Page 7

7

BESSA

Mika flung open the door, her eyes as round as the palace’s chipped and cracked porcelain dinner plates. Her voice stuck in her throat as the bitter cold caught her in its throes. She gasped, trying to catch her breath.

Before she could ask, I lifted my chin, sharply. Shhh .

Her eyes went wider, if possible. Quickly throwing a cloaked arm around me, she ushered me inside.

Five women were huddled near a hearth with a meager fire, patiently hem-stitching the warps of a fine wool tapestry featuring a baby on the back of a unicorn with a golden crown on its brilliant horn. It was the sixth one in the series. Mika had insisted I needed some sort of symbol, so this unicorn and baby scene was to be mine. My very own origin story for all to see whenever I received state visitors. No mention of villains or being a prophecy-breaking twin. We needed to let that story swirl away in a snow storm if possible and focus on the unicorn, according to Mika.

She’d also wanted a baguette to be wrapped up with the baby in the blanket, an ode to our family business and a promise of full bellies, but I had to draw the line somewhere. My sister certainly had high hopes for my reign, which was wonderful for her. As for me, I simply had hope. It wasn’t high, but it was something.

As we passed the women, working even as their fingers and toes froze, I sent out a small burst of heat that would co-mingle with the coal fire and hopefully keep them warm for a few extra hours. I might not have heavy silver candelabras or fine porcelain plates with pretty pictures for dignitaries to uncover as they ate mountains of saffron cream over pickled peaches and fresh raspberries, but I could do this, at least.

“What did he say?” Mika whispered as we walked as regally as possible through the drafty corridors of the Great Hall to the library. It had quickly become our refuge as we adjusted to life in a ruined castle.

I felt my cheeks grow warm as I recalled the absolute audacity the man had standing there, denying his queen what she required. And the way his gaze had raked over my body so indecently. I couldn’t help but remember his hands at work, so sure of themselves in their delicate movements. In some ways, he had more relaxed confidence as a common candle maker than I had as a queen of thousands. In my defense, I hadn’t known I was royal for long. I knew better how to tell when sourdough was perfectly proofed than how to manage courtly intrigue. But if I could have one ounce of his poise… perhaps I could fake the rest.

“Courage.”

“Bessa, you’ve had more courage in the past five hours than most of your predecessors had to have in five years. Let’s not quip about courage.”

“No, Courage . The candle will enhance a natural wellspring of courage, apparently.”

“What a ridiculous—you already have courage! Look at you!”

“Thank you, Mika, but I’ll take all the help I can muster.”

She tapped a chilled finger on my forehead. “See? Courage and brains. You get that from me.”

I laughed and did a little twirl, the fine dresses we’d found in a trunk in one of the old rooms untouched by the ravages of war. Some were rather old-looking, blue and white damask with rope lined bottoms, but others were gorgeous, and it was a joy to air them out and examine the fine handiwork of a generation past when our people had time for such things. With a little mending, they’d been brought back to life. “I have hope, Mika! And the candle shop… it was… warm.”

“It couldn’t be warmer than the bakeshop,” Mika reasoned, an eyebrow quirking up, as if nothing could get past her. “We had the warmest shop in the whole village. It felt a little obscene how warm our home was. He doesn’t even have an oven, right?”

“No, he doesn’t have any oven,” I confirmed carefully.

“What was his name, this candle maker?”

She was suddenly on to me, that I might have extraneous thoughts not related to candles about the candle maker. How could I explain that I didn’t mean warm physically, although it was also that. I meant warm and cozy, like a hot cup of mulled cider in front of a fire or Eska purring on my lap. Pure contentment. “His name is Ambrose. That’s the thing, Mika. He’s not native to Frostvale, so why end up here? And it was warmer. Somehow.”

“And with clear magic,” my sister murmured. “Do the villagers suspect anything?”

I had returned to musing over the candle, weighing it between my palms to see if it shifted or felt any different. “No, I don’t think so. From what Wyot gathered at the inn, he’s simply down on his luck, arrived from gods-know where, and took over the old candle shop six weeks ago. If it wasn’t for Eska sniffing him out, I would never have known.”

“And the rumors?”

“That’s another thing. There aren’t any rumors about his candles. He barters and trades them for all his supplies, and sometimes, he gives them away. But no one suspects a thing. They can’t all be candles of courage, so what else do you think he’s brewing in them?”

“I haven’t any notion.”

Absently, I stroked the soft fur of my fire fox, enjoying the gentle rise and fall of her breathing as she slept. I didn’t tell my sister my other suspicions. Chiefly, the odd feeling that Ambrose had sensed my fire fox and that was what had made him change his mind.

“He’ll need constant watching,” Mika said grimly.

Her canny way of analyzing any situation always took a minute to get used to after years with no bigger worries than survival. Which were, granted, quite sufficient, but political maneuvering, statecraft, and spying? Now those were new talents I didn’t know she possessed. I was immensely grateful to the gods for her, all the same.

She paused, looking thoughtful, a small crease between her eyes. “Mom and Dad are fine running the bakeshop. Age has barely slowed them down, and Wyot needs something to do. He’s getting bored at home, too antsy to make good bread, as Mom says. He’s scaring the sourdough, and that starter has been in our family for generations.”

“Mika, where are you going with this?”

“You could enlist him to help. He could befriend this Ambrose character and get closer to his candles.”

“You don’t think he’d see right through that?”

She shrugged. “Why? He just arrived and he needs friends, doesn’t he? Why not ours?”

“I meant Wyot. Even I can tell you’re trying to kill two birds with one stone. It isn’t subtle. Our brother will find his footing. Eventually. He doesn’t need us trying to find him a purpose in life.”

“Maybe, but everyone could use all the help they can get. He was a great soldier for you, but he’s worrying me now.”

“True,” I agreed reluctantly. Now that my throne was secure from internal rivals, Wyot didn’t have much of a role. It was the same old story, war was tough, but peace would be tougher for a man like him.

“Great. Let’s go talk to Wyot. His talents are wasted at the bakeshop, whether he knows it or not.”

“Oh yes, spycraft is a much better fit. No worries that he towers over most men and stands out in a crowd like a brown stick in the snow.”

“He’ll be fine.”

“Ambrose might recognize him. I took him along with me as my Frostguard.”

“Did you? And Wyot agreed?” Mika looked relieved. “There’s hope for him yet. But I wouldn’t worry about Ambrose recognizing him.”

“Why?” I asked.

She nodded at my chest. “If he had eyes, he wasn’t looking at anything else, dear sister.”

I winked. “All part of my evil plan.”