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AMbrOSE

When the new queen entered his shop for the first time, Ambrose didn’t bow. He didn’t look up or acknowledge her presence, either. He was at the most sensitive part of candle making, and even queens must yield to the magic, whether they knew it existed or not.

To be fair, he wasn’t aware it was the queen. Not, at least, until her solitary Frostguard shifted uncomfortably at the doorway, letting the cold and snow swirl into his shop. Ambrose dropped a frozen hawthorn twig into the warm wax mold. Still, no one spoke. The silence was as deafening as a cold winter’s eve. Crystals of ice shot from the twig and began to envelope the mold. Hawthorn helped with frostbite, and he liked to make this particular candle available to all of the villagers of Honeywood Haven in their regular orders.

Ambrose’s nose started to twitch. That scent, eddying in his shop… it must be coming from her. She smelled divine. Like new mossy growth and fresh borage with hints of honeysuckle. She smelled like the old gods. She smelled… impossible.

His head swam. His eyes began to water. He desperately wanted to see her face, to look for a hint. Finally, he couldn’t take it any longer. He took his hands from the candle, abandoning it for the scrap heap. The magic was broken.

“What do you want?” he asked gruffly, shock rippling across his face when he realized who stood before him. To hide his reaction, he pulled a tattered dishcloth from his apron strings and began the tedious process of pulling dried wax from under his nails, watching her all the while. Steeling himself, he looked directly into her gray eyes, half-hidden behind wisps of bright red hair peeking out from under her velvet hood.

For a second, her royal mask slipped, and he saw hurt flicker across her face. The mask slammed down quickly, replaced with anger, and he found it unfortunate, as her realness made her distractingly pretty. And her fiery anger made her interesting.

“Is that the way you address your queen, Chandler?”

Interesting again. Ambrose wished he could light a candle of emotion to see if he could work out why she reacted with pain first, rather than outrage, like any other royal person he’d ever had the misfortune to meet. Although he could probably guess why. She hadn’t grown up royal. That sense of innate privilege might have been in her blood, but it hadn’t reached her heart. Not that he was feeling generous toward her. Give her time.

“Queens and kings seem fairly interchangeable these days,” he replied. He held up his hands, calloused and full of small burns, at the sudden movement of her Frostguard. “No offense,” he added. “Can I be of service, your majesty?” he added, letting his voice play at the edge of impudence, although it occurred to him that it suddenly sounded nearly indecent. She filled his shop with the scent of summer, and he was grateful when she broke the gaze first.

The queen sighed, slowly picking her way through his shop, her voluminous dress of black velvet and her luxurious, ermine-lined cloak swished against his beechwood work table, over a century old from before the freezing. Her gloved fingers slid along the pots of herbs and flowers he used in his candle making. It was only when she’d gotten closer that he noticed the gown was moth-eaten and patched, as if it had been sewn for someone else a very long time ago. The thought oddly twisted at him. She was probably minutely aware that she was merely playacting as queen, dressing up in someone else’s clothes.

“I could go through the whole tiresome list of things I could do to you for that tongue of yours. It would be tedious, and frankly boring, and I still have so many things to do today.”

He lifted his chin in wry amusement, unable to stop the movement. For a queen, she was as surprising as the spray of common freckles across her nose. Surely her father the king couldn’t have abandoned her to the bakers because she was born with freckles. He wondered why the old king had done such a thing. No one could tell him. No one even knew who she was until the king and prince imprisoned her during the war.

“I’m sure they would be unpleasant, your majesty.”

“Oh no. Not unpleasant. At least, not for me. For you, I suspect they would be brutal.”

“Cutting of tongues and all that?”

“Obviously, but do try to be more creative. Like your candles. They really are a work of art, so I know you have talent.”

Ambrose spread his arms, taking in his entire candle shop. “Only for pleasant things, your majesty. My artistry is limited in that regard. It doesn’t extend to creative liberties with torture.”

“Ah. You just haven’t had the opportunity to… stretch yourself.”

Ambrose tucked the towel in his waistband and stood behind his table with his arms crossed. Now that he wasn’t working magic, the cold was already seeping back into his pores. “A rack joke. Cute.”

“See? Smart to boot. I haven’t had the time yet to dust off my father’s old dungeon devices, but I could always have Wyot find the time. Right, Wyot?”

The Frostguard said nothing, his silent presence much more ominous than words.

Ambrose stared at the woman, much younger than he imagined she would look after warfare to claim her throne. Her skin looked porcelain, although without sun in an eternal winter, that was nearly a given. Her red hair flamed defiantly, though. Like fire in a world of ice.

Finally, he broke the silence. “Are you going to tell me what you want or do I need to beg?”

“I thought it was obvious.”

A heavy silence followed.

He lifted an eyebrow. “You want candles? Surely you have servants for that sort of thing. Ordering and lugging home crates of candles must be even more tiresome than thinking up new torture techniques.”

“Ah, now am I the one that must beg?” she demanded softly, her voice a seductive whisper. “I don’t want a crate. I want one candle, your best candle.”

Ambrose stiffened. It wasn’t a smell or a hunch. She knew about his magic, and that wasn’t possible. No one knew about his magic. Even when he gifted candles to villagers in need, they never suspected. No rumors had stained his shop. Yet, this queen was about to change all of that.

He pointed a finger. “Out.”

Another flash of pain followed by outrage. “Chandler—” Her voice held menace, but something else. Pleading?

He crossed his arms. “You may be the queen, but this is my workshop. My rules. Do what you must. Cut off my tongue, break my fingers, tie me to the rack. It doesn’t change anything. My candles are not for sale to you.”

“So it’s true.”

Ambrose refused to answer, glaring instead. If the Frostguard had any notion of what was happening, he kept as silent and as still as his title. Frostvale was the only place Ambrose felt at home since his wanderings, despite the ice—because of the ice—and he wasn’t about to let anyone, even a very pretty young queen, get him to reveal his secrets.

“We have a saying here in Frostvale,” she said, her throaty voice churning in his chest, making him grow uncomfortably warm. “Ice eats pride. So you must feed the ice your pride before it gobbles you up for itself.”

Her voice lowered even farther. She leaned across the table, and Ambrose couldn’t tell if she did it to show off her cleavage or to assault him with her mouthwatering scents of spring rains and flowers—of hope. How did she smell like that? And why? Did she even know? She must. It must hold the answer to how she sniffed him out so quickly. Like an overflowing snowmelt lake, there was much going on beneath her icy exterior. Ambrose was sure of it.

“I must have a candle. Let us leave it at that. For the good of Frostvale, it is the only way.”

Ambrose found his mouth dry, but he managed some bravado. “That sounds like a you problem, your majesty.”

“No, it is ours.”

“Ours? How do you figure?”

“Clearly, I know about you.”

Ambrose froze. So, it was out in the open now.

“Yet,” she continued, never taking her eyes off of him, nerves of icy steel, “how many of our fellow Frostvalens also know? From your face, I see the answer is none.”

Ambrose crossed his arms and silently reprimanded himself. Clearly, he’d have to get better at hiding his true self around this one.

“I noticed you in the village. You seem to have made quite the impression since your arrival here, oh, eight weeks ago? Why is it that anyone, literally anyone in the entire Ilex Isles, would move to Frostvale? Maybe you haven’t noticed, but we have nothing to offer such an entrepreneur as yourself except for war and icicles.”

She must have truly loyal spies already to know how long he’d actually been here. Ambrose didn’t think even Noll knew that. Her knowledge alone was impressive. He would have to watch his movements around this new queen. Or… leave. He inclined his head. “Your majesty is well-informed.”

As he looked up, he swore he saw—his eyes tracked to her fur scarf. So, she was hiding something, too.

Had she noticed? He wasn’t always the best at hiding his emotions. He had, as Noll put it, a gods-awful gamblin’ face. The innkeeper very kindly took all his money that first month in town and then wouldn’t let him sit at the tables again. Too honest for his own good. Too hotheaded to be honest. Either be honest and easy goin’ or a hotheaded cheater—and a good one. But a cheater was something Ambrose couldn’t abide.

But she was already talking again, going on about business. “I cannot pay you, Chandler. Frostvale has no money, you see. I can offer you a few jewels from the royal collection, whatever wasn’t pawned or looted, but for what? If it isn’t food or fire, it isn’t worth much here. By the way, how much does a magical candle run these days or should I ask my old neighbors? I dare say I know them better than you, seeing as I grew up here and you grew up… Well. A mystery, isn’t it?”

Ambrose suspected her bark was louder than her bite. She had no intention of spouting off to anyone, whether she grew up with them or not, but he admired the grit all the same.

From under his work table, he let his fingers feel his creations, rummaging through the boxes. Finally, he chose one, letting the cold wax comfort him. It was the only candle he could trust. Honestly, it was the only candle she’d need, if she was true.

He held it reverently between them, his shoulders relaxed and his eyes soft when staring at this candle, this magic. “This candle will neither fix your problems, nor slay your foes. It will only let loose any wellspring of courage you already possess.”

She didn’t take her eyes from it. “And if I have none?”

“It will be like you—merely pretty to look at.”

A laugh escaped her throat at that, and her gloved hand flew to her mouth. Ambrose startled. He hadn’t expected a laugh. Maybe the rack, but not a laugh.

“Now, your majesty, I must be clear. There is no more magic in this land. This is nothing but a candle. But hope is a powerful thing.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s exactly what you tell everyone you gift these to,” she said wryly.

“I don’t say anything, because no one has ever asked, nor accused me of magic craft. I don’t know what rumors you’re referring to, but it seems as though you’re keeping a few secrets of your own.”

Her chest moved sharply at her inhale, but she kept her composure. “I don’t know what you’re referring to, but you should be more careful when addressing your queen.”

Ambrose lowered his gaze. “I go too far. True. It is a personal fault, and probably why I am doomed to travel so much.”

The queen adjusted her fur scarf as if readying herself for a rapid departure, and Ambrose found himself torn. “If I give you this candle, will you use it?”

“If? I thought we understood each other.”

When her eyes lifted from the candle and met his, Ambrose nearly staggered back a step. Her eyes glittered with a fire brighter than any of his candles, magical or not. Her cheeks glowed with warmth, and he thought for a wild second that if he reached out to touch her, he would burn. Maybe even scar. He gripped the counter until his knuckles whitened.

And then, she smiled.

“Why, Chandler, I believe you will have to have your own wellspring of courage. For you will have to trust me. Now, please. Hand it over.”