Page 35 of Crown of Roses
There was a flicker across his features. A brief glimpse of an emotion Maeve didn’t recognize, and then it was gone. She took that as her cue to leave.
With the book of colorful illustrations and ancient script locked in her grip, she strolled along the deck to the helm of the boat, where the warm wind kissed her skin and the gentle crash of waves cocooned her in silence. For a moment, she wanted nothing more than to be alone. This was the most time she’d spent among others in quite awhile. Back in Kells, when she wasn’t on the training field with Casimir and Saoirse, she was alone. The piles of books in her room and the shelves of the castle’s library had been her only company. She’d found solace in magical worlds not her own. The wicked, and wild, and wonderful.
Once Carman had learned of her blood curse, Maeve had been all but forgotten.
She could remember that day clearly. She’d been foolish enough to think she’d been given a gift from the goddess, a blessing. It had been neither of those things. At the tender age of five, she’d been playing outside like any ordinary child. The winter had been bitter that year. The skies were gray and bleak—already, Kells had been blanketed in six inches of snow—and the air smelled of more to come. But the fierce wind couldn’t reach her within the high walls of the courtyard, so she’d taken to building a palace in the snow. Her governess was nearby, chatting with two of the maids and laughing, their noses red from the cold.
Maeve was sick of the winter. She longed for warm summer days, for the heat of the sun against her skin. It was then her blood sang, beckoning her. The blossoming warmth spread through her. Frightened her. Thrilled her.
She slipped behind one of the barren oak trees and cupped her small hands together. Tiny pink blooms unfolded in her palms. The buds of fresh roses and baby green vines swirled together to form a crown. Their little petals fell like satin against her gloved fingers, beautiful and charming. Then her mother’s cry of anger bounced off the courtyard walls and as quickly as the flowers formed, they turned to ash, and crumbled on the wind.
That night was her first night in the cage.
The first of many.
Maeve closed herself off from the harsh memory. She refused to let her mind drift down that path again. Instead, she gazed out to the sea, and a glimpse of jagged shapes caught her eye.
Land.
The clear definition of mountains came into view. Excitement exploded inside her. Her heart hammered and the rush of adrenaline left her vibrating with exhilaration. Or maybe she was going to throw up. It could go either way.
Saoirse stepped up next to her at the railing of the vessel and wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders. “Are you ready?”
Maeve nodded and handed her the book of fairytales to be tucked safely away into her pack. “Yes.”
Even if she wasn’t, she would be. There was no other choice. It was time for her own story to begin. One she hoped would be recorded in a beautiful book with leather bindings and shimmery words. One she hoped would be read and passed down through the ages of time.
Perhaps it would last an eternity, even if she did not.
Maeve could have melted into the beauty of summer. Into its delicious heat and brilliant warmth. Glimmering rays of sunshine spilled across lustrous mountaintops, down onto a city built atop curling canals nestled in a valley, dusting everything it touched in gold. A winding staircase of ivory stone rose up from the frothing waves and plateaued onto a veranda with ivy-wrapped pillars and a carved statue of an impossible size. It was a fae, of that she was sure, down on one bended knee. A mighty sword of granite was gripped between his palms, tip down, and his head was lowered. The helmet he wore left room for his pointed ears and a detailed cape was pinned to his shoulders with gilded wings. He was a guardian. A warrior. A protector.
Her blood sang and the song pitched, the melody of the magic coursing through her clearer now than she’d ever heard it before.
A shadow fell across her and she looked up to see Aran by her side. He smiled, but his eyes were focused on the city on the horizon. “What do you think of Niahvess, the Summer Court’s Crown City?”
“It’s…” She couldn’t find the words.
Niahvess was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. Magic floated around her, kissed her skin, tickled her cheek. It was everywhere. Living. Breathing. Thriving. All of the books she’d read in the library back home, hidden under a blanket with a half-melted candle for light, were nothing compared to the reality of the fae realm. All the maps, all the drawings—none were as detailed or intricate. The terrain should’ve been treacherous, filled with poison and unknown dangers. All the rough sketches and blotted outlines were distant memories, hand-drawn lies about what to expect.
But she had to remember. She had to remember she was in Faeven.
With Aran’s book clutched to her chest, one hand slid over the ornate railing of his ship, and her nails bit into the smooth, glossy wood. Maeve rolled her shoulders back, adjusted her corset, and ignored the way the stiff leather stuck to her skin. Her gaze lingered on the city in the valley, on the way the beauty seemed to shimmer like a mirage, like it wasn’t even real. “It looks criminal.”
“Positively.” Aran looked down at her then, his delightful eyes warmed with approval, and he offered his arm as the planks unfurled from the side of the vessel, one by one, to take them to the verandah overlooking the city of Niahvess.
She accepted without hesitation.
Once they crossed the planks, Aran stepped onto the closest stone step, and waves of turquoise crashed near his feet. They docked by a pavilion, where a staircase of sandstone cascaded down into the depths of the sea. Maeve’s foot hovered between the safety of the boat and the land of eternal summer, and when her boot touched down onto the slick stone, the world around her shuddered. Sighed.
Saoirse followed behind her and didn’t look nearly as comfortable. Her sapphire gaze scanned the area, darting left then right and back again, waiting for some sign of life. She carried both hers and Maeve’s packs on her back, and her hand was positioned on the hilt of her sword. Casimir stalked down the planks after her. His hood was pulled up, his face a mask of shadows, but he, too, had his hand wrapped around his weapon. Only Rowan, who was the last to stroll down the wooden steps, had any sort of lackadaisical air about him. In fact, he looked ready to take on the world, and when he caught sight of Maeve, the slightest uptick of his mouth was enough to make her heart palpitate.
Aran captured her hand and tucked it into his arm. “Walk with me, Maeve.”
Casimir jolted forward, his hood slipping back with aggression, but Saoirse grabbed his collar and hauled him back. Maeve glanced at her friend, at one of the few people she trusted. Saoirse gave a slight nod, but her brilliant blue eyes were cold with a vow to fight to the death if necessary.
“I won’t hurt you,” Aran assured her, and he led her up a few of the steps toward the verandah, toward the towering statue of the warrior fae whose armor was adorned with the crest of a swirling sun rising between twin mountain peaks.
“I know why you’re here.” He looked down at her and when she met his eyes, she saw they were clear and kind. “What you seek, it will not be easy to find. It was torn from this world, and no one knows if it survived.”
