When at last I find myself in Vale’s arms, wrapped in blankets and affection alike, I think the words I have not once allowed myself since I arrived here.
I can do this.
Chapter Fifty-Three
The striking sound of each footstep as I make my way down the hall is my own call. The queen does not arrive with heralds and banners but with ivy on a small wooden trellis set in simple pottery.
I rap at the door, even though it stands ajar. Fenloris lifts his head, greeted by my enthusiasm.
“Welcome home, Your Majesty,” he says, peering over his glasses as he remains bent over the table at the center of the room.
“I brought you something.” I lift the plant and cross toward the window at the rear of the chamber. “With the light over here, it should bring a little life into the space while you’re working,” I muse cheerily.
He turns as I move, never allowing his back to face me—a formality I am still not accustomed to.
“I’m sorry if I’m disrupting your work,” I say sheepishly. “With Vale and Ace tied up in council meetings, I could think of no place I would rather be than here, among you and your maps.”
“You needn’t apologize,” he replies evenly. “The Queen does not impose.”
My heart sinks for a brief moment as I realize this is the first time we have been together since the wedding and my coronation. “Fen, please. I am still Mira to you.”
I step closer, and he stiffens. Perhaps it will take more work than I thought to make the title my own after all.
“What are you working on?” I ask, my curiosity sincere.
Something softens in him—just slightly—and without the familiar spark I usually see when he’s fully consumed by passion, he gestures toward the table.
“Maps for the upcoming festivals in Veredyn. So many will make the journey for the fall festivities and trading. It’s the one time of year the nearby kingdoms gather together.” He exhales. “You would think after all these years maps would no longer be needed—and in truth, perhaps they aren’t. Still, it is tradition.”
I lean in. Slate pigments and layered greens, freshly inked calligraphy rendered in subtle variations, all denoting the same information in a dozen different ways.
“The routes stay the same,” he continues, running a hand through his hair. Smudges of pigment streak his palm and wrist—messy, meticulous work. “But the image must feel new each year. I’m finishing a few mock-ups for approval.”
“Which is your favorite?” I ask, hoping to reach the part of him that still finds joy in it.
We take our time. He explains how a particular script hasn’t been used in fifty years—yet even that may feel too recent to some. How he was sent out in the spring to survey whether the river had shifted enough to warrant any change in the lines. It hadn’t.
“My father would spend weeks divining the best paths,” he says quietly. “Some for those who wanted the safest journey. Others for those seeking adventure. He even marked when it might be worth straying to see a rare grove—something beautiful, something worth remembering.”
The wonder in his voice fades to gray, as it so often does when people speak of a time when magic was a way of life.
“Now I’m here,” he goes on, “sifting through pages to invent novelty along the same tired routes that remain our only real means of travel. He once had an entire team dedicated to the task—and that was only for thejourney from the Hold. Routes from the villages were mapped on a scale all their own.”
I start to place an arm around my companion, but he goes rigid at the movement.
“I appreciate you, Fen, for what it’s worth.”
He eases into it just so before turning flustered and awkward at my attempt to hug him even in part.
“I should deliver these before it gets too late. They need to sign off on them soon if I am going to have enough time to produce as many as they want.” He speaks reluctantly. “I shouldn’t be gone long.” He pauses as he gathers them into his arms, a haphazard stack he has to tuck into place to carry.
“I’ll be here when you get back. There are some things I’d like to talk about.” I have yet to decide how much of all that has happened I’ll share with him, but I want to start bridging the gap before any more public announcements are made. Even if it’s only about healing and long life, I’d like him to hear it from me first.
He looks back only briefly before leaving, and I find myself wondering how long it’s been since he’s had someone he’d call a friend.
Alone in the room, I return to the window. The ivy freshly watered, I check to make sure it has settled without any need for immediate care. As I do, a small shoot begins to unfurl in response. It’s amazing how even a small measure of care is answered.
Smiling at the magic between nature and myself, I look around the room with new discernment. Care really can go far, and this space—Fenloris’ office—could certainly benefit from it.
