I’ve gotten better at ignoring my body’s reaction to these moments in the last week—the jolt of discomfort when anyone gets too close or blocks my access to an exit, the sharp memory of Bede’s hands on me that I replay with every brush of contact—but I still don’t like being touched. She rubs a purple poultice into the back of my hand, examining the color as she mutters to herself.
“No inflammation. Good. That should do it.”
“I’m fine, Essy,” I say, an automatic response rather than a truthful one.
“We have to make sure the potion’s doing its job, my dear. We have to keep you safe and well.”
Our carriage takes another turn as it trundles closer to the palace, my new home. Etusca has been hovering over me ever since that night when my world was turned upside down—when I went from being just Ana, the abandoned daughter of some distant nobles, to Princess Morgana Angevire, soon to be crowned the queen of Trova.
It had only taken my parents being murdered to get the freedom I wanted, the chance to leave Gallawing. Guards might still be watching me, but at least I get to see the world in return. And thankfully, these guards are new ones, sent from the palace to escort me here, rather than Marlowe and his crew.
As Etusca continues to fuss over me—checking my temperature, my complexion, assessing whether I look tired—I can’t find room in myself to care that she never told me who my parents really were. I concentrate on the view out the window to quell a wave of nausea when I think of my parents and the reality of what brought me here.
Queen Elowen and King Alaric were found stabbed in their bed eight days ago. The killer was apprehended the very same night. And their heir—kept secret from all but a very few, select members of court—was summoned from the forgotten royal property she’d been hidden away in for twenty-one years. It still sounds like a story told about someone else. I wonder how long it’ll take before anything feelsrealagain. I’d almost think this whole thing was a dream, except I couldn’t have imagined anything like this.
The city is immense. Even as I try to drink in every sight and sound, I have to remind myself not to become overwhelmed. We pass a mother carrying a baby, the infant’s attention caught by the flash of the royal insignia on our carriage. Her little hand reaches out toward the glittering gold, and her mother catches her fingers, kissing the baby’s palm.
It hurts a little, knowing what Etusca kept from me all these years.
“It will be hard getting used to people calling me queen,” I say casually, continuing to gaze out the window. “Especially when I’m still wrapping my head around ‘princess.’”
Etusca gives me a long look. She knows exactly what I’m getting at.
“I told you, my dear, I was sworn to secrecy. For your safety.” Her face flashes with pain, as it does whenever I bring up her deceit. “Every time they came to that manor, I begged them to speak to you, but I think they thought it would be too hard. To know you and have you know them—only to leave you again.”
I know she’s telling the truth; Etusca always seemed angry after those mysterious visits, though not at me. She pats my hand.
“I’m so sorry they’re gone without you having a chance to know them, Morgana. But I can assure you of this—they loved you very much.”
I don’t know how to answer. I don’t dare say it out loud, but…I didn’t love them. How could I when I didn’t know them at all? The thought of mourning parents I’ve never met unmoors me, and like a ship drifting in the mists, I’m not sure what direction my emotions are meant to steer in. Should I be inconsolable, thinking about what I’ve missed out on? Or should I be angry at them for robbing me of the chances we could have had to get to know each other?
I’m leaning toward anger—and Etusca must sense it because she reaches out to pat my arm. She opens her mouth to speak but I stop her. “We’re here.”
We pull onto a wide avenue where the bronze archways of the palace loom up ahead, casting a long shadow across the city. These, at least, I recognize from my history books. The tops of them curve upward in great swoops, decorated with polished metal acorns to make them look like branches of an oak tree.
The design is meant to symbolize the strength of the monarchy, if I remember correctly. These arches have stood for centuries, built long before my great-grandfather Palquir beat Herrydan in the War of the Laurels. He was an aesteri, and could reportedly summon great winds to pummel his enemies. When the civil war was at its height, the story goes he brought a fleet of ships up the river Potamis to take Elmere, using just his magic to power them. And now I’m expected to sit on the same throne he did.
But if the ruler of Trova is supposed to emulate a strong oak, what will my parents’ court make of me?
I haven’t been able to conjure so much as an ember since Bede attacked me. That night, after Etusca’s announcement, Marlowe had turned white as a sheet when I identified the body on my floor. Apparently, his first assumption had been that my attacker was an assassin sent to kill me. My nursemaid had just proclaimed me queen of Trova, and he no doubt realized exactly how bad it madehimlook thatBede had been able to assault me. He had the guards remove the body without asking me a single question, not even how I’d managed to burn the man to a crisp.
From his charred remains, I have to assume I’m an incendi—someone who owes their magic to the goddess Firesta, but twenty-one years of powerlessness shows that the amount of magic she gave me must be vanishingly small. When I explained my sudden burst of power to Etusca, she thanked the gods for its miraculous intervention in time to save me. But afterward, she spent more time worrying about my health than wondering about my magic, certain that my power wouldn’t turn up again.
I’m not ungrateful. I’d rather have one big event where I was able to save myself than a lifetime of being able to light candles. But it still means I don’t have anything I can use to make the court—or the kingdom—respect me as their leader. Unless it’s a matter of survival, my body is too weak to produce a single spark of flame.
The guards at the arches drop their lances in respect as our carriage passes, and I feel their curious eyes on me through the carriage window. Etusca pats my hand again, and I swallow down a surge of panic as I spot a small crowd gathered for us in a central courtyard. The pale walls of the palace soar up around us, encircling the carriage like the opening arms of some huge stone giant.
I imagine my parents spending their days here, which also makes me think about how they ended them, and I wish I hadn’t started the train of thought at all. Somewhere in this building there’s a man locked in a cell for murdering them—the fae prince sent from Filusia to act as an assassin. But I can’t think about that right now. Not when the carriage is slowing to a halt, and someone is opening the door for me.
“Morgana.”
As I step down, I realize the woman in front of me looks like an older, darker version of me—hazel eyes that could be golden in some lights, with hair plaited down to her waist, as is the custom for married women. What strikes me though, is her expression: one of hope and longing. She approaches me, and I tense automatically, even though I try to hide it. I’m glad when she doesn’t try to take my hand.
“I am Lady Rosier. Your mother Elowen is—was—” She corrects herself with a frown. “—my sister.”
“I’m honored to meet you, aunt,” I say, the final word strange in my mouth. Still, I offer her a nervous smile, and to my concern, Lady Rosier’s eyes begin to fill with tears.
“Forgive me,” she says, turning to wipe her face. “You look so much like her. Please call me Oclanna.”
