“Weren’t you working on that the last time I was here?”
It was three months ago. I’d just begun the underpainting. “Yes.” I look up at him, smiling, waiting for a compliment. It’s the most detailed landscape I’ve ever attempted and I’m quite proud of how it’s turning out. There are still muddy sections where I’ve painted, covered up, and repainted, but it’s my best work so far.
Bram glances to me, then back to the painting. He raises his hand, the one that isn’t around my shoulder, and with a lazy wave, the painting changes. Color crawls across the canvas until every unfinished spot is filled in.
“Oh.” I deflate, my shoulders drop, my eyes sting. I can’t cry in front of him. He hates it when I cry.
“Look, it’s finished,” he says with an air of pride.
“Yes,” I croak out. The places where Bram’s magic has completed the painting are flat and wrong.
Bram tips my face toward his and sees the devastation there. “I can’t do anything right, can I?” he says softly.
“I love it,” I lie.
“It’s better than you could have managed on your own. I was only trying to help. You’re so ungrateful sometimes.”
“I love it,” I say once more.
Bram sighs like he’ll never understand me and rises from the chair. He sheds his beaded doublet and flops down onto my bed.He spends most nights here with me on the rare occasion he’s in the Otherworld, and this is how I love him most. He looks so much younger in sleep and it’s easier to picture he’s the person I hope he is, deep down.
Now that I’m grown, I’m ashamed of the way I poked fun at Ivy when we were children for her obsession with faeries and magic, because the truth is, I harbored my own fantasies. But my obsession wasn’t magic, it was romance. I spent hours in the garden, weaving daisy chain crowns and dreaming of the boy I’d one day love. In a way, I’ve spent my whole life looking for Bram.
But I fear Bram isn’t a partner, he’s a sharp object stupid girls cut themselves on. Me, Ivy, even courtiers like Lady Thalia have all been left in tatters by him.
I snuff out the lantern and climb into bed next to him, this boy I love.
It’s been a long while but I’m still staring at the ceiling. I think Bram is asleep, but then he rolls over and kisses me long and slow.
He pulls back, and I look deep into his eyes as we breathe in sync. It’s easy to imagine he loves me too.
Featherlight, he trails his fingers over my knuckles under the covers. His careless fingers twirl my wedding ring, then he shatters the silence. “Do you think Ivy’s having fun?”
I pull my hand away.
“Yes,” I answer quietly, and pull the quilt up under my chin.
Bram flops over on his back to stare at the ceiling. “Do you think she loves me?”
“Of course,” I answer flatly.
But she doesn’t.
And so, I’ll save her from him. But in doing so, I’ll also get to keep him for myself. Does that make me selfish or a martyr?
Bram has been sleeping for nearly an hour when I’m finally brave enough to slip out of bed and down the stairs.
The garden is navy-blue dark, speckled with starlight, and cold enough to make me shiver under my dressing gown.
I pad through the dark of the gardens, until I feel a certaintugtoward a rosebush. As I approach, its leaves and flowers unfurl, revealing the unicorn resting in a hollow against the roots.
It whinnies and recoils as I approach. I extend my hand and wait for it to press its velvety nose into my palm. Its eyes drop closed, forgiveness in the gesture that I don’t deserve.
Its silver fur is cool to the touch, but its heartbeat is strong.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and it bows its little head like it understands me.
On unsteady legs, it rises and trusts me enough to follow me through the dark to the gates of the castle.
