Page 8

Bronwyn

T error gripped Bronwyn. Like the last time the dragons struck, she found herself unable to move, frozen in horror as she watched tragedy unfold. Her warning had been too late, unheard.

Strong arms wrapped around her. For a moment, she thought it was Malik, and her traitorous heart leapt. But his scent was different, pine and something bitter instead of warmth and musk. The smell was strange but not unwelcome.

“Bronwyn!” Lord Griffith’s use of her name, the first time he’d ever said it, told her exactly who held her close and tried to turn her from the disaster.

It would be wise to take comfort in him. To cower in his arms. Distantly, she knew that, but when had she ever been wise about what she should do?

Instead, curiosity bade her twist in his arms, to look past his body trying to block her view. Many partygoers screamed and ducked as a dragon of smoke swooped low over the crowd before bursting apart into gray wisps and dissipating. A coppery tang in the air sent a fresh wave of prickles across Bronwyn’s skin.

Nearby, people rushed to lift the heavy painting from where it had fallen. Groans of pain and one particularly anguished cry said that not everyone had gotten out of its way.

Another threat against the crown. No words this time, but none were needed. The symbols were there for all to see, and they said so much more than any written message could.

A gentle hand on Bronwyn’s cheek turned her face away from the carnage. “We should get you out of here.”

Only then did she realize that she clung to Griffith, her fingers digging into the sleeve of his coat and the strong arm beneath. She started to nod when someone else called to her, his dark form filling her periphery.

“Are you all right?” Malik danced through the last of the people separating them and burst right into their little bubble. His companions from before were no longer with him.

Bronwyn dropped her hand from Lord Griffith’s arm. “Yes, I’m fine.”

Malik breathed heavily. Relief? She couldn’t say. His attention flitted past her, toward the accident, then back again. He’d need to go, to investigate and report to Drystan most likely, but something held him back.

“I’ll keep Miss Kinsley safe and see her home,” Lord Griffith said, ever the gentleman.

Malik’s jaw stiffened. “See that you do.” And he was off, moving toward the wreckage and the distraught Master Walrick, who wailed about the horror of it all while proclaiming his innocence.

People hurried about, most pressing toward the main exit. Only a few figures entered the room. Bronwyn recognized several of them—her entourage of guards, who’d waited outside, made their way toward her now, one calling her name and that of her companion. Little good they’d done when the disaster struck. A few other guards hurried toward Malik, though he always seemed to have much more authority over his than she did hers.

Her heart sank further. After this, Drystan may lock her inside after all. Not that she was hurt, but a little closer and she could have been. She glanced back over one shoulder. A man she didn’t know held a bloody rag to his brow. A woman sobbed. Others still clustered around, blocking her view of any other potential casualties. She’d yet to see the chairman who’d spoken.

“This way.” Lord Griffith wrapped an arm around her shoulders and urged her toward the advancing guards. When the entourage reached her, they all but plucked her from his grasp, hurrying her from the venue. Griffith followed. The street outside was bustling with crowds of those who’d fled.

“Miss Kinsley, a moment.”

She gasped as Lord Griffith took her hand in his. Much to her surprise, the guards didn’t stop him.

“I’m sorry our evening was cut short in such a terrible fashion. May I call on you again?”

Bronwyn blinked at him, still half in a state of shock from what she’d witnessed—and certainly not herself, because she the words that came to her tongue were, “Yes, you may.”

He smiled as if the evening had not come literally crashing down before them. “I’ll be in touch soon.”

He placed a kiss on the back of her hand. The warmth that swelled through her chest and flashed across her cheeks was as surprising as the smoke dragon that had appeared from behind the painting.

Bronwyn found Ceridwen in the private sitting room just off her bedchamber. Presents were piled high on a long table in front of her. She jotted something down on paper before setting down her quill and glancing up.

“You’re back much earlier than I expected.” Ceridwen pushed a lock of blond hair behind one ear. She’d already changed into a pale nightdress and a matching silk robe that draped from her arms. “Was the gallery not enjoyable? Or was it the company?”

News of what had transpired that evening hadn’t reached the castle yet, or rather its queen. Bronwyn would bet her life that someone had rushed to Drystan with the news immediately. He’d probably just received it or was receiving it now from her guards, who’d managed to procure a carriage and get her back far more quickly than she anticipated.

Ceridwen’s face fell. “Bronwyn?” She stood up, her chair sliding backward. “What happened?”

“I’m fine,” Bronwyn finally managed. “There’s no need to worry about me.”

Ceridwen met her halfway, looking her up and down for injuries. Satisfied, she said, “Tell me.”

“You may as well sit back down.” Bronwyn gestured to her sister’s abandoned project. She did, sitting on the edge of her seat and watching Bronwyn like a hawk as she pulled another chair closer and sat in it herself. “A large painting fell.”

“Fell or…”

“Was pushed,” she clarified. “By a smoke dragon like the one from the wedding party.”

Instant regret filled her as she watched her sister hunch and shrink in on herself. If only she’d done a better job hiding her emotions or, better yet, hadn’t sought her sister out at all this evening. Though, knowing Ceridwen, the moment she learned what had happened, she’d have come to find Bronwyn instead, even if it were the middle of the night.

And truthfully, Bronwyn wanted the company. She could have gone to Father or Jaina or Gerard in the apartments they all shared within the castle. They were family and she loved them, and them her, but there was no one in the world Bronwyn held closer than her sister. Ceridwen knew her heart and thoughts better than anyone; her mere presence gave a sense of comfort Bronwyn desperately needed. Father and the others would worry, as parents tend to do. Ceridwen would be Bronwyn’s ally more than her protector, someone strong at her side, ready to face the world with her rather than hide her from it. Bronwyn felt the same way. It was why she’d insisted on travelling with Ceridwen from Teneboure all those months ago, to help her find her lost love and defy the monsters of the capital.

Love was facing trials together. They’d faced those demons, and they’d face these dragons, too.

“Was anyone…” Ceridwen swallowed.

“A few injuries. I’m not sure about the extent. The guards rushed me away too quickly to learn more.” Though the sinking feeling in her stomach said those injuries might be worse than she let on. The sobbing she’d heard … it was the kind that leaked from wounds in a person’s soul.

“As they should,” Ceridwen replied, barely a whisper.

Bronwyn’s lips pressed into a hard line. Because she was a woman? Too frail and delicate to endure such tragedies? She forced the thoughts away. With anyone else, she’d have probably spoken them aloud, and with more than a little bite, but she knew her sister meant well. Still, it irked her that the guards didn’t seem to order Malik around in the same way. Why was a man given more freedom than her? He was Drystan’s heir, for now. In many ways, he was more important than her, yet she was the one coddled like a child.

“On to happier topics…” Bronwyn forced a smile for her sister’s benefit and gestured to the table. “Wedding presents?”

The change of topic instantly brightened the room. “Oh, yes, I figured it was time to get about opening them and writing thank-you notes.”

Bronwyn ran her finger along the edge of one small box. “You know, most noble ladies would have their maids open and catalog the gifts. Or a relative.”

A small laugh slipped from Ceridwen. “Are you volunteering?”

Bronwyn shrugged. “I could help, if you like.” It was a better option than discussing the evening or retreating to her room alone.

“Please,” Ceridwen replied. “It’s going to take me ages as it is.”

The two set about opening the gifts and remarking on the ostentation displays of wealth many contained. “What am I to do with something like this?” Ceridwen asked, turning the jewel-crusted egg in her hand.

“Display it? Sell it?”

“Sell a wedding gift?” Whether her look of horror was genuine or not, Bronwyn couldn’t say.

“Not immediately, of course. But it would be more useful going toward one of your projects than sitting on a shelf.”

Ceridwen blew out a breath. “So true. Though right now I worry about anything we put attention to becoming a target.”

So delicate, the line they walked between joy and sorrow. Bronwyn sought to tip the scales in a happier direction. “Have you given any more thought to taking a wedding moon trip? It might do you all well get out of the capital for a bit.”

Her sister shook her head. “Drystan is too busy. Besides, it gives me time to focus on some things here, like the orphanage and other projects.”

Bronwyn’s gaze dropped to her sister’s lap, where one hand rested against her belly. All thoughts in her head vanished. Suddenly, it felt like a deep pit opened in her center. “Ceridwen … are you pregnant?”

“What!” her sister squeaked, hand flying from her stomach. “No! I mean, I don’t think so. We’ve taken some precautions.”

A small sigh of relief slipped from Bronwyn’s lips. She wanted that for her sister, someday, but with everything else going on, now hardly seemed the time for it.

“Can you imagine the scandal if the queen gave birth only a few months into her marriage?” Ceridwen laughed.

Bronwyn rolled her eyes before giving her sister a pointed look. “Because all the nobles whose children after born seven or eight months after the wedding came early…”

“Well, I’m not one of them.” Ceridwen smoothed her hands across her lap. “I would like to have children one day. I hope to. Though, with what happened to Mother, Drystan worries that I might have similar … complications. He’d be such a mess if I were pregnant, and he has enough to think about.”

True enough. She couldn’t imagine what Drystan would be like if anything happened to Ceridwen, and given their mother’s difficult pregnancies, there was cause to be concerned. Birth had contributed to her untimely death, an event that had destroyed their family in so many ways—though, with all Bronwyn had learned, she blamed the dragons more than an ill touch of fate. If Mother hadn’t been attacked, she might not have been weakened or gone into early labor. She might have lived…

But all the mights in the world couldn’t change the past. Bronwyn shook her head, vanishing the thoughts. “Well, with his magic, I am sure he’d be able to help you if anything were to go wrong one day. But it won’t.” Bronwyn set her hand atop her sister’s. “You’ll be fine. And you’ll be a great mother one day, too.”

If only their mother had had someone with magic to help her…

Bronwyn slammed that box shut and sat on it.

“Thank you, Bronwyn.” Ceridwen gave her fingers a squeeze. “You will be, too.”

Bronwyn blinked. The beginning of a laugh crawled up her throat, but she swallowed it and slid her hand away. “Anyhow, which one is next?” She gestured to the presents.

“Perhaps that blue one?” Ceridwen pointed at one of the boxes closest to Bronwyn. “I’m going to finish opening this one.” She’d already unwrapped the little present in front to reveal a nondescript wooden box.

Bronwyn began carefully unwrapping her present while watching her sister investigate the wooden box. However ridiculous some of the gifts, it was a lot of fun getting to open them and see what each contained.

Inside the wooden box Ceridwen held was a finely wrought, delicate object that glimmered in the light. She lifted it. “Oh, look, a little spinning wheel.” She tilted it this way and that, letting the lamplight glimmer off the metal. It was small enough to fit in the palm of her hand, almost like it had been crafted as fancy toy for children. “How strange,” she mused as she examined it closer.

So many of the gifts were. Perhaps the nobility needed a lesson in gift-giving.

“Ouch!” Ceridwen yelped, dropping the spinning wheel. “And sharp.”

“Are you okay?” Bronwyn leaned closer.

Ceridwen frowned at her finger, watching as blood welled from the tip and started to run. “It’s just a scratch.”

Bronwyn gave a light-hearted huff. “Don’t let Drystan see that. He might panic.”

Ceridwen grinned but gave her a sideways look. “He’s not that overprotective.” She stood from the table. “Let me get a cloth for this.”

Sure, not overprotective at all. Bronwyn shook her head with a smile. He did love her, though, so much it was almost worrisome.

A thunk from nearby made her head snap up.

Her heart nearly stopped. Her blood turned cold. Ceridwen had fallen to her knees, a hand on her forehead.

“Ceridwen!” Bronwyn leapt from her chair, knocking it over in the process. She was at her side in a heartbeat, dropping down and grabbing her sister’s shoulders. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

“Bronwyn?” Ceridwen blinked up at her, glassy-eyed. She’d smeared the blood from her finger across her forehead. “I feel…”

Suddenly, she went limp, like a puppet whose strings were cut. Her eyes slid closed, and she tilted and fell, slumping heavily against Bronwyn’s chest.

“Ceridwen!” she screamed. Panic tingled across her skin. Her heart was trying to claw through her ribs. “Ceridwen!” She turned her sister in her arms as best she could, gently shaking her.

The doors burst open—likely the guards having heard the screams—but Bronwyn didn’t look. Didn’t care.

All she could see was her sister: head lolling, eyes closed, and still as death.