I’m midway through arranging a bundle of blooming pink oleanders and azaleas (for caution, to warn someone they’re about to make a poor choice) when I hear Will moving about upstairs. He spends some time in the bathroom, then appears at the bottom of the stairs in a fresh set of clothes he probably summoned from home—black trousers, a dark button-down shirt, and his usual maroon jacket. He ruffles his hair and tilts his head at me with a curious smile. Gods, he’s something to behold.
“Morning,” I say. “There’s bread and tea over there if you want some breakfast.”
Instead, Will comes over, wraps his arms around my waist from behind, and rests his chin on my shoulder. He smells delightfully of soap and mint.
“Is this Fliss height?” he asks. “How can you see anything from down here?”
“I’m holding something very sharp,” I say, waggling the scissors in my hands.
“Ah, I take it back, then,” he says. He presses a quick kiss to the side of my neck and heads to the kitchen. I grip the handle of the scissors and flush. Damn him, I’m supposed to be concentrating.
“What are you doing?” Will asks as he brings me a fresh cup of tea before settling down at the kitchen table and helping himself.
“I figured emotions are likely to run high today so I’ve prepared a couple of enchanted flowers—some to calm, some to warn, some to heal, and so on,” I say, and hold up one of the vases of bittersweet nightshade, a poisonous dark green plant with bloodred berries and purple flowers, its petals stretching backward like feathers on a bird in flight, the stamen in the center a yellow pollen beak. It’s an acrid, pungent flower, but I’ve always kept some in stock, just in case. “This one can compel someone to tell the truth. I’m going to leave these bundles arranged on the table here so I know exactly where they are, and if we need help, then:encho kaveh.”
The flower leaps from the vase to my hand in a blink. The slice of bread in Will’s hand halts midway to his open mouth and the corners of his mouth tug down, impressed.
“That was the sexiest thing you’ve done to date,” he says, then takes the bite.
“It had better be. I’ve been practicing.”
While I finish getting my vases ready, Will magically summons a piece of parchment and a pen to send a long-overdue message to Ruth and Mum at the cottage. He scribbles a few words, folds it in four, then flourishes it away by placing an open palm on top and then whipping his fingers back in a pinch.
“They’ll know where we are at least,” he says. “In case they want to come and throttle us for stressing them out.”
After that, there’s nothing else for us to do but go. Will laces up his boots, and when he stands, I notice a tiny cut on the right side of his freshly shaven jaw. I reach up to brush a tiny drop of dried blood away.
“Oh.” Will grins. “I cut myself while shaving, don’t worry.”
“Why don’t you heal it?”
“Because I cut myself while shaving. I used to dream of such a thing.”
His euphoria is a brilliant ray of sunlight. It’s a small affirmation of his transition, his joy and openness of who he is now. I smile fondly and pat his cheek.
“Cute,” I say, wishing I could exaggerate, wishing I could call him sunshine and tell him how his radiance sweeps me away. “Ready to go?”
“Almost,” he says.
Will brings my chin up and kisses me.
“Okay, now I’m good.”
Will’s invisibility spell gets us through the lower town and past the drawbridge hand in hand. We have to wait for a lull in the courtyard’s bustle of servants, who are all far too somber for the morning of a wedding. The atmosphere is more fitting for a funeral. Will’s hand grips mine a little tighter as we sneak through. We both know the mood is because of Howell. The news won’t have taken long to spread, and the absence of his dependable long-serving presence will be as noticeable as the hole in the entryway ceiling. Even now, the last of the debris is being removed from the entrance hall by ropes and carts to ready the castle for the wedding.
Instead of risking entering through the front, Will and I edge around the outside walls until we’re out of sight by the lake, right under Bastion’s balcony. He lets go of my hand and the invisibility shivers off.
“Give me a second,” he says, then leans forward and grips his knees. To catch his breath from using the spell, from seeing the destruction from last night in daylight, or from the reminder of what Morgana forced him to do, I don’t know and don’t ask. A few deep breaths, then, “Okay.”
Will takes my waist and summons a wind to sweep us up onto Bastion’s balcony. The glass doors are open, golden tassels holding theheavy curtains aside, but beyond that, the living room I stormed into yesterday is empty. He must be in the bathroom or getting changed.
“Bash?” Will calls, and it’s the tone of a truce, a pause in their game. “We just want to talk.”
We step into the room. The fireplace crackles to my right, illuminating the long sofas, the stacks of books Card is reading, the leftover goblets from last night. Although everything is as it usually is, something doesn’t feel right.
“He’s not here,” I say, resting my hands on the back of a sofa.
“No, he’s not,” an unsteady voice says.
