Page 27

27

AMbrOSE

Only a few strands were left of the recently re-woven tapestries. Clearly, that was where the fire had started, and Bessa could, indeed, somehow sense it. Ambrose watched her helplessly turn in circles at the charred remains of the books, feeling even more helpless than she. He went to stop her ceaseless turns, to put a solid, comforting hand on her arm and pull her out of her vicious cycle. They were alone; all he had to do was reach out and touch.

So he did.

The shock of it jolted both of them, sparks flying between their bare skin. Ambrose became suddenly aware of his near-nakedness. “You didn’t cause this. Nor did we. This wasn’t our magic.”

“How do you know?” she asked, but she didn’t pull away.

“I have been around magic a long time. I have learned to read its patterns.”

The only place on her face free of soot was where two tears had streaked down her cheeks. Ambrose put his fingers to the trail and followed it down to her chin before cupping her face in his hand.

She inhaled sharply and tilted her face up to his. “Would you kiss me? Would you finish what you started?” she whispered. “I want one true love before I’m married off for the good of the kingdom. I’ve been a seed frozen in the ground, waiting for heat and light, and I have lived far too long without either. And you have a snow fox. You are like me. We can be together, we can figure it out.”

“Bessa,” he croaked, his throat full of smoke and his voice like ash on his tongue. There was something soft in her eyes, always so guarded, something that he had melted without any fire magic at all. A look that could launch a thousand ships and rally the stoniest men to fight. This look was killing him. He knew he should extinguish his desire in his hands later that night, away from here, while hopefully dreaming of someone else, because this queen was out of his reach, so he should put her out of his mind’s reach as well. “We can’t.”

Another tear streaked down her cheek, following the progress of the first. It was no lie. He couldn’t. He simply couldn’t give her one true night together, because it wouldn’t be just one. Their kisses in the candle shop proved as much. He wanted all of them. He wanted to cover her in kisses and lay her on a bed of wildflowers and let her silken red hair cascade through his fingertips forever. He wanted all of the things that no commoner could ever want of a queen. Just look at them standing here, her in cream and gold damask and he without a tunic, his legs protected with canvas pants waterproofed with boiled linseed oil.

She began pulling away, the hurt in her eyes unbearable to look at, but Ambrose made himself watch. Made himself look at her hurt.

Stomping boots echoed through the stone corridor. It was nearly impossible to walk secretly through the castle with so little cloth to dampen the noise, which, in this particular case, was a very good thing.

The foxes scattered, and Ambrose broke off, his chest heaving with the strain of not hiking the queen up on his knee and pressing her against the wall, taking her right there.

A second later, Prince Gillian of the Violent Tides strutted through the corridor. He didn’t even have the decency to look worried.

“Your majesty! What are you doing in here?” the suitor asked, his tongue making a harsh h-sound indigent of the northern island region.

Bessa pulled herself together, only trembling slightly. “Prince Gillian, is everyone unharmed?”

Gillian looked around at the charred remains of the library, a tapestry hanging by threads and all of the chairs reduced to blackened wood and unidentifiable fabric. “So this was the source? But what was the cause?”

“If only I knew,” Bessa said.

“Would you like to throw a few maids and serving boys in the dungeon and get some answers? I can see to it myself, your majesty.”

Bessa’s face barely contained her horror. “No, your highness, I will see to the investigation myself. Is everyone coming back inside?”

He shook his shoulders dismissively. “To be honest, I’m not sure. I was looking for you. We have not had any opportunity to discuss our future engagement, and I really must insist we do so.”

Bessa stared at him. “Oh! You mean like right now? Because I’m standing in the remains of my library right now, your highness.”

Gillian put his hand on her shoulder where her fire fox usually sat, and anger flared in Ambrose. He didn’t like the audacity or the fake familiarity this prince was trying to breed. He was the one that had seen them having their tense conversation outside of the castle. He was clearly feeling threatened by a commoner.

Good, Ambrose thought savagely. Let him feel threatened. Let him either show his true colors or be a better match for Bessa, because right now, Ambrose wanted nothing more than to throw him across the frozen river or worse—much worse.

Luckily for Gillian, Bessa pointedly stared at his hand causing him to remove it himself while it was still attached to his body. “I do not have time for frivolities right now, Prince Gillian. I have to make sure my people are all accounted for and my guests. I will have my councilors speak to your representatives about an appropriate time for courtship once that is done. Is there anything else?”

Prince Gillian narrowed his eyes before quickly turning it into a blink. “No. How prudent. I didn’t realize this little fire was of such importance to you, but that is my mistake. Do you need more books to fill your shelves? I’ll send for my own. The Violent Tides foster a love of learning, and we have enough scrolls and manuscripts to paper this entire castle.”

Bessa had been about to tell him to leave and never return, Ambrose was sure of it, but the glint in her eyes now said she’d changed her mind.

“Why, Prince Gillian. I didn’t know you were such an avid reader. That would be wonderful. Frostvale accepts your gift of books to completely restock our own, meager library.” She smiled at him blandly, offering her hand for him to bend over.

The prince opened his mouth and closed it, as if it surprised him she’d accepted his generosity so quickly, and without a promise of some sort of reciprocal arrangement. Perhaps that was not how it was done in other courts, but Bessa was shrewd enough to grab what she could when she could. Ambrose admired her more—as long as it didn’t mean she was beholden in some unseen way to the Violent Tides. No matter what the prince claimed, it was a violent island kingdom.

He took her hand, brushing a kiss over her knuckles that still made Ambrose want to hurl him across the charred remains of the room, and stood straight. “I shall write to my salt keeper and let him know a shipment should be sent. Salt keepers in our kingdom are similar to your seneschal here, and mine is an excellent leader.”

Bessa dipped her head, but did not reply. Gillian seemed to finally get the hint. He nudged a few blackened remains with his toe before turning on his heel to leave, the carbonized remains leaving long black streaks under his boot. “There will be a regularly scheduled dinner tonight, I hope?” he asked. “The rest of the castle appears untouched.”

“I’m sure they will go on as scheduled,” she agreed.

The prince clearly wasn’t leaving the queen alone with a commoner, and Bessa realized that as well. She picked up her skirts, stepping daintily over the smoking ruins of a rug, and strode for the exit. “If you’ll excuse me, I have much to do.” With that, she waited for neither of the men, but swept out of the library in a swish of fabric, leaving the smell of lavender after her.

The prince dropped his clearly painful facade and scowled at Ambrose. “What are you doing with the queen alone anyway? In my kingdom, we would tie you in a weighted sack and drop you off the backend of a shipping vessel for that.”

Ambrose merely raised an eyebrow, arms crossed over his chest. It was one of the bigger disappointments of his life to trade the beautiful oval, freckled face of the queen for the scowling, pointed nose of Gillian, prince of the Violent Tides. “You don’t have a tongue?” the prince snapped, “Got that cut out for impertinence, no doubt.”

Ambrose offered a straight lipped smile, waiting patiently for the prince to leave. In no world would he let Bessa marry this suitor. He would rather have his tongue actually cut out or his neck in a noose than let this man anywhere near Bessa.

Prince Gillian let out a snort and stalked out.

Ambrose waited until he was certain he was alone, then dropped his arms and rushed over to examine something. He had been in the thrall of the queen’s orbit, completely consumed by her, but the moment she left, he’d felt it.

He crouched down, sifting through remnants with a stick to avoid directly touching anything. When he found it, the smell was overwhelming. It was the remnants of a candle. Shockingly, it hadn’t melted.

Pinching it between two covered fingers, he held it to his nose, smelling deeper. Animal fats. Agueweed. Witch’s Bane. He had not crafted this candle. And it was not a nice candle.