Rae Carson: The Girl of Fire and Thorns

His eyes narrow. “She won’t be in my bed, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m worried about the minor matter of treason,” I snap at him. This is not going how I imagined. I can’t believe I just spoke to him that way.

He shrugs, looking vulnerable again. “We can’t be sure—”

“She knew what her father was doing. She knew he sold out to Invierne. But she said nothing. Think of all those war councils, Alejandro. All those Quorum meetings when she could have told you the truth.”

Hesitation flickers across his face. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll have her watched.”

I want her imprisoned, out of my—and Cosmé’s—way, should we survive this war. “That would help. Thank you.”

“So, the Quorum would like to hold the coronation in two days.”

So soon! I remember a time—so long ago, it seems—when I lay on the bed next door, fingertips to my Godstone, praying about whether I should become queen. Now I must play the game, if only to fulfill a promise to a brave group of people who want the freedom to make their own place.

While the wine swims warm in my blood and feels something like courage, while Alejandro’s softly yearning gaze on me feels something like power, I make my first move. “You were right about one thing,” I say, my tone respectful again. Almost flattering. “The people of the Malficio are heroes. They are the bravest warriors I’ve ever known, and they would give their lives if it gave you victory.”

“You are right to be proud of them.”

“If we survive this war—” Fear flits across his features at my words. “Then I would take it as a personal favor to see them honored.”

“Of course,” he concedes quickly, but his brow is furrowed, his gaze distant.

“What is it, Alejandro?”

He sighs. “Can I tell you something in confidence, Elisa?”

“Of course.”

He gulps the rest of his wine and sets his glass down. “I’m afraid of this war.” His smile is self-deprecating. “My father was killed by an Invierne arrow. Right before my eyes. I still have nightmares about it. And my next true battlefield experience left me bleeding badly.”

“The Perditos,” I whisper. Is this why he is always so indecisive? Because he is terrified?

“Yes, the Perditos. See how unheroic I am? You saved me that day, remember?”

I hadn’t realized having one’s life saved could be so humiliating. I barely refrain from rolling my eyes at him. “I promise to spare you future embarrassment. Next time, I’ll let you die.”

He winces, and I wish I could take the words back. Where does this new, cruel Elisa come from? “I understand,” I say by way of a peace offering. “Several times during the last months, I became so frightened I thought I’d die of it. But time passed, decisions were made and acted upon, and I didn’t have to be afraid again for a while.”

“Does that make it easier?”

I smile sadly. “I’m more frightened than ever. I’ve watched people die.” Die in my very arms . I have to swallow before continuing. “I know how hard it will be to . . . keep going. After. Even if we win.”

He wilts at my words, and I realize I’ve probably made things worse.

I stand and stretch. My appetite is gone, and I suddenly long to be with Ximena and Mara. “I hope you’ll excuse my early departure, Alejandro, but if we are to have a coronation in two days, I must begin preparations.” It’s a lie. I couldn’t care less about the coronation ceremony.

He rises and takes my hands. “I’m glad you’re back.” It’s that lost look again, the one that used to make me want to hold him close and murmur words of comfort.

His eyes fall to my breasts. The corset and riding vest push them toward my chin. I almost feel that if I lowered my head enough, it could rest there, pillowed comfortably.

His arms snake around my waist, and he pulls me toward him until my breasts are smooshed against his chest. “Elisa,” he whispers, staring at my lips.

I want him to kiss me, even though my heart squeezes with wrongness. I want to feel the victory of being desired by someone I once found desirable. With the way he looks at me now, I know I can be with a man for the first time tonight, if I choose to be.

He leans in; his lips brush mine. Gently first, then with insistence. His fingers tangle in my hair, he takes my bottom lip between his, his tongue whispers against my teeth. His indoor, gentleman’s mouth is so soft. Softer than Humberto’s.

With a gasp, I lurch away from him.

The confusion on his face is quickly replaced by a soothing smile. “I understand, Elisa. You’re not ready for this. We have plenty of time to get to know each other.” It’s the same voice he’d use with little Rosario. Placating, condescending.

“Thank you for understanding.” I smile sweetly. On the day he died, Humberto spoke of a way to be free of Alejandro. What did he discover?

But it is of no matter now. I must become queen if I’m to help the people I care about. I only hope that, months from now, there is something left to be queen of.

I enter through the door connecting our suites. Ximena is reading the Scriptura Sancta , Mara is mending her robe. They both look up in surprise.

“I didn’t expect you so soon,” Ximena says.

“Did you find that potted palm?”

Ximena sighs. “No. It wasn’t in the monastery. Mara checked the servants’ quarters.”

“The kitchen master caught me digging into a pot of soil,” Mara says, voice tinged with laughter.

I plop onto the bed, frustrated. “It’s probably decorating some noblewoman’s suite. I have to figure out a way to check every single room in the palace. Maybe Hector will help me.”

“We’ll ask him tomorrow,” Ximena says. Searching for the Godstones is awkward for her, against her staunch Vía-Reforma belief that all such matters should be left to themselves. She only agreed to help when I pointed out how much worse it would be if Invierne’s sorcerers found them first. I suppose I could order a search of the entire palace once I am crowned queen. The thought makes me scowl. What a lovely way to endear myself to my new subjects.

I take a deep breath and say, “I’m to be crowned queen in two days.”

They stare at me. “That’s wonderful, Elisa,” Mara says.

Someone raps at the door. I jump, half expecting it to be Alejandro again. Ximena opens the door a crack, grabs something, closes it.

“A message for you via pigeon,” she says, holding out her hand. A tiny canister is pinched between thumb and forefinger.

I grab it, unscrew the top, uncurl the tiny roll.

“It’s from Cosmé!” I gasp. Tears spring to my eyes. “Basajuan is overrun, the conde’s army scattered into the Hinders. All the nearby villages have been burned. She organizes a group to harry the Inviernos from behind now that they march on Brisadulce.” I look up at them, waving the tiny parchment. “It says to expect refugees. Maybe thousands.”

“That’s good, right?” Mara says. “That means she was able to evacuate a lot of people.”

I nod. “It’s good.”

Pray through your doubts. I drop to my knees on the hard stone floor. I prostrate myself and pray for Cosmé, for Jacián, even for traitorous Belén. I plead for the lives of Alentín and the people of his hidden village. I beg God to show me how to combat the sorcery of the animagi. Surely, with so much at stake, he will heed my prayers.

By the time I collapse into bed, my body shimmers with sweat from the Godstone’s burning response.

The next day is a whirlwind of monotony. Everyone wants my opinion, but only on the most minor of matters. “How would you like to make your entrance, Your Highness?” “Which dishes would you prefer for the feast afterward?” “Do you want stargazer lilies or allamanda?” “Should the orchestra play the ‘Glorifica’ or the ‘Entrada Triunfal’?”