family placed upon him.
Melting his eyes.
Stars, his…eyes.
My lungs constrict, and I bolt upright in bed, forcing the images away. I rub my hands over my face as if that can banish my dark thoughts. What’s wrong with me? Why am I focusing on my family’s wrongs when they’ve received the same treatment?
I tell myself this, but no matter how much I try to dwell on what’s happened to me and mine, no matter how I try to recall the terror Thorne inflicted upon me at my birthday party, I can’t find the same spark. I feel…empty now. Hollow.
Pushing back the covers, I slide from the bed and turn on the bedside lamp. The small clock on the nightstand reveals it isn’t yet midnight, while the illumination from the lamp shows my legs are still clad in stockings. I glance down at myself and find my torso is still wrapped in my corset as well.
The slightest relief unravels within me. No wonder I couldn’t sleep. I was so distracted by my thoughts before bed, I never finished undressing. With a mirthless chuckle, I do so now, loosening the laces of my corset and unhooking the closures. My ribs and lungs expand, and I gather in a fortifying breath. I toss the corset on the bed and am about to remove my stockings and garter when my attention snags on the lace hem of my chemise. The one Sister Spruce gifted me.
Longing plummets my heart, and I run my fingers over the lace, then the soft pale blue muslin. Stars above, I miss my teachers. My glade. My friends and fellow students. I even miss the time I thought I’d be a governess. My heart ached for a family I didn’t remember, but it was a simpler time. One of smaller hopes and dreams.
Now the fates of two families rest upon my shoulders, as does the stability of the seelie Lunar Court throne.
Everything hinges upon me.
My actions.
My choices.
My sacrifice.
My marriage to Monty.
Pressure tightens my lungs, and this time I can’t blame it on my corset. Shaking my head, I stride over to my wardrobe and open the doors. I kneel at the base, seeking the bag stuffed in the corner. It’s mostly empty, aside from one gray dress and the sparse items upon it. Calm warmth fills my chest as my eyes fall on my tattered fan, the one I used to dance with in my glade. I extract it from the bag and unfold it, a sad smile on my lips as I study the dance steps illustrated on one side, ones I’ve long since remembered. Turning it over, my gaze follows the blue floral pattern, faded after so long in my care.
I fan myself with it and can almost smell the breeze in my glade.
Why didn’t I cherish my glade more? Why did I think of the convent as a prison? If anything,thisis a prison. Not Thorne’s manor but the bargain we made. The marriage I must enter. The sacrifice I must make.
I bite the inside of my cheek and close my eyes, fighting to trade my growing anxiety for something else. Anything else. Images flash behind my eyes—the memories I’ve framed. Several flip by before I see my party in the convent kitchen, a moment of joy frozen in time. Then comes my first ballet, then the meteor shower.
Then…Thorne. Standing in the Starcane field, his hands planted on his hips—
I shake him from my mind and return to the meteor shower.
I release a slow exhale and open my eyes, finding my surroundings have been replaced with falling stars. Where the wardrobe should be, instead stands the railing of the convent’s rooftop balcony. I shift to the side and lean into the balustrade, a calming sense of support. Even though I know in reality it’s simply the door of the wardrobe I’m resting against, it doesn’t matter. I’m safe here, in my mirage. Free from my worries. My anxieties.
At least I should be.
I shouldn’t feel such a sharp pain piercing my chest, such warm tears trailing down my cheeks. They continue to leak from my eyes, even when I close them. Even when I clutch my fan to my chest, desperate to force back the sob that builds there, growing, climbing, clawing its way up my throat—
