Page 104 of Cursed Crowns

Alarik, who had braced his hand against a heavy oak door, was watching her too closely. Beside him, Ansel was swatting at the flies buzzing around his head. “You look like you want to jump inside that painting,” said the king.

“I’d rather be there than here,” admitted Wren.

“That makes two of us,” he muttered as he pushed the door open. Wren followed him into the chamber, then spluttered in bemusement. “Wait. Is this yourbedroom?”

He arched a brow. “Don’t get any ideas.”

“Please. I’d sooner crawl into Borvil’s mouth.” The door closed behind them with a thud. There were no soldiers in here, only Alarik’s wolves, Luna and Nova, lying on a rug in the middle of the room. The wolves leaped to their feet when they saw Ansel and let out menacing growls. Ansel dropped to his hands and knees and growled back at them.

“Easy, brother.” Alarik pulled Ansel away from the snarling wolves, before silencing the beasts with a sharp command. They sank to the floor while Ansel clambered onto the bed and splayed out like a starfish.

Wren surveyed her surroundings. “This room is very...”

“Tasteful?”

“No.” In fact, it was annoyingly tasteful. The bed was huge yet simple, with a high headboard carved from winterwood and a blanket piled with silver furs. There was a stack of well-thumbed books on the bedside table. Wren had to fight the urge to rifle through them, to figure out what Alarik read at night. For some reason, she couldn’t picture it.

Three large windows hung with tawny drapes looked out over the courtyard, while the cream-colored walls were adorned with portraits that appeared to be mostly of the Felsing family. There was a painting of Alarik and his siblings as bundled-up children skating on an ice rink, one of his father sitting on his throne in full regalia, a youthful Queen Valeska resting a porcelain hand on his shoulder.

Wren moved on, studying Alarik’s official portrait, which hungabove an orderly wooden desk. He had been painted standing on top of a snow-swept mountain, dressed in a navy military uniform and wearing his silver-branch crown. There was another older painting of his siblings hanging beside the window. All three of them were laughing. But it was not the sight of Alarik’s real smile that had drawn Wren to the picture. It was the sun-brightness of his hair. There was no black streak in the middle of it, and his eyes had not yet acquired their famed sharpness.

“Are you done peering into my childhood?” said Alarik impatiently. He was at the other side of the room, by an archway that led into another chamber. “Come.”

He disappeared through the arch. Wren left Ansel lying on the bed and hurried after the king, emerging into another room filled with every color and style of garment imaginable. Clothing racks climbed all the way to the ceiling, while piles of cashmere sweaters and woollen scarves lined the shelves by the windows. The king had a wardrobe the size of her entire bedroom back at Anadawn.

But Alarik hadn’t brought her in here to show off his clothes. His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “Tell me, witch. What the hell have you done to my brother?”

Wren glared at him. “Weraised him from the dead. Or don’t you remember that part?”

A shudder passed through Alarik at the memory.

“I tried to warn you,” she went on. “I told you I had never done that kind of spell before. Of course there were going to be risks—”

“Enough!” he snapped. “I don’t want to hear warnings or excuses. Turn my brother back into the person he was. Not this... ludicrous phantom.”

Wren scowled at the king. “I’m a witch, not a miracle worker!”

“Then you’d better work on your magic. Unless you’ve lost interest in saving your grandmother.”

“You manipulative bastard,” said Wren, balling her fists. “You made me a promise.”

“You mademea promise,” he said, just as viciously. “Andyouhave yet to keep it.” He gestured through the archway. “Thatcreatureis not my brother. It’s some kind of cruel joke.”

“I did my best,” Wren insisted. “My intentions were good.”

Alarik waved her intentions away. “You have two days. If you don’t find a way to make this right, by blood or by magic, your grandmother will spend the night after tomorrow with my beasts.”

Outside, the wind whipped up in a ragged howl. It whistled through the mountains, casting handfuls of snow against the windows. Alarik cursed. “And now this. Another damn blizzard. It’s unseasonable, even for Gevra.”

Wren felt the same blizzard raging inside herself. Whorls of panic twisted in her gut, her fear blinding her from the way forward. She glared at the king.

He took a step toward her. “You can hate me all you want. Curse me if you like, but youwilldo what I’ve ordered, Wren.” He was so close now, Wren could see the stubble on his chin, trace the rings of midnight blue around his irises. “Is that understood?”

They stared at each other for a long moment, their chests heaving with the same ragged anger, before he suddenly stepped back, and, as if some unspoken command had passed between them, his wolves stalked in, baring their teeth at Wren. “Now get out of my room.”

Deep in the dungeons of Grinstad Palace, Wren knelt at the bars of her grandmother’s cell and called out her name. Banba was curled up in the shadows, wrapped in the red cloak Wren had given her. She looked up, bleary-eyed, at the sound of her voice.

“Little bird,” she rasped. Her arms were still chained behind her back and her cheeks were gaunt. She came to the bars. “No,” she whispered, the crevices in her forehead deepening as soon as she saw Wren’s face. “No, Wren. Tell me you didn’t do it.”

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