I don’t want her pity or her forgiveness. Not when we came so close to losing her earlier. “Right now, my only worry is keeping you safe.”
The sweetness in her expression hardens ever so slightly. “Until I’m queen.”
“And every day after that if you’ll let me.”
She softens in my arms, kissing me until her stomach growls, and she leans away with a quiet giggle. “I guess if Atticus couldn’t talk Rona into cooking,” she says, “I’m sure I can put a quick bite together.” She tugs the bright green blouse from the bundle over her head, tracing the symbols embroidered along the low-cut neckline.
“Don’t let a brownie hear you threatening to take over her kitchen.” I pull her close, and her scent combined with whatever detergent Rona used nearly covers the smell of witch on the clothes. Wherever she found the colorful threads, they make Rosemarie happy enough to twirl in the skirts, and I won’t mention it. Not if it might make my beauty uncomfortable. Instead, I tap a claw to her bracelet, the green one that shimmers against the blouse. “You always wear your crystals and charms.”
“Gifts from my Lala,” she explains.
“You keep them close like her tarot cards?”
She nods, sorrow in her gaze.
“You’ll see your Lala again.” I can’t promise it, but I feel it in my gut. The Bridge will grant her wish. It has to. Why would anyone deny her? “Let’s go down and see what Rona made. You can read my cards and tell me about the crystals you wear.”
Some of the sadness fades, and I selfishly soak up every bit of her happiness as we spend hours wrapped in each other, eating and talking while Atticus searches his books for a miracle he can’t find a record of ever happening before tonight.
The glow of her runes shines each time I stroke a wing or tail along her spine. Atticus tries similar touches and makes them shimmer before marveling at the flickering beauty. Only Rosemarie seems unsure of her uniqueness, no more enchanted by the shine than by her ability to understand every language my brother, Rona, Darok, or I try on her.
Rosemarie’s my first kiss, my first taste of a woman, my first time to witness true magic becoming real for no other reason than who she is and what she’s meant to become. There has been no other like her, just as there will never be another. I’m sure of it.
The wonder of all I experienced tonight floats in my chest like a helium balloon rising toward the two moons until dawn approaches, dragging with it the sunlight that’ll turn me to stone and force me away from Rosemarie.
I plod on heavy claws to the roof with Atticus, grateful she comes with us. Even if Hudyakis flies around her in the little owl forms she favors, mocking us with his ability to stay with her when we can’t.
“Remember not to leave the tower unless Darok or Rona goes with you,” Atticus tells her. “And don’t open the door to anyone.”
“Got it,” she says. “If finding a giant spider on the other side wasn’t enough to teach me that lesson, then watching you both battle a dragon did.”
“Wyvern,” my brother says.
“Close enough.” She waves away the distinction. “I won’t leave the tower. I’m not looking for another run in with whatever dark magic messed with my head.”
“We need you safe.” Atticus’s gruff bluster is no match for Rosemarie. When she rises onto her tiptoes, he leans into her kiss. The rune at the nape of her neck glows.
I wait for my turn, but she stops a few steps shy of me, Hudyakis perched on her shoulder. The shimmer of the runes makes his feathers shine like the crystals Rosemarie wears.
Maybe my twin’s right.
Maybe she is meant for one or both of us.
Maybe it’s the mythical magic that comes with fated mates, the kind that provides a power surge for at least one of the destined lovers. If so, I’m glad they gave the favor to Rosemarie. My brother and I don’t matter nearly as much in the future of this realm as a queen who can save the Bridge. The prophecy I’ve rejected for so long teases at the edge of my mind.
The twins who would be king, the queen who will save us all, a love that will outlast a lifetime.
What if the prophecy is a blessing instead of the curse I believed it to be after losing Dyphena?
“Such seriousness,” she whispers to me. “Does it hurt?”
I lower my voice to match hers, the gravity of her words seeming to call for hushed tones. “Does what hurt?”
“When you turn to stone?”
My worry melts away. “No more than when you fall asleep.”
“But you seemed so far away.” Hurt laces her words, and I hate the idea that we cause her pain with our absence.