Home > Among the Beasts & Briars(5)

Among the Beasts & Briars(5)
Author: Ashley Poston

Wen finished her last knot in the flower crown and placed it on her head. She looked at herself in the reflection of one of the rose tins and sighed. “I wish the crown were actually made of flowers. It’d be a lot less gaudy.”

“But flowers don’t have magic.”

“I have enough,” she said, and with a wave of her hand, flames burst to life on the tips of her fingers. “And magic isn’t what makes a good ruler, anyway.” She snuffed out the flame, leaving the air smelling slightly of smoke and burning pine.

“No, but I’m pretty sure a lot of people wish they could do what you do.”

“It’s in my blood; I can’t help it. Like you. Well, sort of, I guess.”

I waved my hand. “It’s not the same. You can control yours, for starters. I accidentally slit a vein and, whoops, there’s a forest.”

She laughed and picked up a tin of roses to carry them out to the wagon. Out in the square, colorful ribbons were being hung, held up by large maypoles, and lanterns strung up across rooftops. The sweet aromas of sticky cinnamon buns and vegetable skewers from the food stalls mixed with the heavy smell of apple mead from the tavern had even reached the insides of the flower shop. Tonight, there would be song and dance, great ballads of the late King Merrick and his and Wen’s ancestor, King Sunder, who razed a path through the wood and returned with the crown.

Wen pushed the tin of roses into the back of the wagon and wiped her hands on her trousers as I struggled over with two more tins and heaved them in beside hers. She didn’t move for a long moment, surveying the line of trees where the Wildwood began.

“The wood is too quiet,” she said softly. “It must know my father’s dead. I should’ve been crowned the moment he died.”

I put a hand on her shoulder. “You need to mourn, Wen.”

“I don’t have the luxury to mourn,” she replied. There was a steely look in her eyes—a glimmer of the soon-to-be-crowned Queen Anwen, strategic and perceptive, the hardened shell of the girl who’d come out of the wood eight years ago. “The curse would never give me that. He’s dead, and someone needs to bear the crown. And soon. The wood is coming for us; I just know it. Aren’t you frightened? After what happened . . . ?”

“All the time,” I said, and squeezed her shoulder tightly. “But everything’ll be fine. The wood hasn’t stirred since then. Maybe it’s taken enough for a while.”

“Maybe.” But it was clear she didn’t believe me, and I didn’t believe myself, either. But then she let out a breath and pushed the wagon bed’s door up, locking it in place so the tins wouldn’t come out. “I’ll see you later today?”

“I can’t wait.”

We hugged, and then she scratched the fox behind the ears, lingering at the edge of the gardens as if she would never see them again, and started up the King’s Road to the Sundermount.

“She’s just nervous,” I told the fox as we returned into the flower shop.

It had been years since anyone had seen an ancient at the edge of the wood. Everything was fine. There was no sign of trouble. But there was a seed of doubt burrowed in my middle that I couldn’t uproot, and I didn’t know why. The black spots on the orchid, the quiet of the wood, the strange way my blood felt on edge—like it heard a call I couldn’t.

It’s nothing, I told myself as I busied myself making final preparations to head up the King’s Road to the castle.

It was just another day at the edge of the Wildwood.

As I loaded the last of the coronation arrangements into the wagon out back, Lady Ganara came to pick up her orchid bouquet. She was an older woman who lived in one of the beautiful mansions in the center of town. Her family owned the railway that came to the village, so she spent half of her seasons here and half in Somersal-by-the-Sea. She always smelled of salty waves and brisk ocean, and she wore dark blue velvet dresses that matched the sea. She crooned over how beautiful the bouquet was when I presented it to her.

“You have a green thumb just like your mother,” she said, and I flinched, even though she meant it as a compliment. “Your father, too, of course, but oh, your mother could grow some beautiful flowers.”

I gave the gray-haired woman a tight smile. “I remember.” Though each day I feel as if I forget a little more.

I saw her to the door, ready to close up the shop after she left, when she snapped her fingers and turned back to me in the doorway. “That reminds me! Miss Crestshire asked me to ask you if you’ve found anyone to dance with yet at the coronation. The baker’s son is still looking for a partner. Time is ticking, you know.”

Yes, I’ve reached the age to get married and have children, and settle into my place here. And yes, she was right. But there was something about the way she said it—time is ticking, you know—that ground against my patience. The baker’s son, Mikale, was the kind of boorish boy who I hated on principle. “If Mikale wants to dance with me, he’ll ask.”

Though it doesn’t mean I’ll accept.

“Oh, kingsteeth!” Lady Ganara laughed. “You know that’s not how boys work. I’ll tell you what,” she added, coming back to the doorway, “I’ll tell Miss Crestshire that you are interested, and she’ll tell Mrs. Margerie, who will then tell her son. I do think you would be a sweet couple. I thought, personally, you would have been so happy with the mayor’s son, Donnelly, but, well, now he’s married! You need to choose them before they’re all gone.”

“And what if I don’t want to choose anyone?” I asked, quite unable to stop myself.

Her eyes widened. She looked aghast. “Well, I believe that isn’t . . . unheard-of . . .” Though, by her tone, it wasn’t something she would have chosen, apparently.

I quickly reeled myself back in and gave a short bow. “I’m sorry, please forgive me. It’s been a stressful morning. I would love to dance with Mikale. Have a wonderful coronation day.”

“You as well,” she replied hesitantly, and left in her carriage bound for the other side of town.

I watched her down the road a moment longer before I closed the door, pressed my back against it, and slid to the ground. I wanted to kick myself for how unprofessional I’d been—Lady Ganara was one of our best customers. I didn’t need to offend her, and she was only trying to help.

The fox poked his head out from around the counter and blinked at me.

“Don’t give me that,” I told him. “I know she meant well. But can you imagine? Me, dancing with that boorish, brainless . . .” I bit my lip so I wouldn’t say something I’d regret and pushed myself up to my feet again.

I didn’t have time to sit down and take a breath. So I locked the front door, turned the sign to CLOSED, and hitched Gilda, our old mare, up to the loaded wagon out back. She neighed softly, but I fed her a sugar cube for good behavior and led her around to the front of the shop.

“You’d dance with me, wouldn’t you?” I asked her soothingly, stroking her long blond mane. “You’d be a terrible dancer, but so am I.”

She snorted in agreement.

Making sure I had everything—including a change of clothes for the coronation, tucked into the back of the wagon—I climbed up to the front seat, situating my dress neatly so it didn’t wrinkle on the ride up to the castle, when there was a high-pitched whine behind me, and I looked down from my seat on the wagon.

The fox stared up at me.

“Oh, so you’re coming along?”

His tail flicked.

“It’s going to be boring.”

He stared up at me.

“You aren’t going to like it.”

He gave another loud, high-pitched whine.

I sighed. The fox didn’t even know what I was saying, or what he was getting into, but I climbed down off the wagon, scooped him up under my arm, and placed him up beside me on the seat. There was a bit of fur around his front right paw that didn’t seem to want grow in properly anymore, a scar underneath from where the trap had snagged—and broken—his leg.

I clicked my tongue to the roof of my mouth and snapped the reins. Gilda neighed, shook her head, and started off onto the road out of the village. The wagon creaked from an old wheel, and on the dirt road the arrangements rattled in their tins.

“You really need to stop stealing food,” I chastised the fox. “One of these days you’re going to get caught—again. And I’m not going to find you in time.”

The fox didn’t seem to be paying much attention.

As Gilda trotted her way up the side of the mountain, I basked in the quiet. The Sundermount overlooked the valley where we lived, and from the highest spire of the castle you could see all the way across the valley to the countryside beyond. When we were younger, Anwen, her brother, and I—with Seren always yawning and grumbling behind—would sneak up to the spire to watch the sunrises, the smell of elderberry wine and wisteria stuck in our hair from one of the royal parties the night before.

But even from the tallest spire, I could never see far enough, neither past the mountains nor the scope of the Wildwood. Papa said the wood never ended, that the trees went on and on forever—like the tip of the horizon, where sky met land. But I knew the wood ended as all woods did, and met the sea on the other side and the world beyond. I just couldn’t see any of it, not with my naked eye.

And the prince, with every inch of his soul, wanted to.

“Why? The Sundermount is your home,” I had argued. “The wood isn’t safe.”

“Because I’d hate to die without seeing something other than the castle and the wood,” he had replied. “Anything else.”

Anwen had laughed. “Like father’ll ever give you the chance to do that.”

It had been years since I had last climbed that spire—since before the day in the wood, when the prince and Seren and my mother had vanished. I wondered if I would still see as far as I used to, and if I would think of the prince and his yearning for the horizon, or if the Wildwood had taken that, too. I couldn’t even remember his face anymore. After his death, the late King Merrick took down all portraits of him, all reminders. Because they hurt too much, Anwen had said. Her father couldn’t live with them.

   
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