Page 103 of Cursed Crowns

“I’m a witch,” said Rose, still trying to shake him off. “Now unhand me, you wicked beast.”

Alarik’s mouth twisted into a savage smile. “Hello, Rose. I would say welcome to Gevra, but I’m not particularly pleased to see you.”

There was one sapphire left aglow, and no time to run.

Alarik brought his face close to hers. “Where is your sister? What trick are you two playing?”

“The only trick is the abomination inside that room!” Rose cried out, all her fear and anger rising to the surface. There was no point in pretending to be Wren anymore—they were about to get caught. “Poor Ansel! How could you do this to him? And don’t you dare tell me it was Wren’s fault. I know youforced her to do it!”

Alarik cocked his head. “I thought your sister was the mouthy one.”

Rose prodded his chest with the mirror. “Let my grandmother and my sister go. You’ve kidnapped a queen of Eana. You know very well that’s an act of war.”

“Is that what you’ve come here for, Rose? To declare war on Gevra?” Alarik flashed his canines. “Careful what you wish for.”

Just then, the hand mirror began to shimmer. As the wind reached out to claim her, Rose fixed Alarik with her fiercest stare. “Don’t you dare harm my sister, Alarik Felsing, or you will have all of Eana, and its witches, to reckon with.”

In a rush of wind, she was gone, leaving the king of Gevra staring, slack-jawed, at the space where she had just been.

39

Wren

Wren held tightly to Elske as the wind ferried her home. She felt that sharp tugging sensation again, and then the bottom dropped out of her stomach. The courtyard spun, and she spun with it, the world blurring from streaks of glittering gold to stark white, as a different floor slid underfoot. A wintry chill pricked at Wren’s cheeks as she returned to the marbled interior of Grinstad Palace. She blinked to find herself hunkering in the fourth-floor hallway, her arms still fastened around the wolf’s neck.

She smiled as she pulled back from Elske. “We made it, sweetling.”

“Actually, I prefer ‘Your Majesty,’” came Alarik’s voice from above. He was standing over her, dressed in a simple navy doublet and black trousers. His pale blue eyes were shot with red, and his streaked blond hair was unusually unkempt. He was examining the hand mirror with great suspicion. “What is this thing?”

“It’s a mirror.”

He pressed his lips together. “Perhaps you’d like Borvil to interrogate you instead.”

“Fine. If you want specifics, it’s amagicmirror. It has the power to connect me to Rose. But it doesn’t last long.”

“I had assumed from her letters that Rose was the better-behaved queen,” mused Alarik. “Though after our little run-in just now, I might have to revise that opinion.” He pointed at Elske. “That beast belongs to Captain Iversen.”

Wren scratched underneath Elske’s chin. “And now she’s home. Where she belongs.”

“A happy outcome,” said Alarik dryly. He handed the mirror to one of his soldiers. “Enough talk. You have something that belongs to me.” He turned and disappeared into her bedroom.

Wren stood up, resisting the urge to lunge at the soldier and demand her mirror back. Alarik returned presently, with Ansel, his arm slung around his little brother to keep him from running off. “My flower!” cried the prince, and Wren noticed that his front tooth was missing. “There you are! Every moment away from you feels like an eternity!”

Alarik glared at Wren. “I didn’t give you permission to bring him here.”

“What was I supposed to do? Let him wander around the palace while you were asleep? He already ran into Anika at breakfast.”

“I know. She yelled at me about it. At length.” Alarik’s frown sharpened his cheekbones. “Come. I want to talk where we won’t be overheard.” The second the king moved, his soldiers stepped out of every alcove, swarming him like a battalion. Wren scurried after them, glad to have Elske padding alongside her once more. Almost at once, her thoughts turned back to Rose and Shen, and the grand majesty of the Sunkissed Kingdom.

Shen might be a king, but there were enemies within his walls. She hoped he knew what he was doing. Wren had done everything she could in those twelve minutes, but she had a walking corpse and afurious king to deal with now. She couldn’t afford to worry about her best friend and her sister, too. She had to trust that they would take care of each other.

To Wren’s surprise, Alarik led her into the royal wing on the second floor. It was crawling with soldiers, a new stern face glaring at Wren every ten paces. White tigers and wolves prowled the hallways, while snow foxes snoozed blissfully on the windowsills. Sunlight flooded in through stained glass, illuminating the artwork on the walls. They weren’t the usual depictions of great Gevran battles or beast warfare found in the other rooms of the palace—rather, they were landscapes. Oil paintings of snowy sunsets and rushing waterfalls, silver-backed mountain ranges, a glassy sea on a cloudless day, an emerald valley bursting with yellow and violet flowers.

“That must be the Turcah Valley,” murmured Wren. “It’s beautiful.”

Alarik paused in mid-step. “How do you know about the Turcah Valley?”

Once upon a time, Tor had told Wren about it—a place, he said, that was as green as her eyes. A haven that would be her salvation if she married Ansel and came to Gevra. She told him she wouldn’t come to Gevra for anything, and yet here she was anyway, brushing her fingertips along a painting of the valley that had—for a fleeting moment—represented hope for both of them. She ignored the sudden ache in her heart at the thought of a life with Tor. A world where they might have visited this valley together.

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