Page 11 of Grave Flowers

Aeric’s and my collision caused the stairs to sway.

They listed from one side to the other, making a horrid creaking sound, as though they might give way at any moment.

Panicked, I clutched at the only thing nearby to steady me, which happened to be Aeric.

My hands closed around his arm, my nails digging into his skin as the stairs continued to swing.

My scar throbbed agonizingly. Wind, created by the movement, rushed around us. It blew up my skirt, driving it practically to my waist. Desperately, I released one hand to push it down. Our combined weight made the pendulum swinging worse, and I barely swallowed down a cry of terror, all dancing grace gone.

Keeping one hand firmly on the rail, Aeric planted his feet in the center of the stairs and stayed upright like a seasoned sailor aboard a rocking boat, a counterforce to the motion.

His hand closed around my elbow, his hold firm and reassuring.

Like me, he wore a hooded cloak.

Everything about him was formidable and brave, and I hated it. But I also didn’t dare let go, because if I did, fear would force me to flatten myself most inelegantly against the stairs, and I didn’t dare show any further vulnerability. Not to Aeric.

“Madalina.”

He spoke before the swinging stopped.

I wondered, suddenly, if he was trying to use my defenselessness to his advantage.

Just as he had the wine.

“What?”

I snapped.

I didn’t dare look at his face.

I needed to keep my wits about me, and I always seemed to lose them when meeting his eyes.

“What are you doing here?”

I swept my gaze across the lower platforms for a plausible excuse, skittering over lovers entwined in a twisty waterfall of blankets and a miniature armory stocked with knives, maces, and mallets.

Then I saw it.

Far below was a platform holding an arched trellis and a variety of planters.

“I wanted some grave flowers,”

I said.

“To remind me of home.”

“That’s reasonable,”

Aeric said, but his tone was much too sharp.

“However, why are you heading up when the grave flowers are down there?”

“Because there is the threat of a tremendous fall into a bottomless pit, and it is more than a little disorienting.”

I tried to ignore the feeling of his muscled arm, which I still clawed at as though I were drowning.

“And speaking of questions—why are you here?”

“I saw you leaving.

I followed you.”

“You followed me? Who do you think you are? My guard?”

“I think I am betrothed to you and the prince of the country you are prowling about in, and it’s my responsibility to make certain everything is safe.

You say you came for grave flowers? Were you not just speaking with the silver sellist?”

How long had he been watching me? Had he been standing on the upper balcony the entire time, staring down, tracking my every action, just as he had from the palace roof? I let out another breath, intentionally this time, trying to release my fear with it.

“If you haven’t noticed, it’s a very shiny display,”

I said.

“I like shiny things.

What princess doesn’t?”

A startled laugh left his lips, and only then did I look at his face.

A shaft of light from far above fell across it, drawing it out of the shadows of the cloak.

Why did the light always seem to seek him? It was infuriating.

It highlighted his brow and cheekbones with dashes of gold, framing him in radiance. The tight sallowness of wine illness was gone. His eyes held the same parsing knife that I heard in his tone. I felt like he was dissecting me, even as he laughed. The swinging of the stairs lessened and finally came to a stop, only a few tremors running through them. I didn’t need to hold on to his arm any longer, but I didn’t let go, and he didn’t pull back.

“Fair enough.

Well, how about I escort you down to the grave flowers stall?”

He crooked his elbow, and my hand slid into it while my other fell away.

We were side by side, and, carefully, we walked down the steps.

They shook beneath us.

I shuddered. He slipped his elbow free of my hand and placed it around my shoulders. It drew me close to him, so close that my hip brushed his thigh, and I felt the heat of him, as though he held the rays of the Acusen sun within him.

I flinched at the intensity of it.

Immediately, he released me.

Neither of us said anything until we reached the grave flowers stall.

Its fanciful name, Florique Boutique, belied its true essence.

A large man leaned on a counter.

Muscles rose along his forearms, upper arms, and neck. They plated together like armor and made his head tiny by comparison. His eyes were nearly swollen closed from the concentration of the grave flowers’ pollen, and his skin was covered in rashes and burns from their deadly touches, along with countless cuts from the starvelings’ thorns. Their heavy floral scent had seeped into his pores, and he billowed with it, his sweat carrying sweetness not meant for him. To peddle his trade, he wore a floral-print tunic, but his muscles stretched it, distorting the pattern and pulling it taut across his body so the flowers looked like they were being torn apart.

While the grave flowers on his shirt couldn’t feel their torture, the real ones did.

Lost souls, blood hearts, beauties, serpentines, starvelings, and mad minds were contained in a horrifying array of ghastly containers: boots, chamber pots, and two coffins.

A trellis was erected toward the back of the stall.

The trellis’s feet were stained with dirt, meaning it had once been planted in soil … and likely stolen and brought to the Oscura. The grave flowers clamored to it, tangling into a choked mess as they sought space and room. I didn’t want to think about their roots and how cramped they would be in the shallow vessels—or the fact they were drained of their color, weak, and dripping strange oils from their leaves, meaning they were terribly thirsty.

Odd accessories were also sold.

A leather mask was tied to the trellis, and its tag said it could protect against grave flower pollen and any effects from mad minds or enmities.

It was preposterous.

I knew, at the very least, that no mask was strong enough to defend against the mad minds.

“Come to get some flowers for the lady?”

The man addressed Aeric.

He bent down behind the counter, causing the tunic to nearly tear, and reappeared with heavy shears.

“Which ones would you like? I suggest these.”

His thick fingers grappled for the beauties.

They leaned away from him, but he grabbed the stems beneath the blossoms and yanked them into the mouth of the shears, waiting for Aeric to agree.

“Let them go!”

Rage made my voice shake.

“You’re hurting them!”

The man peered at me.

Confusion wound through his face, followed by some rage of his own.

“What would you know of it?”

he demanded.

“I’ve tended these since they were nothing but little slips stolen out of Radix.

You think they get better treatment in that Primeval piss of a country? Mind your tongue, or I’ll find another use for these shears.”

At that, Aeric surged by me.

There was nothing princely about him.

His eyes blazed with a heat that, for once, didn’t remind me of Acus or its infernal sunshine.

It reminded me of a flame struck in a dark place usually kept hidden.

And then, Aeric, the ruling monarch of Acus, punched a sellist from the Oscura in the face.

Shock rendered me speechless.

The Radixan part of my brain appraised his form as not half bad, though Father’s punches were much more accurate, practiced, and lethal.

The man stumbled back.

“Watch out!” I cried.

The man barreled forward.

His body collected momentum with each step, and even the swing of the platform worked to his advantage.

He feinted a blow and hit Aeric squarely in the face, making him stumble against the rail.

However, he immediately turned back to the man.

From the different platforms, hoots and shouts rang out as people saw the fight.

I surged forward and caught Aeric’s arm.

With all my strength, I yanked him back.

“We need to leave,”

I said.

More dark light flickered in Aeric’s eyes.

I pointed to the others.

If we didn’t get out, they would realize who we were—or, at the very least, who Aeric was. “Now.”

Rationality slipped back into his gaze, particularly as the carousers began climbing the ladders of stairs to get a closer view.

The man charged.

Aeric stepped aside.

The sellist, every bit of him cresting forward, flew past. I cried out as a blur of floral silk toppled by me and over the rail. A crash and a jolt followed.

The sellist had landed on a lower platform that sold barrels full of brews.

Two of the barrels had smashed apart, and foamy, fermented brew cascaded over the platform’s edge.

The man leaped to his feet, shaking his fist at us, but slipped on the liquid and fell again.

People on the platforms below grabbed any sort of container they could find and held them out to capture the gushing liquid. They guzzled it down while others laughed and danced in the sticky, malt-laden golden rain. The man selling the brews leaned over the rail and screamed that they’d better pay for every drop, but the people only laughed and gulped more.

“Hurry, while they are distracted,”

I said.

Aeric nodded and gestured for me to head to the stairs.

I moved as quickly as I dared, given our elevation.

We made our way out of the subterranean portion of the Oscura and through the door back out to the main hall. Bright light forced me to hold my hand over my eyes. We kept going, stepping around the dead white bats.

Finally, we slipped out of the building.

More stalls were set up against the far sides of the Oscura, away from the main street.

One of them had a crude bar with wobbly stools.

A glass contraption made from several bulbous, wide-mouthed orbs sat atop it. Each orb had different liquids in reds, golds, pinks, and greens, and narrow spouts injected them with bubbles until they fizzed and frothed. Copper tankards of various sizes hung on the wall. Aeric slipped onto one of the stools, and I sank down next to him.

An elderly woman was snoozing in the back on a chair, and at our intrusion, she opened one eye, sighed with beleaguerment, and stood.

“What do you want?”

she asked around a giant yawn.

“Um …”

I glanced at the liquids.

“A green one, I suppose.”

The woman didn’t bother to ask me what size or even what Aeric wanted but rather poured two fizzing green drinks into the largest tankards available.

She set them down hard in front of us and returned to her chair.

A few moments later, her head tilted back, and snores fluttered through her lips.

I turned to Aeric.

He had a hand cupped over the side of his face.

“Let me see,”

I said.

For a moment, he hesitated, as though reluctant to show me.

Then he lowered his hand.

A blueish-red bruise spread across his cheekbone, the two colors intermixing as though the contusion couldn’t decide which hue to be. I winced.

“It doesn’t look too bad.”

“Doesn’t look too bad?”

he asked with indignation.

“Well, it feels bad.”

“It adds to your mystique,”

I replied, amused.

He held up the tankard, using its reflective surface to inspect the blow.

“The poor man never stood a chance,”

he brazened.

Delicately, he touched the bruise as he stared into the tankard, regarding the welt with interest.

“I’ve never been punched in the face before.

I don’t … like it.”

“The face doesn’t hurt as much as other places,”

I said without thinking.

Aeric set down his tankard, hard enough to make some of the liquid froth over the side.

“You’ve had experience?”

“I—”

The strength of his reaction made me waver.

I certainly had.

Mother had never struck me, but Father did as a teaching tool, and Inessa as well, once she sought the title of heir.

She wanted to show me she was stronger in every regard, and she quickly had, her hand flashing against my cheek if I was overly annoyed or wearied by her commands. And, of course, Rigby’s dancing stick had left countless bruises on my shoulder.

I hated it but I understood, even though I could never slap someone myself.

In my opinion, pain afflicted by another taught more lessons than caresses ever could.

Such pain was the most honest teacher of all.

It reflected life—its fickleness and its many mystifying hurts—even as it left me aching inside. Somehow, that interior ache was always much stronger than the actual blows themselves.

“Ah,”

Aeric said quietly, when I failed to continue.

Sympathy filled his eyes, and he stirred in his chair, as though he wished to help.

Frustration ignited in me.

Why did he pity me over something so trite and commonplace as being struck? If only he knew the true nature of reality: My upbringing would leave me alive and well with a crown on my head when this was all over, while his would deliver him into a casket.

“It was necessary,”

I said.

“Not everyone can be spoiled.”

I thought the insult would return us to our usual state, never mind the fact that Aeric was far from spoiled.

His scarred hands and rearing in a monasterium testified as such.

It didn’t matter.

He would take offense and be sulky, and I’d … I’d be able to kill him when the time came.

“No one should hit you.”

His tone was severe and it startled me.

“And, as long as I live, no one will ever hit you again.”

Pain spread out behind my heart, overtaking my chest until every inhale brought fresh waves.

At least, I thought it was pain.

It certainly felt like it.

Poignant, sharp, most akin to an ache. But why would Aeric’s passionate declaration bring me pain? Or maybe it wasn’t pain. Maybe it was … longing, the sort that’s so strong, it burns. I picked up the heavy tankard of green drink and sipped. It was another Acusan atrocity of sweetness, so sugary that I grimaced. Bubbles popped across my tongue, and I swallowed them, relishing their distracting bite in the back of my throat.

“What is this?”

I asked, motioning to the tankard as though he hadn’t made a vow to protect me.

His gaze lingered on me, but he allowed us to move on.

“It’s a popular Acusan drink called Elevation Sublimation because of how the bubbles race to the surface like sparkling wine.

But”—he sighed—“unlike sparkling wine, it has no alcohol.

A child’s drink.”

“However shall you survive?”

I asked.

The slit on my Acusan dress fell open, exposing my legs.

I pulled my cloak over them with an annoyed tug.

“And however shall I survive this dress? The more I try to wear it, the less I do.”

“You do seem to be at war with it,”

Aeric agreed, as the cloak went the way of the slit and slipped to the side.

“I am,”

I said flatly.

“Your fashions are ridiculous.

Royals usually have places in their clothing to hide weapons, and these napkin-sized outfits do not suffice for it.”

“Why would I need a hidden weapon?”

Aeric asked.

“Didn’t you see? My fists were enough mere moments ago.”

“You were lucky,”

I said, unimpressed.

“The sellist didn’t have a knife.

If he had, you would’ve been outmatched.”

“Do you usually carry hidden weapons?”

Aeric’s eyes flickered warily over me, and I arched slightly on the stool, strangely enjoying the attention.

“I should know.”

“Why should you know?”

I smiled coyly at him.

“Wouldn’t it defeat the purpose of having them hidden?”

“What if we embraced and I was unaware? I might get stabbed.”

“Then I suppose the only solution is for us to never embrace until you overcome your fear.”

I tried to reel myself back.

By the Family, his overconfident manner made me forget my aims.

Before he could respond, I hurried us to another topic because, once again, our conversations seemed to have a mind of their own.

It simply wouldn’t do. Or, more accurately, it couldn’t. I had to remember my mission.

“On another note, I met your mother, Queen Gertrude, at the betrothal.

She was there with Prince Lambert.”

“Ah, yes, him.

My … I don’t know, stepfather-uncle?”

“He appears to be popular at court,” I said.

“At the very least, he is popular with my mother.”

Aeric’s voice was impassive yet slightly strained.

“Though she is not as popular as my father was—though perhaps more popular than I, so I shouldn’t critique.”

“I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t be liked,”

I said, unable to resist.

“What did you say?”

“Oh, nothing.

Regarding Queen Gertrude—I imagine she hasn’t had a very easy life? I saw the memory garden.

The mother is always blamed for things such as infertility or deficiencies in the children.”

I tensed my hand, the scar quiet upon my skin for once.

Father had allowed me and Inessa to live despite being attached at the hand.

It was remarkable, considering his usual brutal methods and the fact he’d raised us with lies to tell, our worth to prove, and poison rings on our fingers.

The knowledge comforted me. It was my only example that Father must have loved us, in some way.

“She has not,”

Aeric agreed.

The bitterness was gone, replaced by a tone that wasn’t quite sad but rather … weary.

“But you say your father was well-liked by court?”

I tried not to sound too interested, but I couldn’t afford to let the opportunity pass.

If there was an Acusan noble against our marriage, perhaps I might learn who it was.

“Did he have close friends?”

“In a way,”

Aeric said.

“He was beloved by many, but he always told me a king walks alone.

It’s hard to have close friendships when you must seek the good for everyone in the kingdom, not just those you like.

To be a good king, you must sacrifice yourself.”

The word good made me frown in confusion.

I wasn’t so certain goodness existed—or evil.

Of course, I firmly believed in monstrosity.

I’d seen it materialize and take form in Father as he straddled the man at the banquet, strangling him amid the pickled fish garnished with halved lemons, turning the man into yet another dead thing on the table. I’d seen the same monstrosity assume the mystery of illness, striking infants with fevers, infecting commonplace cuts, sending grown men to beds from which they never left. I’d also seen it slip into hearts to fill them with rage or grief or hate. I’d seen it in Inessa, Mother—as she nodded in tempo while Father strangled the man … myself, using people to advantage my position, making me think there was no good or evil, only hands and hearts forced to act.

This was how we were born.

How we lived.

How we would die.

If we were what we were, how could it be evil?

Yet, if that was the case, why did the thought leave me so empty?

I let out a strangled breath.

My stool teetered to the side; one leg much shorter than the other.

It lifted and then jolted back to the ground, shaking me from my grim reverie.

Aeric’s cumbersome contemplations on life were contagious.

“Do you feel ready to be a king?” I asked.

“I think …”

Aeric stared down at his drink, for once not imbibing assiduously, though it might’ve been because it wasn’t alcoholic.

“I think I must be ready, so I shall.”

“Perhaps you might lean on your uncle,”

I said, trying to further gauge his feelings on Prince Lambert.

“He can help you.”

Aeric ducked his head again, his long lashes shielding his eyes and his arms coming across his body.

An emotion I didn’t understand emanated from him, as visible as the blood pooling to form the bruise beneath his skin.

Was he afraid? Angry? Confused? Maybe all three?

“After all,”

I continued, watching him carefully.

“you spent most of your life away from court.”

Aeric lifted his head, chin up, shoulders back.

Whatever vexation had overtaken him moments before was gone.

He’d willed it away and reformed himself.

For once, he didn’t look like a drunken prince. He looked like a strong king.

“I know what I’m doing,” he said.

This wasn’t good after all.

I needed him weak, and I’d somehow ennobled him—or he’d done it himself, first succumbing to whatever his fears might be and then harnessing them.

I had to undo this sudden assurance.

I tried to think of the most unkinglike thing about him.

It wasn’t a difficult task. Several things rose to mind: His inelegance while he partied. His approachable demeanor. His focus on frivolous pursuits like holding a play. I steeled myself before I spoke, assuming the Sinet ways that always eluded me.

“Do you? Plays alone can’t make kings, yet I hear rehearsals consume your days.

Perhaps you’ll play the jester since the position is suddenly open?”

Slick satisfaction filled me, the sort that had fed Inessa more than food ever could.

For once, I understood it and reveled in it.

“Do you think that’s all I’m suited for?”

he asked.

Gone was the kingly nobleness but gone as well was his flirtatious apathy.

His gaze glinted with the brightness and lethalness of broken glass.

“I don’t think about you at all.”

I pushed back my stool and rose.

“I wish to return to the palace.”

Aeric twisted on his stool and leaned back so his elbows crooked on the counter and his legs sprawled out.

“Please escort me now.”

Leisurely, he reached an arm back to pick up his tankard.

He took a long, slow drink.

I turned away and started down the street.

“Princess!”

I ignored him.

From behind me, I heard the screech of the stool being pushed back.

His shadow fell hard and thick next to mine.

“Princess,”

he repeated.

“If you won’t take me back, I’ll take myself back,” I said.

“Very well,”

he said, matching my pace.

“Only, the stable is the other way, and you’re about to run into a wall.”

Looking ahead, I saw that the bricked back of a building awaited me, along with the sides of three others.

I stopped abruptly and turned to face him.

He stumbled back, unable to hide the intimidation that swept away the shards of sharp glass in his gaze.

I took a step toward him to see if he would give up more ground. He didn’t, and the flash of glass returned, keener this time. I’d have to fluster him some other way.

Lifting my chin, I swept up to him and rose onto my tiptoes.

His scent was intoxicating.

It made me wish to bite him, even as I wished to emotionally destroy him.

I took his face in my hands and brushed my lips against his bruise. Beneath my touch, he became fixed in place, as though he had no defense against me. Only his jaw moved, flexing beneath my hand, his teeth clenching.

I released him and went back the other way.

As I did, my fingers clenched at my side, hidden by my skirt.

For once, my hand without the scar commanded my attention.

I could still feel the curve of his face against my palm, and even though I’d held it only moments ago, I burned to do so again.