In the three weeks since she kissed him in the cavern, Magdala had been plagued with dreams of a strange purple tree. She heard her own voice screaming, wild with grief. Held a bleeding body in her arms. Felt for a pulse that wouldn’t beat.
Water closed over her head.
And then, always just before she woke, she saw Asherton lying dead on dark grass. Sometimes he was dripping wet, drowned. Sometimes he was cradled in Zephyr’s arms. Most of the time, though, he was lying on a set of green stairs, his blood dripping step by step to a pool at the base. She awoke sweating, often weeping, and wondered if it was anxiety or that strange second sight her mother said she had.
Magdala paced until the sun began to dip behind the trees and her mind was rushing around and around—a dragon chasing its tail.
She should never have kissed him, never have allowed herself to fall for him, because even as she lay awake at night, sick over his safety, she could hear his rapid breathing just two paces away, and she knew he was worrying about her as well. What if he wouldn’t let her protect him? Threw himself in the way of a shotfire ball? Hired an assassin to kill him quietly while she was using the washroom so she wouldn’t be hurt?
“Mags!” Asherton’s voice woke her from her reverie. She flinched. Every time she looked at him, he grew more precious to her.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked.
“Ash.” She tilted her head. “Do you want to be king?”
He seemed taken aback by this. “Do you think I would be a good king?”
“Yes,” she replied, and it surprised her. Because she hadn’t before. “But I fear you will hate it.”
“There is no way to make these people love me. I don’t want to be a hated king.”
“I think I know a way to make them at least accept you.”
“Of course you do. You’re the cleverest person I know. Come, Zephyr wants to make plans.”
He reached for her hand and she took it, but dread slipped down her throat, filling her lungs. Her legs were heavy and her head ached. The monster she’d envisioned on the bridge morphed until she was facing her father.
They found Zephyr in the greenhouse, tending to a carpet of water clover growing in a copper basin. Asherton wandered to the other side of the greenhouse to prune a camellia, and Magdala overturned a bucket and sat down.
“Listen, Zeph,” she said. “I know that you and I have had our differences. I know you don’t trust me, but I would hope that by now you can see that we have one thing in common.”
“Oh?” He planted his hand on his knee and leaned forward. “What is that, Miss Devney?”
“We both care for Asherton.”
Zephyr cast a tense look at Asherton, as he scolded Anton—who was almost as all as Magdala now—for taking a bite out of his camelia. Zephyr removed his glasses and let out a long sigh. “Continue.”
“I have asked Huxley to send us more guards and, of course, he refuses. But I have an idea that will make them unnecessary.”
“Go on.”
Asherton joined them and sat on the edge of the basin. “Discussing my imminent demise?” he said.
“How to prevent it,” Magdala replied coolly. She kept her eyes fixed on the blurred greenhouse wall. She needed to be pragmatic and think of him as a charge.
“If I’m correct,” Magdala said, “a king must choose one and only one policy to implement upon his coronation.”
Zephyr nodded.
“And what policy do you have in mind, Your Highness?” she asked Asherton, still looking away.
“Well,Miss Devney,” he teased, “my brother and I talked about reforming the dragon trade to preserve the species. I would like to cut off trade with Ashkendor.”
Magdala shook her head. “See, if you make a policy like that right away, you’ll provoke the people. Possibly start a civil war. Ashkendor will retaliate, we’ll be plunged into the conflict with the other two kingdoms, and you’ll be so unpopular, I doubt a hundred bodyguards could prevent your assassination.”
“Alright then,” he said. “What do you suggest?”
“Save that policy for your second year. Once everyone is used to you. For your first policy, choose something that will make the people happy.”
