Page 111 of The Prisoner's Throne
“I guess I can see why Wren thought she couldn’t come back to my family, and it wasn’t because—I don’t know, not because she didn’t want to see us.”
“She was willing to do a lot for your sake,” Oak says, thinking of all the ways Wren must have struggled to free them from Bogdana’s trap, how despair must have closed in around her when she realized she was going to have to choose between an agonizing death for her sister and the deaths of many others.
“I just wish—” Bex says. “I wish I’d talked to her when I first saw her sneaking into the house. I wish I’d followed her. I wish I’d done more, donesomething.”
Over the past few days, Oak has been making a comprehensive and damning list of all the better choices he could have made. He’s wondering whether he ought to admit them out loud when Bex screams.
He rockets to his feet, not sure what she’s seeing.
And then he does. Inside of the husk of Wren, something is moving. Shifting beneath her skin.
“What is that?” Bex says, scuttling back until she hits the wall.
Oak shakes his head. The dullness of Wren’s skin suddenly makes him think of the shed casings that spiders leave behind. He reaches out an unsteady hand—
Wren moves again, and this time, the papery flesh tears. Skin emerges, vibrant blue. Her body cracks open like a chrysalis.
Bex makes an alarmed sound from the floor.
From within, a new Wren emerges. Her skin the same cerulean blue, her eyes the same soft green. Even her teeth are the same, sharp as ever when she parts her lips to take a breath of air. But on her back are two feathered wings, light blue gray at the tips, with darker feathers closer to her body, and when they unfurl, they are large enough to canopy him, Bex, and Wren.
She stands, naked and reborn, looking around the room with the sharp gaze of a goddess, deciding whom to bless and whom to smite.
Her eyes settle on the prince.
“You have wings,” he says, awestruck and foolish. He sounds as though he took a hard blow to the head. That isn’t far from how he feels.
Astonished joy has robbed him of all cleverness.
“Wren?” Bex whispers.
Wren’s attention swings to her, and he can see the mortal girl flinch a little under the weight of it.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” Wren says, although she looks positively terrifying right then. Even Oak is a little frightened of her.
Bex draws in a breath and pushes herself off the floor. Picking up a fallen blanket, she hands it to her sister, then gives Oak a pointed look. “You should probably stop staring at her like you never saw a naked girl with wings before.”
Oak blinks and turns away, shamefaced. “Right,” he says, heading for the door. “I’ll leave you both.”
He looks back once, but all he sees are feathers.
In the hall, a guard comes immediately to attention.
“Your Highness,” he says. “Tiernan went to rest a few hours ago. Shall I send for him?”
“No need,” says Oak. “Let him be.”
The prince moves through the palace like a stunned sleepwalker, desperately happy that Wren is alive. So happy that when he finds Madoc in the game room, he can’t contain his smile.
His father stands from behind a chess table. “You look pleased. Does that mean—”
Time—never particularly well calculated by the Folk—has blurred at the edges. He’s not sure how long he’s been in that room. “Awake. Alive.”
“Come sit,” Madoc says. “You can finish Val Moren’s game.”
Oak slips into the chair and frowns at the table. “What happened?”
In front of Madoc are several captured pawns, a bishop, and a knight. On Oak’s side, only a single pawn.
