Page 49 of Wrath of the Never Queen

The prince looks at me for a long while before taking another half-step forward. Now he is close enough for me to smell the soap heused this morning—sweet and earthy—but also something dark and pleasant underneath. It is the smell of him, I realise. My heart sets off at a gallop as he towers over me. All sense of dignity leaves my body.

“Even though your father is a prick,” I blurt out. Horrified, I clap a hand over my mouth. The prince’s eyes widen, and his mouth parts slightly. There is a moment where I do not know what he will do.

And then his face breaks into a grin, and the glasshouse rings with his delighted laugh.

“Well said, Miss Shivani.”

He turns to one of his plants and strokes the leaf tenderly. A fierce warmth radiates from my face, but I make an attempt to recover quickly, moving the conversation along from my strange outburst.

“This is your version of my art room, I suppose?” I ask, stepping away to squint at a squat, spiky thing.

“That feels accurate,” he replies. “Although there is a tree which I like to visit also.”

I recall the tree outside my chambers I tried to use to escape. The prince’s presence there suddenly makes sense.

“It is quiet there,” he continues. “The guards do not often patrol around it, so I am free to read in relative peace.”

“Until someone decides to fling themselves off the windowsill.”

The prince catches my eye, and I give a sheepish grin.

“I am only glad I was there to help,” he says, ever the gentleman. “Shall we continue on?”

We spend the rest of the morning in the prince’s greenhouse as he shows me his favourite flowers and the history behind each exotic plant. Their names roll off his tongue easily as he recants obscure plant knowledge with little effort. The part of me that thirsts for knowledge is in awe, and I find myself listening with eager interest.

We end up in a small gap between flowers where we can stand and look out through the glass. I blink at the view. We have climbed high, to the highest point in the castle. Snow coats the flat surfaces of the walls and catches on the ledges. The sky remains a hard grey but the snow has ceased falling. The prince points out a part of the castle walls where a tree pushes its way through the brick.

“I caught you…” He points. “Right there.”

Even though I already know, the memory comes to me in a rush, like a harsh, cold wind. From this view, I can see the distance between the ledge I stood on and the tree. Whether it is real or a trick of the season, the branches of the tree look especially fragile. I swallow hard, trying not to think of what would have happened to me if the prince had not been there and I had truly jumped. My eyes trace down the ledge to the hardbrick beneath. I picture my mangled body there, having undoubtedly missed the tree or fallen through the branches. I blanch.

“My apologies, Miss Shivani.” The prince breaks me out of my spiralling thoughts. “I should not have shown you.”

I inhale quickly, trying to dislodge the unpleasant images.

“It is quite alright, Your Highness. I-I made a jest of it first.” I blink rapidly and look away, catching the prince’s eyes. He takes my gloved hand in his, and my heart stutters.

“No, it was a dark time for you, and I do not wish to remind you of it. I can only imagine how much you have worked to…make the most of your situation here.” He takes a deep breath. “I wished to take you to my favourite place in the castle, but I should not have mentioned the tree. I apologise.”

I search his eyes and find only sincerity.

“Accepted, Your Highness.” I incline my head, and he smiles, relieved. He turns to look at the plants, and, to my delight, his hand stays in mine. I try to steady my heartbeat and listen to him.

"The guards do not climb this high,” he tells me. “It is the only true place I am able to find some peace.”

I think of my art room and the peace it brings me. To be alone and unwatched in a sea of hostile guards and observing eyes. I startedto understand the prince knew the value of that and wanted to give it to me unprovoked. Purely to share something he knew was important. A sanctuary.

“You have a kind heart, Your Highness,” I tell him and squeeze his hand. He turns to me and I realise how close we are, nearly touching. The humid air is so tense I cannot remember how to breathe.

He raises his hand and nearly reaches for my cheek but hesitates. Instead, he slides his arm around my back and pulls me in. His face nestles at the nape of my neck. He holds me tight, hugging me as though I am a life raft in an unforgiving sea. After a beat, when I realise what is happening, I reciprocate. I wrap my arms around him and let myself melt against his chest. He is firm and solid—he brings me such a feeling of safety. I realise the art room is not my only sanctuary here. The prince is, as well. I do not know how long we stay that way, but neither of us wants it to end.

Eventually, the prince pulls back with a dazed expression.

“I…” he starts, but the words seem to stick in his throat. “I am due to turn tonight.”

“Oh.” I am unsure what I expected but it is not that. I clear my throat and take a step back. A flash of disappointment straightens my spine.

“I would appreciate your company during my recovery,” he continues.

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