It didn’t help that Aurora would be happier in the Moors. The castle was massive and drafty and damp. Wind often whistled down interior corridors. The fireplaces were fond of backing up, giving the elaborately decorated rooms a slight but constant stink of smoke. Worst of all, though, was the iron. Iron latches, iron bars on windows, and iron bands on doors. They were a reminder of the horrible things her father, King Stefan, had done and the even more horrible things he’d wanted to do. Aurora had ordered it all stripped and replaced, but that was such a large undertaking that not even a quarter of the rooms were finished.
She didn’t blame Maleficent for not wanting to visit her there, with all those memories.
But the palace was where Aurora needed to be. Not just because she wanted to know what it was like to be human, but because she had one goal as queen of Perceforest and the Moors—to lead the faeries and humans of both kingdoms into thinking of themselves as belonging to one united land. Her first step was a treaty. The only problem was that no one could agree on anything.
The faeries wanted the humans to stay out of the Moors, but wanted to be able to wander through Perceforest whenever they liked. And the humans wanted to be able to pick up whatever they found lying around in the Moors, even though some of those things were actually mushroom faeries, or crystals that were part of the landscape, or bits of other creatures’ homes.
She had spent the morning trying to make headway, to no avail.
“I hope no one here has offended you,” said Count Alain, drawing Aurora out of her wandering thoughts. The youngest of her important landholders, he was also the most dashing. He had thick midnight hair with a single stripe of white in it, like a very handsome skunk.
“Excuse me?” Aurora asked, puzzled.
He pointed toward the window. “You’ve put a terror in all of us that you might glare at us the way you’ve been glaring at that window.”
“Oh, no,” she said, embarrassed. “I was only lost in my own contemplations.”
On the other side of the great hall, a harpist was entertaining a group of ladies. The royal household had come from their midday dinner and were beginning to consider the games and activities of the evening.
Count Alain stroked his chin, where a thin beard grew. His green eyes sparked with mirth, but sometimes she wondered if he was laughing at her. “I fear we have neglected to amuse you, my queen. Let’s have a hunt in those woods you were staring at.”
“That’s very kind,” Aurora replied, “but I have never liked hunting. I feel too sorry for the creatures.”
“Your sympathy does you credit,” Count Alain said, and before she could respond, he broke into a wide grin. “Yet this you will enjoy! It will be all in fun. A mere excuse for a romp. Surely you’d like to get out of this stuffy castle for a pleasant afternoon.”
She did want to get out of the castle.
“Yes,” said a voice. It was Prince Phillip, just entering the room, mud on his boots. “I can testify you ought to, Your Majesty. Your kingdom is marvelously beautiful right now, with summer turning to autumn.”
With his caramel curls and a careless smile he bestowed on everyone, he turned the heads of most of the women and half the men in the room.
But not hers. Since she had become queen, he was the one she confided in, the one she laughed with when she felt overwhelmed by the task of ruling the kingdom. Just the night before, they’d spent a comfortable evening playing the Game of the Goose in front of the fire, both of them cheating unmercifully.
Friendship with Prince Phillip was safe. He’d already kissed her, after all, even if she didn’t remember it. And he hadn’t even done it because he wanted to, but in the hopes it might end the curse.
It hadn’t, because he didn’t love her. It hadn’t been True Love’s Kiss—which, she told herself, was a relief. After all, love had been the cause of all of Maleficent’s pain. Friendship was better in every way.
“Tell me this,” she said to Phillip. “In your land, is hunting ever done all in fun?”
“In Ulstead,” he said after giving the matter some thought, “while many find hunting enjoyable, we always do it in deadly earnest.”
Aurora turned back to Count Alain. His smile had stiffened. She felt a little guilty.
“I would love to ride in the forest,” Aurora told him. “But it must not be a hunt. And we must not cross into the Moors.”
“Of course, my queen,” replied Count Alain, the spark back in his eyes. “It is well known you take an unaccountably generous view of the faeries.”
Her instinct was to snap at Count Alain that it was the humans who had waged war against the Fair Folk for generations and not the other way around, but she bit back the words. He had grown up being warned about the Moors. Like most of the nobility, he had no experience with the beauty of the place—or the joyful wildness of the beings who lived there.
He’d grown up with lies. She had to convince him that what he’d heard was wrong and believe that he could learn a new way of seeing the faeries. A new way of seeing the world.
If she could get him on her side, he would be a powerfully ally in negotiating the treaty and in changing the minds of her people, especially the younger courtiers, who admired him.
Perhaps the ride was a very good idea.
“We must not cross into the Moors, but we can ride close enough to view them,” Aurora amended. “In fact, the whole court ought to come. We can go tomorrow afternoon and picnic up high enough that we can see inside. The Moors are nothing like the wall of briars that used to surround them. They’re beautiful.”
Count Alain sighed and gave a smile that was only a little forced. “As you wish, my queen.”
Chapter 2
Would you like to know what it’s like to lose your wings?
First you have to imagine tasting clouds on your tongue and diving through the sky as you might dive into a pool of water on a hot summer day.
You have to imagine the sun on your face when you’re above the clouds.
You have to imagine never having to be afraid of heights.
And the wings themselves, folded on your back, soft and downy. You have slept every night of your life covered in their warmth.
Then they’re gone. Cut away. A part of you missing, a part that’s still alive and beating against a cage you can’t see.
You feel a raw pain. You are a wound that never closes.
You become plodding and slow. The kingdom you’ve lost is above you, cerulean and out of reach.
You curse the sky.
Curse the air.
Curse the girl.
And then you become the curse.
Chapter 3
Aurora hated to sleep. Every night she made excuses to stay up later and later. There were always lists to make, letters to write, endless revisions of the treaty to puzzle over. She wandered around her enormous chamber, stoking the fire and letting her candles burn down so low each wick guttered out in a pool of wax.