“How to… heart my mirror.”
“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Nythir chuckled, “but I’ll do my best to heart your mirror.”
“Really?” Esther squeezed his hand.
“Really.” He squeezed back. “We’re here.”
They arrived in a small garden, the scent of roses thick in the night air. A fountain trickled in the center, moonlight reflecting off the water. It looked neglected—small cracks and chips in the once-beautiful structure—but Esther sympathized with it.
The rose bushes were wild and unruly, leaves sprouting in all directions, overpowering the small red buds. They weren’t theperfectly tended blooms of her childhood, but somehow their fragrance was more potent, more alive. They were still beautiful without the strict control a gardener would have imposed.
She loved her mother’s roses, but these wild ones… they resonated with her.
Wild things did not lack beauty. They lacked permission. Standing there, surrounded by roses that had grown without approval or pruning, Esther wondered for the first time if her magic had been waiting for the same freedom.
“It’s dirty and dark here,” Nythir said, lighting a lantern in the corner. “But we can dance without a crowd.” He gave a slight bow and held out his hand.
“I’ve never danced with a man before,” Esther admitted, placing her hand in his. The lantern flickered with her heartbeat, but she wasn’t worried. Somehow, she knew her flames wouldn’t betray her—not this moment.
“I’m proud to be your first,” he whispered, barely louder than the flicker of the lamp. He guided her into a gentle waltz. It was the first dance she had ever learned, years ago, tucked away in lessons long forgotten—and now, finally, she could use it.
The moon hung low over Stonehaven by the time Nythir walked Esther back to the inn. Their fingers—warm, faintly sparking—reluctantly parted at the door.
The moment their hands separated, her magic stirred uneasily, like something woken too soon. The glow beneath her skin dimmed but did not fade, lingering in quiet protest. Esther pressed her palm to her chest, unsettled by how wrong the distance felt after only a few hours.
She swayed slightly, drunk on sugar, alcohol, and freedom. Golden light still clung to her skin like the last embers of a dying fire.
“Sleep,” he murmured, brushing a soft curl from her cheek.
“Only… if you do too,” she mumbled, eyes half-lidded.
He almost laughed, almost leaned in, nearly let reason slip away—but the inn door creaked behind them, and the moment vanished like smoke.
Essie blinked up at him once more, soft and drowsy, then disappeared inside. The scent of roses and cinnamon lingered long after she was gone.
13
Lucy
How to perform a spectacular breakdown: hydrate for optimal tears.
The next morning, Lucy straightened her uniform and muttered, “You ready?” She was preparing herself for her best performance yet.
“No,” Basil grumbled. “I’ll be at my station. Please, don’t be too dramatic. It needs to look authentic.”
“I am never dramatic. If anything, you are—with how you slammed the door open with a ‘I know it’s you, Lucy.’ I swear, my soul left my body. I briefly saw my grandmother. May she rest in peace.”
“See? Dramatic. Stop it.” Basil rolled his eyes. Lucy stuck her tongue out. She hadn’t expected any allies—especially not Esther’s magic tutor.
The previous night had been a disaster of confessions and hastily-made plans.
“Please, explain to me why the Princess’s magic erupted in the rose garden. Along with your compliance in the matter,” Basil said, ripping the quilt off Lucy.
“I need a minute to get my story straight,” Lucy muttered. “And how did you know it was me?”
“I don’t need a story. I need the truth. Also, your aura is different from Princess Esther’s.”
“Marriage. Orc with Warts. Runaway Princess.” Lucy rattled off what she knew. “I thought only the highest-class aura knights and mages could sense aura.”
