Page 8 of Dreams and Dragon Wings
According to Bene, the magic has always been there. But I only became aware of it on my eighteenth birthday—the day I became strange.
I can merelyseethe kaleidoscopic threads, though. I cannot weave with them like Bene can. If I could, perhaps I could weave my way out of my current predicament. Thirty years old and unmarried. A spinster preparing to be courted by a man old enough to be her father.
But Lord Reginald Lockhart is the only man in all of Briarhold who will have me now.
“Aurelia?” Mama calls from downstairs. “Are you ready? We must make haste.”
“I’m coming,” I call back, my voice flickering in time with my unsteady pulse. But I make no move to rise from my desk. Reluctance roots me to the chair.
It has been years since I was last out in proper Spindleton society, but I must attend His Majesty’s ball tonight. By royal decree, all unwed maidens are to present themselves so that the king can choose a wife from amongst them. So present myself, I must.
Despite the fact that I will be a most unwanted addition.
Despite the fact that I would much rather stay home and look after Papa.
Despite the fact that the king would never choosemefor his bride.
Three days of feasting and merriment await me—three days of torture beneath the watchful eye of Spindleton society. I will have to endure it all with a smile, as if my heart isn’t lying broken in a fairy circle in the middle of the woods behind our old cottage.
“Aurelia!”
I tuck the letter away in my pocket, willing my fingers not to tremble. Mama is right to fret. The ball begins in an hour, and we still have one more errand to run.
My final trip to the fairy circle.
The sudden clatter of footsteps hurrying up the stairs wrenches me back to the present. My pulse quickens. I desperately survey the collection of my favorite letters from Bene strewn across my desk.
Mama is coming. She will see I didn’t let her destroy them all—a necessary step, in her opinion, to my finally saying goodbye to my oldest friend.
But I couldn’t. I justcouldn’t.
Delicate parchment—fragile and well-loved—greets my fingertips as I hastily brush years’ worth of notes back into the desk drawer with the false bottom where I now hide them. All save for one.
I snatch up that final missive at the last second, just as my bedroom door swings open to reveal my mother. Even after all these years, she is still a handsome woman. Pleasantly plump with pewter-gray hair and hazel eyes that miss nothing.
She narrows those eyes at me, at the letter I now hold.
“Is that it, then?” Mama asks, bustling forward.
I slip the letter into my pocket before she has a chance to inspect it further. “It is, yes.”
My stomach twists. I hate keeping things from her. Though I now know she is not my birth mother, Mira Weaver is still my mother.
But lie I must. Mama means well. She wishes to protect me from further heartbreak. I know that. But I can’t bear the thought of parting with yet another of his letters.
Not today. Not on our birthday.
“And did you do as I advised?” she asks while moving to stand behind me. “You were very final? Men need a little cruelty to dissuade them, my love, or they may yet cling to some shred of hope.”
I stare at the mirror before me and offer a wan smile. “Yes,” I whisper. “I did as you advised.”
Though it killed me to do it.
My reflection reveals a tired-looking woman—a perfect stranger. A lady in a gown of rose silk with pure gold lace edging the neckline and sleeves. Pink diamonds dangle from her ears and throat, flashing in the dying light spilling in through my open window.
Mama insisted I have a whole new wardrobe for the king’s balls, as if the shine of new jewelry might distract from the dark stain on my reputation.
“Oh, my darling, you look exquisite,” she exclaims, blessedly changing the subject. “If a little pale.” Leaning in, she presses a kiss to my cheek. “Are you feeling unwell?”
