5.06

"Had any more declarations from your faery godmother, My Lady…?"

"Of the Sea," Prince Aidan answers for me to Drake's question, his voice full of court amusement that I wouldn't have guessed false if I hadn't known it had to be. "Surely you can see that much, oh Master of the Comic Theater?"

I can't help but snicker at the realization that Drake's costume is of a jester. I wonder whose idea that was; it strikes me as something that he'd find distasteful. He probably lost a bet with Carling. He usually does lose to her.

"Well, better a costume as a jester than no costume at all."

"I have a costume." Prince Aidan keeps one hand at my elbow, blocking Drake from sweeping me onto the dance floor unless he wants to utterly affront his host. I nonetheless keep myself prepped to snatch my magic. It makes it hard to focus on what's going on around me, but the comfort of its security is well worth the distraction.

"Back in your rooms doesn't count, Your Highness—"

"I am wearing it."

I sip my punch—I decided against trying the wine, again, since it stains and I can't handle much alcohol, anyway—and eye him sidelong. The realization of what his costume is makes me choke from my surprise both at his choice and at my failure to notice it earlier.

Prince Aidan doesn't wear a royal tunic but a sturdy travel one, small sections of magical embroidery on the lapels combining to provide an overall protection against the elements.

But the clincher for his costume is the symbol etched above his heart, the one that calls him 'Elf-friend'—or, at least, that would call him that if it weren't done improperly. Considering what an insult it would be to the elf kingdoms for him to wear the full symbol without having earned it, I think the mistake was intentional.

"Ah!" says Prince Aidan. "My Lady of the Sea has named me in her mind; will she do so aloud, as well?"

"Elwyn elv'shutor" Elf-friend, I reply in fluent elvish, knowing it will help my role as an anonymous noblewoman with an obnoxious faery godmother. The goddaughter of a wacky faery can be expected to speak a little of the four major languages, and can be excused for having a felvish accent. "Father of Silva bau Faed Nirmoh." Silva, Faed Nirmoh's fiancée.

Drake doesn't look the slightest suspicious or surprised by my elvish. I feel myself smile. I've missed speaking that.

"Your pronunciation is astounding," Drake compliments me, and my smile vanishes.

"Faery godmothers," Aidan says for me with a wry grin. "And hers is quite the gossip."

"That so? Which one is she?"

"Lady…" I know Aidan knows this answer, but he pretends to think. "I can't remember at present. Would your sister mind if I…?" He nods at me.

A chill spikes me as Drake laughs. No, Carling wouldn't mind if Aidan prefers another. She'd relish it—encourage it, even. An absent husband would leave her more free to pursue her other interests, namely magery, figuring out how to rob her elder brother of his kingdom without her father blocking her, that sort of thing.

"Oh, no! I can say most definitively that she will not take affront whatsoever you choose to do with your lady of the sea." His impish grin says he means that entirely.

And I know he's right. Unfortunately.

As Drake's eyes scan the crowd for another pretty lady, some negative emotion flashes over Aidan's features before he resumes his court politeness. "Shall we dance?" he asks me.

"I can't dance."

Aidan glances at my gown. "I suppose you can't, with that skirt." As if I could dance in any skirt.

He notices someone across the room and tucks my arm under his, relieving me of my cup of punch and handing it off to a passing servant.

"I was drinking that."

He ignores my protest. "At least pretend to be enjoying yourself, please," he mutters at me as we head that way.

"What's to say I'm not?"

"Because I know you," he insists, intentionally touching my arm. He promptly removes it and briskly brushes his fingers with his thumb. "And your chill suggests that you really, really dislike being here."

I scowl at him, not that he can see it with my mask. "You know why." He told me at Rowan's birth that he met Mother.

He sighs, freeing his arm from under mine for a moment as he rearranges his jacket to provide more of a barrier between his skin and mine. "Of course I do, you silly girl. You make it so obvious, with your, shall we say, bodily effects…"

Heat overtakes me when I realize what he's doing. "Please stop."

He frowns. "Stop…?"

I swallow. "Flirting, Highness."

He waits a few seconds as if expecting me to continue, then a bitter smile replaces his frown. "I'm a young, forcibly-betrothed prince. I'm expected to flirt with whatever lady is on my arm. To do otherwise would announce…" Now he looks vaguely uncomfortable. "…Undue interest. Surely you know that much of court protocol."

I flinch. His flippant references to my birth burn more than idle gossip. "How would I?!" My words sound unduly sharp even to my own ears.

We reach Aidan's goal, Silva and the man beside her. It takes me a long moment to recognize Faed Nirmoh. I yank my arm away from Prince Aidan. "F—faed," I stammer and curtsy before the faery.

He bows graciously, just as he did a few years ago when he rescue—er, recovered me from that locked closet. "Your Highness."

I'm not imagining the smirk I glimpse sidelong on Aidan's lips before he quickly drops it. I stammer my protest. "I—I'm not…"

Faed Nirmoh nods at his fiancée, kisses her hand, and turns and takes my arm to guide me towards the refreshments. Whereas most people actually dance at a ball, I seem to be eternally guided to the refreshments. A hint that I need to eat more, maybe? "I'd hoped I'd get a chance to talk to you."

A faery wanting to talk to a quarter-elf royal bastard with a prophecy looming over her head that she'll somehow instigate the destruction of three fire mages with a regiment of gryphons at their disposal, while all involved attend the selfsame ball. Somehow, I doubt his desire is to pay a social call on Queen Yuoleen's granddaughter.

I swallow back the acrid taste coming up my throat before I shame Prince Aidan any more than I already have at this Scoreyear ball of his.

"Silva says you do unusually well with magic for someone your age."

Yes, I can work with magic a lot more easily than is normal for a sixteen-year-old girl. I blame my father who-was-also-my-uncle for that. Sweat drips down my face.

He hands me a glass of chilled water, not looking at me. "You know you can't stay here when the Crown Prince's betrothed becomes his wife."

I shudder. Of course I know!

"Where will you go?"

"Where can I go?" escapes my lips.

Faed Nirmoh pauses and looks at me. His greyish brown eyes steadily remain on my face. "Salles has many resources, allies. You expect to be able to hide once Carling has them at her disposal?"

I shrug. I don't like this conversation.

"You know you are the redeemer of Marsdenfel."

"How?! What am I supposed to do? I can't even make biscuits without turning the kitchen into a battlefield!"

His smile is amused. "Well, if we knew the answer to that, we wouldn't need you, now would we?"

I want to slap him; he isn't the one with an impossible prophecy looming over his head. "I—"

He takes my cup from me and sets it down, then takes my hands in his, ignoring their heat. "Trust the Creator," he says gently. "He's decreed this; He'll make it work. Maybe a battlefield kitchen will be precisely the opening one of the old guardians—" protectors of the court, the elfin knights "—will need to strike. The Creator has a reason for all this."

"Easy for you to say," I mutter. "You're not stuck between two princes who want you as mistress and their sister-fiancée who wants you dead." Remembering that he is a faery stops my wonder at my free tongue with him. He's probably magically encouraging it.

Faed Nirmoh draws a sharp breath. "Aidan doesn't want you as his mistress." I just look at him. He frowns. "He wouldn't do that to you."

"That would be difficult after I'm dead."

The honey-skinned faery hides a smile. "That may be the Creator's will." He watches me thoughtfully. "You'd prefer that, wouldn't you? It would make it… easier. No future, no beau to worry about…"

I laugh before I can contain it. "Beau?!" I can't stop it; it's too funny, this faery talking as if I might actually have an opportunity for a legitimate husband, children.

Me. Child by incest with an illegitimately-born mother. Have a legitimate family. Right.

I gasp sharply, aghast hiccups entering my laughter as I realize that a faery is the one saying these things. A faery. A prophet. Oh, may the Creator help me! "I—I'm not…" Silva approaches and takes her fiancé's arm away from me.

"Aidan would wed you, were he free," Faed Nirmoh says quietly.

That bites, the fear and ice grabbing hold of me as I'm again reminded that Prince Aidan likes me more than is proper for a prince to like his servant. "Don't flatter me!" I snap. Even if Aidan were so inclined to wed a bastard whelp as myself, his father would never allow such a union that would harm Salles—and if his father didn't block it, I know the council would. I would.

I look around the ballroom. Aidan stands near Carling, again, and I can see from his posture that he really doesn't want to be there. I bite my lip. It would be strange for me to avoid her, the betrothed of the prince who hosts this ball.

As I force myself towards them, I overhear Faed Nirmoh tell Silva, "I should not have told her that."

And Silva answers with a smile in her voice, "Yes. Yes, you should've."

5.05

When I finally gain the courage to obey Prince Aidan's command, the dances have begun. He acknowledges me with a nod as he sweeps by, Carling, of all women, in his arms!

I gasp. Drake, Carling… He knows what they are! Does he know the woman he dances with nearly destroyed Salles by the Shadow?

"Prince Aidan is a fine young man, don't you agree?"

I nearly faint at Father's low voice, but I cannot afford for him to notice me. I am an adult, now, and liable to curses. I turn—and find Father addressing me! Yie!

"Of course," I murmur politely, speaking softly enough that I sound in control of my voice. I am terrified. Prince Aidan must've known he would be here, too, and probably that I look too much like Mother for my own good. Why else would he have given me a mask?

Father stands with his arms crossed, the same heavy crown on his head that I remember being thrown at Mother, one evening. He doesn't even hide the Bynd he wears around his neck. That necklace, made of the magically infusible metal naril, his father stole from Queen Yuoleen. It gives him undisputed and magically-enforced authority over the elves of her kingdom. The orange tunic he wears melds well with the grey-orange glow of the Bynd.

His auburn beard and pate are well trimmed, and he lacks the mustache I remember. "He will be my son-in-law by Midsummer's Eve of next year. I am looking forward to the union of our families."

Aidan's betrothed is Carling?!

I freeze blank-minded for a long moment before a perplexed glance from him snaps me back into thinking, and thinking quickly. His comment demands a response.

Oh, yie! What would a princess answer? …What would… Carling… say? "Of course you are. It is always gratifying when children keep to their parents' promises."

Yie! That's too much like Mother!

I glance around, spotting gryphons by each of Prince Aidan's guards. I pretend not to see them, though. My mask might be fooling Father but it will not fool them. …Will it?

I know so little of mage spells and their keepers. I shan't risk it. But I tentatively grip the magical threads around me in case I need a quick fire.

Father is watching me, amused. "You've heard the rumors. They're wrong. My daughter's handmaid Endellion took her own life, casting herself into a bonfire when I refused to take her, my half-sister, as mistress."

"Liar!" How dare—

Yie! What have I done?!

Everyone is frozen, even me. I can barely breathe, watching Father, eyes wide beneath my mask.

Father looks startled. His lips curl up as if he's not sure to laugh or be angry. I sense the Bynd pull towards me, preferring me a blood heir over him, the owner by coercing an heir. I can't let him notice it! I must speak!

But my tongue freezes within my mouth—Yie!

"My lady, I've asked you to please keep your godmother's declarations to yourself." Prince Aidan grabs my arm and guides me away. I stumble, the gown's seemingly delicate fabric straining at my shoulder. "I know she's loud, but—

The little door closes, and we're back in the servant hall. He removes my mask and wipes my tears from my cheeks. I try to turn my face away, but he doesn't let me.

"They're not that bad people, really, housemaiden."

I gape at him. Can he really believe those lies? My blood freezes, again… I freeze.

He grins at me. "Just power-hungry."

I restore my mask. "Hungry for more than power, Your Highness," I say quietly.

The prince frowns. "What do you mean?" He turns and comes after me as I head down the hall, but he doesn't stop me. "—I'm serious. I want to know."

My knees give out as I break into sobs. He catches me, letting me cry against him. I cannot pull myself away, though I try. Feebly. I feel him shiver to touch me. My tears leave rivulets of ice behind.

"Why—why Carling?"

His sigh rumbles in his chest. "Her grandfather helped mine conquer Salles. Carling won't hurt you. You're under my jurisdiction, not hers."

"No, she'll only call the Shadow again!"

He stiffens. "…That was her work?"

"And when that doesn't work, again, she'll curse me!" I retort, a little stronger—strong enough to sob on my own legs with my back against the wall, anyway.

"Curse you?!"

But I continue quickly on, not stopping to answer him, my voice's pitch rising. "And then Drake will come to visit one day and—and—" I choke "—me, like Father did his half-sister and—"

"Housemaid!"

I keep babbling. "—And then when I don't let him curse my daughter, he'll put the fire on me like Father did Mother—"

"Housemaid!"

"—and beat my baby until she runs away—"

"Evonalé!" He shakes me—then crushes me against his chest. "No one will harm you," he murmurs in my ear.

Terror takes over. I slap him. He stagers back and releases me. " 'No one will harm you'?!" I shriek. "You're the one who wants me for your mistress!"

Prince Aidan looks as if I've… I don't know. Told him I'm having his child? "…I what?!"

"You don't want anyone else to have me, and you—" My shoulder shivers. I wave at the silver mermaid gown. "Treat me like I'm yours!"

"But you—you're my friend!"

The frustration in his voice stops me from fleeing. I don't look at him.

"I'm trying to take care of you, Evonalé. I remember the little girl my dogs found when they should have been after a deer." I hear him approach. I jump when his hand brushes my side. "I remember the first time I saw you grimace from… nothing. And then, those scars… Who tortured you?"

I turn myself away from his hand. "I—I don't know what you're talking about." How did he learn of those?

"Ygrain told me," he says quietly. "Silva had to help her when you fell over the chicken fence; she couldn't determine what was wrong. Your injuries weren't natural. Only magical torture could cause scar tissue to form that way. Who hurt you?"

"They all did." I'm not fool enough to believe him when he says he doesn't want me. "Carling, mostly," I admit to be honest. "They're all fire mages. They took control of the Crystal-elves in my grandmother's day," because of my grandmother's naïveté. I speak stonily, and my eyes on him well suit my tone of voice.

"Do you know why?"

I turn away, arms crossed. I don't reply.

"Housemaid—" He catches himself. "Evonalé, please. If you know… I want to help."

An ant crawls out of a crack in the floor. I watch it scurry across the stone. "You cannot help my people."

"But—"

"You cannot help—is that not clear?" I interrupt before he can convince me otherwise.

Prince Aidan watches me few seconds and nods slowly. "It is clear, Your Highness."

I chill further at his words. "I'm no princess."

He sighs and returns my mask to me. "Of course not." He looks up the hall towards the ballroom. "Now if you'll come, our dance is waiting."

"I can't dance."

"Then we'll have refreshments together. If you avoid them now, it'll only make them more suspicious."

I scowl at him, though he cannot see it for my mask. Slow-footed to show him my displeasure, I obey.

5.04

The month after Solstice and my birthday passes quietly enough, though I can't stop myself from keeping an eye out for gryphons.

My nerves are no better now that Prince Aidan's Scoreyear ball is at hand.

"A ball!" Geddis squeals, rushing and screeching and dancing around me, depending on what she wants to do each particular moment. "Can you believe we're to attend a ball?!"

"In your case, most certainly not," I comment, brushing some flour off my sleeve. The castle kitchen was so overwhelmed when preparing for this affair that even I was drafted to help.

"I'm an oh, so-elegant faery," sing-songs Geddis as she pretends to drift gracefully around this small courtyard area, narrowly escaping a run-in with a bush. "I'm a…" Her voice trails off as she eyes me. "Don't you have something to wear?"

"I wasn't going to wear it to the ovens. Would you wait while I get it on?" I direct her to a bench. "And do avoid screaming anyone deaf, please." Don't ask me who thought it was a good idea to have the same girl taste test all the desserts. We're both sixteen, and therefore adults, but you wouldn't think it of Geddis to see her, right now.

I go to a nearby room where I left my gown. I pull it on, still unused to my newly mature body. I chose to make the colors opposite of the faery gown, mimicking the design, too. I made it a poorer version, since I cannot—at least, dare not—claim any connection to special blood. Cotton fabric instead of magical; thread knots instead of sapphires. Though I've omitted the high neck and train.

When I return, Geddis sits as I left her, her erratically swinging feet the only sign that she's had far too much sugar, taste-testing frostings. I let out my breath and guide her towards the ballroom. I'd feared Prince Aidan might have been waiting for me, instead of Geddis. I haven't seen him since my birthday a month ago, though I'm sure he's the one who returned me to my room.

And now I am sixteen.

The prince is twenty. Next year, he will wed his betrothed and bring her back to the castle. I hope she isn't as cruel as my half-sister, Carling.

I walk in as gracefully as I can. From the corner of my eye, I can tell that I do better than Geddis, who trips on her way in and gapes at the wealth surrounding her. I burn with embarrassment for Silva's sake. Surely Geddis knows better!

Silva stands near Prince Aidan, likely discussing royal matters since she is the Prophetess of the King—and then Geddis runs their way, attracting their attention. I almost back out through the doorway.

Silva accepts her sister's ecstatic attentions with little sign of her irritation besides the one-handed toying with the ring on her left little finger. She and Prince Aidan exchange a respectful nod, and he leaves her with her sister.

And he comes towards me.

I quicken my step after Geddis. Prince Aidan catches me around the waist, turning me around and guiding me towards the refreshments. "Silva can manage her. Come along."

I obey, avoiding the glances many of the guests send our way. If even I know what the gossips say of me, surely Prince Aidan does. And here he further feeds the rumors. The guests give me a wide berth and knowing looks, not even considering the possibility that their presumed knowledge is false.

The prince does not release me until we reach the wine table. He pours half a goblet for each of us. "Here. Drink."

I raise mine and take a tiny sip. The alcohol nips my mouth, but I know it'll help me relax a bit, avoid doing anything stupid like freezing in fright. I take some more—

And sputter it back in, for in the silver goblet's reflection I see a face I have only seen in my nightmares for the past six years.

"Drake!" Prince Aidan guides him my way. "Meet my late sister's former handmaiden, Nallé—"

I drop my goblet, red wine splashing and staining only my gown, since Prince Aidan is far enough away and other nobility avoid me. The prince comes to my aid, but I'm more concerned about Drake. "I beg your pardon, most honored sir!" I hastily say, head down as if I'm worried only about the mess I am mopping up with my skirt.

I look so much like Mother—surely even he could recognize me from my face!

From the corner of my I, I can tell that Prince Aidan looks from me to Drake a moment, then back again. "Nallé, you know I've told you to be more careful."

"Forgive me, Highness. I—I… I'm doing better!"

His hand cups my shoulder—the same one he stroked two years back. I suppress a shiver. "I'll get some rags. Will you walk with me, Drake?"

Drake pauses before replying, giving me a suspicious glance that I pretend not to see. "Of course." I listen for more. "My sister had a serving girl clumsy like that, once. The girl couldn't appreciate a good home and abandoned my sister to the slaves' care. I can't imagine the whelp was taken in anywhere else…"

I stop listening and keep cleaning. Drake used to relish telling tales twisted to somehow make me to blame—particularly during those rare moments when Father was amiable towards me. Those times never lasted long.

Prince Aidan, of all people, gets on his knees beside me and mops up the last of it. He helps me up in my wine-soaked gown. He eyes me critically and shakes his head. "This will never do. Come."

I have little choice but to obey. "I—I'd rather retire to my chambers, Aidan. I cannot stay in this."

"I suspected something like this would happen." He opens one of the servants' concealed doors and leads me down the small hallway. "So I took the liberty of—"

His arm lashes out and grabs me before I can run. "Oh, don't be silly." I struggle, but he holds me tighter and manhandles me into a little room, locking the door behind him. "If you insist on being troublesome, I'll change your clothes for you, myself."

"Yie—no!" I cry, wrapping my arms around my bodice. "Please!"

He sighs and turns so his back is to me. "Just put that on." He sounds tired as he points to something behind us. I whirl about and gasp.

"Put it on, housemaid."

Glancing fearfully over my shoulder at him, I hastily strip myself of the soaked sapphire blue gown and pull on the silvery one he demands. He remains with his back turned.

My new gown is of elven fabric. Authentic, by the feel of it. The mermaid skirt billows out to the floor at the bottom, allowing me to walk barefoot.

The simple style does not betray the fabric's makers, though the shimmering almost scale-looking quality of the skirt might. The sleeves end at my wrists, and the neckline droops between my shoulders, the bodice designed to resemble seashells. Made by elves who are friendly with the undine, then? Probably telves.

"And, of course, you cannot be a lady if you do not play the games." He hands me a mask, designed to complete the masquerade. It's of good quality. I look at Aidan. He must've planned this all along, for me to attend his ball as if a lady.

"I won't wear this."

"You will if I order it. Must I?"

I shiver and blink back tears, the tears of fear turning to tears of pain as my temperature freezes them in my eyes and I have to pry them out. "Please," I make myself ask. "Don't give me to them."

"Shh." He smoothes my hair and sets the mask in place. "Of course I won't. That's what all this is for." I could almost think him friendly like his father at that, but then he lifts my chin with one hand. "Don't you see?" he asks quietly, smiling slightly. "They would never expect us to hide you under their noses."

'Us.' Is His Majesty also behind this plan, then?

"I—I can't!" I gasp. He gently takes me by the shoulders. "I can't do this!"

"Evonalé." His expression is sympathetic but firm. "You don't have a choice. You know they'll be sending the gryphons through the castle shortly to look for 'Nallé.' Silva can't block them, not without attracting too much attention. And Fael Honovi—well, that would give your location away if she got involved, now wouldn't it?"

He knows everything. Tears still form. "I can't," I whisper, my skin crawling from his touch. Is this what I must chose, Drake or Aidan, my half-brother or my… prince? Am I doomed to prove the gossips right?

Better to prove the gossips right than to be in Mother's place. I flinch at the thought. But I can't do this, can't go consciously nearer to them!

"Yes, yes, you can come out. You must." Aidan goes and unlocks the door. "I always thought you reminded me of someone," he says lightly. "Come out when you're ready."

And he leaves me alone in this dress.

5.03

Black. White. Grey. I half-recognize the empty hallway despite the haze and lack and color that harm my view. Etchwork decorates the walls. It's far more tastefully expensive than anything Father had in Grehafen, yet the elaborate work itself doesn't match anything in Salles.

Though I feel like I know this place, it's not in a good way. The icy cold of terror holds me in her claws, and I'm not sure that she shouldn't.

I look both ways down the hallway. I can't see far thanks to the fog, but I don't hear anyone, either. Silence greets me but for my abnormally loud breathing and heartbeat that resound in my ears.

It's as I realize what I hear that I notice the faint thump-thump! of another heartbeat beneath my own. Or am I that infant heartbeat?

A moan awakens me, and I realize that the sound is also me.

Parts of me feel burned, others frozen. Yie! The itching! Even the unnerving strangeness of the dream must be dismissed with how bad this is.

"It's all right, miss," I hear one of Ygraine's nurses say. "You'll be all right."

"I know I'm all right!" I snap, pulling myself up. I see her nasty peat-filled poultices on my scrapes and cast them off. I can't stand peat. Nor could Mother, actually.

She tries to stop me, but I don't let her. I show her the blistering rash from under one of her poultices, and she covers her mouth with her hands. She blinks back tears. "Oh! Forgive me! I didn't know!"

"Most don't!" I tell her through gritted teeth as I get the last of them off. That I'm allergic to peat isn't something I like advertising. I limp to my washbasin and rinse of the reacting parts of my skin off.

I glimpse myself in the mirror.

My face has changed already. In the mirror I see that the nurse still cries into her hands for hurting me, for triggering my allergy. I risk a look at my ear.

I comb my hair back over it with my fingers. It's not as bad as it could be, but it's enough. I will never be able to pass as a human with my hair up. Never.

"You can leave," I say briskly, trying not to let my voice crack. My complexion is as clear as ever, curse it. Curse it and my body's characteristic sixteen-year-old shift. Will the whispers reach Father? "I can manage myself."

The well-meaning nurse nods sadly and leaves, still teary-eyed. "I'm so sorry, miss—I—"

"Didn't know, I know," I interrupt. "Go on. They're only rashes."

Once she leaves I sit on my bed and stare at them, wondering if I know any spells that will help. Peat rashes, yie! I've forgotten how bad they are!

…Or are they worse now that I am sixteen?

I don't want the answer to that. I examine my form in the mirror, fear clamping my chest. Drake would be elated to find me.

I am a young woman.

5.02

My birthday's tomorrow, on Solstice. Prince Aidan's Scoreyear ball will be a month after that. He's called it in honor of his late sister and others who fell prey to the now-gone Shadow. His Subyear ball honored his mother.

I've overheard the servants of visiting princes and rulers murmur about his unusual faithfulness to the dead. Some think it a good thing, a sign that he'll respect old ways and traditions when he becomes king; others think it foolish, or worry that it could lead to an interest in dark magics or necromancy. (Though any sage knows that necromancy rivals alchemy in its ineffectiveness.)

My gown is all but finished—a few places like the hips and bust have been left unsewn, that I may finish them to fit once my form matures.

I will be sixteen tomorrow.

I've been granted the day off. To rest because I've been working too hard, Silva says, but it's a shallow cover. Everyone at least suspects me of being elfin; any normal girl would have matured some by now. I haven't. But after tomorrow, when I leave my rooms a woman and no longer a girl… They'll know.

I don't want to grow up. I don't want to be hurt as Mother was.

Silva sent me to bed hours ago, but I can't sleep. I'll sleep tomorrow, as my body changes in a day like the other races do over years. That day's slumber will be dreamless, Mother warned me. Warned—for it is through dreams that elves are made aware of what goes on around us while I sleep.

Mother never knew I'm not elfin enough for that.

My dreams are human: memories and fears given life. The nightmares of being a queen—his queen—are the most disconcerting. That isn't possible.

A faint glow comes from the mild moonlight. I stand in it, comforted. I look up at the moon's crescent and know instinctively it is nigh midnight. Soon we will have a new moon. I'll harvest linashor while I can, tonight; when I'm a woman, the faeries will heed my request far less often. Fael Honovi will not have any legal leverage to coax the linashor tenders to give me their crops.

This morning I noticed that an apple tree sits close to my tall narrow window. Well, I've noticed it before; but only now that I dare try it.

I use my bed to step onto the windowsill. I'm small enough to fit without stooping or squeezing too much. I look more like I am eleven than fifteen.

I turn slightly, careful with my footing, bracing myself against the windowsill. I stare at the ground, which looks so high up from here. I can barely walk down steps—and here I am trying to climb out a window! I'm a fool!

But when I look a few windows over, I can see the glimmer of light from Prince Aidan's lamp, from where he awaits me in the hall. I cannot go out the other way, not without him noticing.

I don't want to face him, tonight.

I'm slow, careful as I crouch and grab the apple tree's branch. I grip the branch tightly—too tightly, I realize when my white-knuckled grip gives out.

I bite back a cry and land hard on the cobblestones; they bite my skin. But scrapes won't kill me. I scramble behind the apple tree's trunk, to hide myself.

The window creaks open. Light pours into the courtyard from his window. It moves, looking for me.

I hold my breath as it illuminates the tree. Can he see my silhouette in the lamp's light?

After a few seconds that take forever to pass, the light is dimmed, and the window whines shut.

I let out a heavy sigh. He knows I'm out. He must. I can only hope he'll respect my obvious desire to be left alone.

I hurry out to the field where I usually harvest linashor. I scramble over the fence and focus on plucking linashor.

"May I join you?"

I look up sharply. Prince Aidan stands, silhouetted in the moonlight. I hide my frown. I didn't want his company tonight, not the night before I'll become a woman, not with what people already think he does to me.

When I don't reply, the prince assists me with the search for the filaments. There is very little out tonight. I must…

Dizziness overwhelms me. I sway and drop forward on my knees. Mother never told me I was born at night!

He catches my arm. "Evonalé?"

Everything fades to black.

I am now sixteen.

5.01

Year 248 of the Bynding

The Kingdom of Salles

Winter,
at Solstice

It was the wars' fault. When men fight, women often pay for it as subjects of the violence. Our mages soon learned to protect girls by magically accelerating or delaying their shifts into womanhood.

This ultimately cost us womanhood's variability. For every she-elf, it comes swiftly on the sixteenth birthday. No magic can change that, now.

—Endellion

---

Finally, I finish the edgework on the last dress in my pile and put it aside. My fingertips ache from all the needlework. Solstice—and the human New Year celebrations that accompany it—overloads seamstresses with orders.

Last-minute demands for alterations and adjustments for the festive attire have meant that not only am I helping Miss Trelanna while my castle duties wait, but Lallie, Geddis, and even Silva work with me.

Silva winks my way while she pulls her own needle through her fabric swiftly, without magical aids. She seems oblivious to the detail that her aunt made sure to give her tasks easy enough that even she can't mess them up. "The pile's nearly done, at least."

"Good, good," Miss Trelanna declares. "Everything will be done by morning for clients to pick…" —her eyes narrow at one of the pieces in Geddis's pile, which she takes and examines— "…up." She scowls at her niece. "What did you do to this seam?!"

I glance at it and flinch; Geddis forgot to turn the fabric wrong side out before she sewed. The sixteen-year-old woman blinks back tears. Her fingers are more red and raw than mine; she's also been working on her household samplers for prospective husbands.

Without commenting I take the trousers from Miss Trelanna and commence removal of the seam Geddis had put in, carefully keeping its alignment with pins and chalk. Trelanna's been having me do embroidery and repair for decorative parts of garments, not actual alteration work. My fingers aren't nearly as raw as Geddis's.

I recognize the size and cut of the trousers with a practiced glance. They look like… "Are these Prince Aidan's?"

Silva quickly hides a wry smile and shakes her head at Geddis's startled expression. Her aunt isn't so polite. "What, you in the habit of seeing them off his body?!" she snaps.

I jerk, the trousers falling from my hands as I flush and heat from embarrassment. "No—I mean—not—"

"Prince Aidan's clothing is often in need of mending, Aunt," Silva interrupts wryly, calmly continuing her stitchery, though the muscles by her eyes tighten, and she twists the ring on her left little finger with the same hand's thumb. "I've told you not to heed gossip."

Miss Trelanna huffs. "Hard not to, when everyone's chattering about His Highness's not-so-new mistress."

My temperature soars further. I feel sweat start to form on my back.

"He doesn't have a mistress, Aunt." Silva's tone is studiously bored. I recognize it as the one she uses when nobles insist on believing certain 'expert' predictions over Silva's prophecies. "Assuming he did, it would be Nallé, and he hasn't misused Nallé—"

"So certain," Trelanna scoffs.

Lallie snickers, startling everyone but Silva who probably foresaw it. "He's alive, isn't he?"

Trelanna frowns. "What does that have to do with—"

"Fael Honovi?" Lallie asks.

Geddis begins laughing hysterically, Silva rolls her eyes, and Miss Trelanna actually has the grace to look embarrassed. "Oh, my!"

I slowly pick the trousers back up, pretending that I'm not considering their reactions. "You know her?"

"Please. She's barely sane enough to not be—"

"Geddis." Silva's soft interruption nonetheless sounds a bit tart. I remember the prophetess's unavoidable future date with insanity. "Our father is good friends with Fael Honovi. She… protects certain individuals."

Queen Yuoleen and her line. …At least, the illicit lineage that ended up being her line. As far as Fael Honovi protects anyone. Fortunately, people gossip enough about Fael Honovi's homicidal tendencies that they tend to forget who she's homicidal for.

"Faed Nirmoh—" Silva's beau, I remember "—keeps an eye on her." Silva finishes the seam she's sewing, knots her thread, hides the end, and snips it. "How's that seam coming, Nallé?"

I return to the work, my fingers managing the familiar task with innate ease. But they're slick with sweat, and that makes it more difficult than usual. I concentrate on lowering my temperature back to normal, despite my embarrassment. Despite the shame that gossip has placed on me.

Miss Trelanna clears her throat. "I… apologize for my prior rudeness," she states. That doesn't change what the gossips say. And that she herself so easily believed them even though she knows me.

"Let me kiss it and make it all better," Lallie mocks, shaking her head at the looks Miss Trelanna and I give her. I'm not sure that I like this side of Lallie. "Of course, Nallé must positively forgive your indiscretion since you had no idea what you were doing…" She snips some stray threads and rethreads her needle.

"That's not what I—"

"How many gossips did you contradict, Trelanna, when they stood in your store primly shredding an innocent girl's reputation?"

"I—" Miss Trelanna sighs. "I suppose I should've done more than ask them to keep their tongues on what they know and not assume."

Quiet resumes as we continue working, Geddis even more slowly than before to make sure she stitches properly. The shameful gossip has probably destroyed any marriageable reputation I had, true, but that isn't what bothers me. I never had any real prospects to begin with. Not with my parentage.

Miss Trelanna's admission that she shouldn't have believed so readily is probably as much of an apology as I'll get from anyone. "Thanks," I say. And I mean it, as much as Miss Trelanna meant her apology.

Lallie's comments make me wonder… "Do you really think…" I remember the night I fled Aidan, and I force myself to finish my question. "Do you really think that Fael Honovi would… kill… His Highness if he…"

"If your godmother didn't, his father would," Silva says briskly.

I flinch. And then Aidan would be yet another person to die because of me. Because of the prophecy that makes others protect me.

So many people have already died because of me. Gaylen. Mother. Queen Maitane. Mister Woad, Princess Claiborne, and the other victims of the Shadow, like Lallie's husband. I owe it to them to die, to disallow others to be killed due to who and what I am.

But not too soon. Too soon, and I won't be able to destroy Father's control over Marsdenfel. That's what I have to do; that's how I'll die. Gaylen foresaw that I have to be the one to recover the Bynd—the necklace-held spell that keeps the elf Crystal tied to Queen Yuoleen's relations—to restore the Crystal to the elves, to free the kingdom specially linked to our Crystal.

Unfortunately, in all the visions he had of it, Gaylen never thought to write an instruction manual.

I finish the trousers and take a few more items from Geddis's pile. Her fingers look awful.