Page 44 of The Prince and the Ice King

“What?” Barclay startled.

Reardon could have brought up the princess but decided to be kind. “It’s just wonderful seeing you so carefree about your visions. These people are remarkable.” He looked to Wynn, last to leave, waiting for them at the door.

“They are,” Barclay agreed, “but it’s not only that. My visions here are usually… smaller. In Emerald, I could encounter people from all over the kingdom, and it always felt so big. We’re like a small village in the castle. The future is filled with simpler things, like faulty sewage valves.” He chuckled. “It’s only the past sometimes that reminds me what everyone here has been through.”

“Like you,” Reardon said, gripping his friend’s arm.

“And you,” Barclay returned. They had all been shunned for things they couldn’t change. Then Barclay looked at where they were connected. “Did you want to know more—”

“No.” Reardon let go. He never wanted Barclay to think the only reason he touched him was for a peek at the future. “I mean… did you see more?”

“Nothing new.”

“Then no. I’m finding my way here.” Reardon gestured toward Wynn so they wouldn’t keep him waiting. “I’m going to stay on this path without doubting where it leads. Starting with telling the truth.”

Jack

Jack had watched it all like the day before, following Reardon as soon as he returned indoors, from the music room to lunch afterward, where Oliver and his wife joined the friends Reardon had made.

The prince’s secret was out, not only because he’d had to be truthful with Jack, but because he chose to confess to his new companions too. As he explained what he had in common with many of the denizens ofthe castle, others turned to listen, and the darkness in Reardon’s eyes gradually lifted, finally free of their burden. He was acclimating quickly and being welcomed faster than few ever had.

But he was not meant to stay. If all Reardon wanted from his time here came to fruition, he would return to his own kingdom someday, not become part of Jack’s. That truth drained the warmth Jack had felt outside, reminding him of his own eternal chill.

He lost track of time watching Reardon until darkness fell, when he retreated to his rooms. He’d managed to avoid Josie, ducking away whenever he heard her coming—especially after she learned the full scope of events in the training yard.

“Jack!” She pounded on his door. He couldn’t hide any longer after the sun set. “What were you thinking? He might have been killed!”

Jack stood in his private chambers, a place no one else had been since the curse was cast, not even his sister. “All ended well. Leave me be.”

“They ended well, but they might not have,” she called more softly. “Do not tempt fate. You know how accidents haunt us.”

“Everyone I’ve frozen has earned it.”

“But the same cannot be said for all of us.”

Jack closed his eyes. He hadn’t meant to put Branwen in that position, or to remind Josie of events that haunted her. He didn’t know any longer what he wished to accomplish with Reardon. He’d been consistently surprised by him. Maybe Reardon could convince his kingdom to change, go home and make a new world of the Emerald Kingdom. Jack’s own kingdom would stop growing then, and perhaps some of his people would leave, at least to visit, if not return to their old homes for good.

That would be the only happy end any of them could hope for, yet it filled Jack with an ache to imagine all he knew coming to an end. To lose any part of this home he’d built, to lose any of its people, even Reardon, who’d only been here for a few days….

“Jack,” Josie called again, very soft now, defeated on the other side of his door.

“I won’t endanger him again. He’ll only do that himself. No more tests. But the two weeks stand. I’ve been wrong before.”

“What is it about him that has you so vexed?”

If only Jack knew….

He did know, he supposed. It was everything about Reardon, including what they had in common.

“Please, Jack, talk to me. Let me see you.” A faint thud sounded at the door, as if she’d pressed her palm there.

“Tomorrow,” Jack said, not turning or making any move toward his door.

She did not plead again, knowing he wouldn’t budge. Eventually, her silence gave way to the soft padding of retreating feet.

Jack’s mind swirled with all he’d discovered of Reardon and all he’d seen. His love of stories. His voice. Jack used to spin tales too, for the sheer joy of weaving prose.

Now he drifted toward his writing desk, covered in neatly stacked parchment that he hadn’t touched in ages. Carefully, he sat and picked up his quill, allowing the words to flow.

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