Gathering Frost (Once Upon A Curse Book 1) (20 page)

"I…"

My insides knot in understanding as she trails off. Still connected through our fingers, I halt, turning to meet her suddenly confused gaze.

"Jade, I feel cold."

Maddy drops my hand as her eyes blank, lose focus. The beautifully dark skin on her face grows ashen, depleted of the energy that once filled it. Her lips open to speak, but then close, empty. As the moments pass, she continues to grow unrecognizable.

All around me, the mood shifts. The streets grow quiet, still. Hands drop lifeless to people's sides. Some even sit down on the floor, unable to remain standing. I have never seen the queen's magic in action before. I have lived with the cursed for my whole life, surrounded by it, but that was different. We were all already under the thrall. I've never watched the magic take hold. Observing it now, traces of fear and sadness trickle into my system. The city has gone comatose.

I understand why the queen waited so long. She wanted me to appreciate what I am to inherit, wanted to gift me with a display of the power I will one day hold. She finally believes she has an heir who will see the magic the way she sees it, as beautiful, wondrous, intoxicating.

But all I see is the monster I will someday become.

Silence spreads through the city as the rebels fall one by one, almost in slumber, bodies motionless on the ground except for the rise and fall of breathing chests. 

Movement catches my peripheral vision as cheers filter into my ears. The Black Hearts are descending from their hiding spots on the wall, victorious over the rebels they have sought long and hard to defeat.

I want to scream.

A burning ache fills my chest, scratches my throat, singes my eyes.

They don't even know. They have no idea who they've just ensnared, that those are not just bodies on the ground. Those are their mothers and fathers, their brothers and sisters. Those are the people who wanted to save us all from ourselves, from the queen. If they knew, they would not clap. They would weep instead.

I kneel down, tucking Maddy's hand below her cheek, giving her what little comfort I can as the magic takes hold.

"Soon," I whisper my promise.

It will all be over soon.

Commander Alburn isn't even home while I pack my things, not that I expected him to be. I've only lived under his roof for more than ten years, grew up there. He taught me to fight in the grassy backyard, hours upon hours of swordplay, archery, until my face was bright red and my body covered in bruises. Never guns though. Those were reserved for the barracks. He never cared much for them. I wonder if that's why they quickly became my favorite weapon. 

I sigh, looking at the empty walls of my childhood room. My paintings are the only things coming with me to the palace, my new home. I could not bear to let them go, couldn't imagine them growing dusty in the commander's attic. The very idea was wrong, made me squirm. The colors are too vibrant, the scenes too beautiful for such a fate. So I removed them from their frames, slightly guilty as I cut the canvases apart, and rolled them into a loose circle. The floppy cylinder now rests awkwardly in my arms. 

I wonder what the queen will think when she sees me. Will she believe it an act of defiance? I'll make something up, an explanation. I've given too much up already.

My mother.

Asher.

Maddy

The rebels.

Even the other objects in my room feel like a loss. The wooden mirror with paint chips flaking off. The colorful glass vases along my window. I was even instructed to leave all of my clothes behind, that a brand new wardrobe awaits—full of bulky skirts and unruly dresses I'm sure. I already miss my pants, the jeans I spent hours scouring the old city for, finding a few pairs that fit just right. Patches line the seams, but the wear only makes them more comfortable.

No. I've given enough up. The paintings come with me. I will need something to dream of while I wait for the warm embrace of death. 

With a final glance, I close the door and make my way to the carriage down below. If the driver thinks me strange, he does not react to the sight of my bulky cargo. He just opens the door and silently closes it behind me.

The journey ends too quickly and I arrive at the castle, greeted by another silent valet who leads me wordlessly through the dark maze of the palace, from halo to halo of candlelight, our steps echoing in the empty space.

We stop beside an ornate wooden door, already open, the first welcoming thing I've seen today. I wait in the entrance as he lights candles all around the room, bringing the space back to life. Large red curtains hang from ceiling to floor, completely opaque, blocking out the sun. The wooden bed frame is beautifully carved with flowers, culminating in an ornate canopy draped with silks. There are no books. The shelves rest empty, barren. A small vanity sits in the corner, pristine with a gold leaf mirror that looks hardly used.

Has anyone even lived in this room before? Something about it feels lonely, deserted. 

"Do you need anything else, my lady?"

It takes a second to realize he is speaking to me, though there is no one else around. I'm no lady.

"No." I shake my head and he leaves, closing the door behind him. When I am finally alone, a breath escapes my body, deep and tired. Alone once more, my shoulders droop, weary. The past few days have drained me. Gently, I place the paintings on my bed, leaving them for later, and tug open a curtain.

The effect is immediate. Light floods my dark room. The sun hits my skin, warming it, reenergizing me. Breathing easier, I pull the other half aside. As my eyes adjust to the brightness, I take in the view, disappointed. Fields and fields of green fill my vision. Beautiful. Wondrous. But not the old city, not the view I have stared at for most of my life, the one embedded in my soul. 

I turn away, retreating into the scarlet box that surrounds me. The closet is full of silky dresses, jeweled and sparkly. The vanity has makeup I've never used and brushes that are encased in pearly opal. The shelves are indeed empty. But my paintings will hopefully make this room more familiar, more like home.

A knock sounds, distracting me. A moment later, the door opens.

"Jade, welcome home."

It's the queen. I'm unused to the cheer in her voice. I've never imagined it as anything but cold. 

"Thank you," I murmur, trying to lace some excitement into the sound. "Everything is beautiful, Your Majesty."

She smiles warmly, stepping farther into my room. "There's no need for such formality, not anymore."

But I'm not sure how to respond, so I remain silent, watching her circle the small space, searching every nook. When her eyes land on the paintings covering my bed, she pauses, wrinkling her nose in distaste, but the expression passes quickly. I breathe a small sigh of relief.

My paintings have passed inspection.

"Come," she orders, taking my elbow in her hand and leading me to the vanity. Her touch brings bile to my throat, spins my stomach with nausea, as though my hatred is a physical disease. I force it down. I must act calm, detached, like the Jade she believes me to be.

With a little push, I sit in the chair, facing the mirror while the queen stands above me. The two of us could not look more different. I am dark where she is light. Brown hair. Tanned skin. Eyes blazing green and not blue. Still, there is something in the way our faces perch at the very top of our necks, strong and proud, that makes me feel we are not so different after all. The thought sends a fierce shiver down my spine, a fire scorching my skin, and I try my best not to squirm. 

"I've always wanted a daughter," she murmurs as she pulls my hair back over my shoulders. Chilly fingers bring goose bumps to my neck before releasing my skin and reaching for the brush. "My mother and I used to sit like this every night preparing for dinner. She would brush my hair until it shined just like a candle flame. I was always amazed by her nimble touch, how she twisted and braided my hair into the most wonderful creations."

The brush slides through my waves, catching knots, but I keep my face still, free of pain. Did my mother brush my hair? I don't remember. It's hard to recall even what she looked like, the sound of her voice, the touch of her hands. All I recollect is the soft cocoon of safety that always sheltered me, kept me warm. I knew when she was there that I had nothing to fear.

Completely different from my life now.

Each new day brings a new terror. All because of the woman standing over me, touching me as though we are close, as though she has earned some privilege. And I must let her.

"As I got older, I would sit where you are, imagining that one day I would have a daughter who sat like a perfect princess while I twirled her hair."

I watch the queen in the mirror. Her eyes have grown softer, darker, filled with concentration as her fingers move in rhythm, up and down, up and down. The angles on her face don't seem quite as harsh. Is this the woman Asher would have known had he been born a girl? Could so small a detail really have made so large an impact?

"In a few days' time, we will be like family. The ceremony will connect us through magic you can't even begin to understand, but I will teach you how to wield it."

I bite my cheeks to keep from grinning. I have a timeline. In a few days' time, I will kill the queen. But I don't say that. Head downcast, I murmur, "I am excited to learn, Your Majesty."

Queen Deirdre pulls on my hair, braiding it, forcing my head back up.

Our eyes meet in the reflection.

I pause, worried that she has read my thoughts, that she can sense the revulsion coursing through my veins, the pit of anger boiling in my chest.

But a wide smile spreads across her lips, maybe the first real one I've ever seen lighten her frosty features. "I would like you to call me Mother, Jade," she says, voice fragile. Do I dare say vulnerable?

In that moment, I understand two things very clearly.

First, that I truly am immune to the queen. Even her magic cannot crack the shell around my heart if she cannot sense that Mother is the last thing I would ever truly call her.

Second, that hope is a weapon even evil things cannot defeat. The gleam in her eye is unmistakable. She wants to believe that she is on the brink of making all of her dreams come true.

So I open my mouth. I say a word I never thought I would gift to her. But in it, I have sealed her fate. "Mother," I whisper, a small nervous smile on my lips, eyes shining bright—not out of joy, but out of victory.

Without her powers, the queen does not know the difference. She looks away, swallowing, but the grin comes back to her lips, giddy, almost girlish. "Good," she says, pinning my hair in a perfect knot atop my head and then stepping away. "I will see you later tonight for dinner. Wear one of your new dresses."

"I will," I say, and then I force one more word out just to drive the point home, "Mother."

After the queen is gone, it takes all of my willpower not to scream. Instead, I rip the pins from my hair, breathing heavily, shaking violently until my curls fall naturally once more.

I want nothing to do with her. I don't want her castle. I don't want her magic. I definitely don't want her affection. I ache to toss it all away.

But I can't.

So instead, I stomp to the bed to retrieve my paintings. They will calm me. They will let me escape into daydreams just as they always have. But the canvases have rolled off my bed while the queen was here, as though afraid of her, so I bend, searching the floor until I spot them under the mattress. Reaching, I pull. But just beyond the bundle rests a little box tucked in the corner, almost hidden in the folds of the curtains. I grab it, intrigued.

This is just the distraction I needed.

A mystery. 

I lift the wood onto my lap, running my fingers over the smooth edges. The dark stain is broken by a few hints of the natural grain hidden below. The carving is simple, just a rectangle with no extra grooves, no miniature sculptures or words. The only adornment is a little metal plate etched with the words, "For my son. To keep your dreams safe."

I ease open the lid, intrusive, wondering what secrets are stored inside, but all that waits are papers. Scrawls and crude pictures cover the pages. I reach in, lifting a small bundle loosely bound with string. The front cover reads,
The Lonely Prince and the Fearsome Dragon.

I open the fragile page, trying not to bend the paper as I read the first few lines of the story.
Once there was a lonely prince who lived in a lonely palace all by himself.
The prince is drawn below, a big circle of a face, yellow squiggles for hair, eyes a bright purple. Suddenly I know who this is, even with the most childish of drawings, I understand.

Asher.

The box was his. The stories are his. What else was a boy to do, all alone in a castle with no friends, no mother who bothered to pay attention to him? The lonely prince…

My heart grows heavy. A tickle burns the back of my throat.

I should not be looking at these. They are too private. Too personal. Still, I cannot stop my fingers from turning the small page, reading what comes next.

His kingdom was under the spell of a fearsome dragon. No one remembered who they were.
This page contains the image of a yellow dragon with bright blue eyes standing over the houses below. The identity of this character is all too obvious, even without the crown balanced on its forehead.

The queen.

I keep reading, ignoring the pictures, focusing on the story.

The lonely prince knew what he needed to do. He needed to slay the dragon and free his friends so no one was lonely anymore. So he found the dragon's lair and faced the fearsome dragon.

When the lonely prince began to charge, the dragon sat down. "I don't want to fight," she said. The dragon did not look so fearsome anymore. She looked lonely, like the prince.

The prince put down his sword. "Release my people," he said. But the dragon shook her head. "Then I'll be alone." The prince touched her long snout. "We can be alone together."

The prince and the dragon were never lonely again.

I close my eyes tight. My chest constricts painfully.

Oh Asher, what a beautiful dream. 

I understand now why he hesitated, why he could not shoot. He never thought he would have to. Somehow, he always believed deep down in his soul that his mother was a good person, was as sad as he was, just needed a friend. He truly thought that given the chance she would do the right thing.