A Wicked Thing

ONE

SHE WOKE UP WITH A KISS.

Not a birds-singing, heart-stopping, world-ending sort of kiss. A light spot of pressure on her lips.

Aurora opened her eyes.

A stranger loomed above her. A boy. He stared at her. I did it, he said. I actually did it.

Aurora screamed.

The intruder jerked backward, and Aurora kicked out, scrambling to the other side of the bed. Her feet hit the floor, and her knees buckled. Her left hand slammed onto the stone. Sunlight poured through the windows, stinging her eyes.

I’m sorry. The boy’s words rushed together. Are you all right?

There was a stranger. A strange boy. In her bedroom. Kissing her while she slept. And then . . . apologizing?

Princess?

She stared down at her hand. Her elbow shook. What did you do when apologetic strangers broke into your room and kissed you? It seemed important, somehow, to pick the right response, to behave the way her mother would expect, but her mind was a haze, and the ground seemed to vibrate under her fingertips. Or maybe that was her.

I’m Prince Rodric, the stranger said, when she did not reply. Son of King John the Third, and future king of— He broke off. I mean—Rodric. You can call me Rodric. If you like.

She would not face an intruder from the floor. Aurora grabbed the edge of the bed and pulled herself to her feet. The world shuddered and lurched. I don’t care who you are, she said. What are you doing in my room?

He stood completely still, like a child struggling not to startle a baby deer—or afraid that the deer might be a bear after all, and bite off his hand before he could blink. Well, I’m—I’m here to save you.

To save me?

The boy continued to stare. He did not look particularly threatening, with his gangling limbs, gaping expression, and light brown hair that stuck out of the top of his head, but despite his endearing appearance, he was clearly insane. Aurora took a shaky step backward. This time she kept her footing. I’m calling my guards.

Wait. The boy—Rodric—moved toward her, arm outstretched. His knees thudded against the side of the bed. I mean—do you not remember?

Remember what? She took another step backward, but her legs swayed underneath her, and she stumbled. Her dress weighed her down—not a nightgown, she realized, but a heavy, silken thing, as though she were dressed for a ball and had drifted off to sleep along the way. Numbness prickled across her skin.

Please be careful, he said. You must be weak.

Oh, must I? she asked, stepping backward again, her hand pressed against the wall to hold herself steady. And why would that be?

Because—because of the spell.

She stopped. You cast a spell on me? Panic rose in her throat, freezing her in place, but she forced it back. Raised her chin slightly in defiance. She hoped he would not notice how it shook. You work for the witch Celestine?

No! He scrambled around to her side of the bed. In response, she slid sideways, close to the wall, trying to keep the distance between them. No, nothing like that! I came—I was trying to break the spell. I was—I was helping.

Nothing could break the spell, except waiting. Certainly not awkward strangers who said they were princes and did not realize that you were only meant to kiss princesses when they were awake. She stepped closer to the door, but her foot caught on the hem of her skirt, and she slammed into the wall again. It was the ball gown, she realized, that her mother had ordered specially for the night of her eighteenth birthday, for the celebration that would mark her freedom. Freedom from magic, freedom from the curse. But if it was daylight outside . . .

The ball . . . she said. It was last night. Does that mean— She had reached her eighteenth birthday, she had escaped, she was free.

You pricked your finger, Rodric said, and he sounded hopeful, like he thought she finally understood him. You fell asleep.

She could not remember. She had been preparing for the ball, so happy that the curse was finally broken, and then . . . something was tugging at the corners of her memory. Singing. She remembered singing, and a light, moving upward from a tower that had no up left to go. A woman, her features blurred. And the slightest point of pressure on her fingertip.

She looked down at her hand. A bubble of blood rested on the pad of her index finger. She brushed it with her thumb. Red smeared across her skin. Why did you kiss me?

The—the story, he said, as though that meant anything at all. She stared at him, shaking her head slowly back and forth. The kiss of true love, he added, when she didn’t reply. Whoever wakes the princess with a kiss—they’re destined to get married and live happily ever after.

True love? Destiny? Perhaps he was a madman after all. I do not even know you, she said.

But the story—

What story? she asked. What are you talking about?

The story of you, Princess, he said. The sleeping beauty.

TWO

HER FINGER ACHED. SHE PRESSED THE TIP INTO her palm, squeezing the pain away, but that boy, that prince, was still standing there, still watching her like he could never have believed she would be here, and had no idea what to do now that she was.

There is no story of me.

Oh, but there is, Princess. Rodric took another step forward. Eagerness radiated from him, as though this was the moment, this was when everything would become clear. Everyone loves you. You can’t imagine how wonderful things will be now that you’re awake.

Awake? She pressed her hand against the wall to steady herself.

We tried to awaken you before, of course, Rodric said quickly. Lots of people tried over the years. But it didn’t work. Before today. His cheeks were pink. I didn’t think it would be me. I mean, I’m glad it is, but . . . I’m not usually big on the whole heroics thing.

Over the years?

How long was I asleep? she asked in a careful, measured sort of voice, like it wasn’t really an important question at all, like she already knew the answer and merely wanted to check.

We tried, he said again. But it’s—it’s been a while. He stuttered over the words, dragging them out of some cautious, uncertain place. Longer than we hoped. Not forever, but . . . a while.

Not forever. A while. He said the words the way her father did, when he first locked the door to her tower and told her she could not wander around the rest of the castle any longer. It wasn’t safe. She needed to stay inside, for her own protection. For a little while, he said with a slight frown and an evasively comforting smile. Just a little while.

That had been eight years ago. And then she had fallen asleep.

Tell me, she said. She stepped toward him. Tell me how long it has been.

He looked away. The silence stretched between them. One hundred years.

One hundred years? She repeated the words in her head, trying to make them stick, but they didn’t seem to mean anything at all.

Well—one hundred and two.

But everything looked the same. Her book was still propped open on the table. Her candle stood half-burnt, wax frozen in a drip down the side. Every ornament was in the same place as yesterday, every detail identical to the day before her eighteenth birthday, when she had brushed out her hair and tried on her new dress and celebrated the fact that soon she would be able to go out into the world. Yesterday.

No, she said. She shook her head. Her hair brushed against her neck. You’re lying.

Princess— He reached for her again, and she jerked away.

You’re mad, she said, but she did not believe it. The air tasted heavy and old. She stumbled to the door and tugged it open.

The landing beyond looked like an abandoned ruin. Dust coated everything in the small circular space, from the little table opposite to the staircase that spiraled down out of sight. Rodric’s footprints led to her door, and thicker patches trailed beside them, as though other people at other times had made the same trek. Spiderwebs hung from the corners, and her favorite tapestry, the one of a rearing unicorn in a forest of light, was moth-eaten beyond saving.

Princess . . .

She let go of the door. It swung closed with a creak. Impossible. It was impossible. A trick. She stepped back again, and again, then turned and hurried toward the window, desperate for a breath of fresh air, for the reassuring sight of the forest.

It was gone. A city sprawled into the distance, as far as she could see. The sun bounced off red roofs, houses all jumbled together between weaving stone roads. The air hummed with the sound of chatting and laughter.

An entire world, sprung up in an instant.

Princess? Rodric said. Are you all right?

She did not reply. Her fingertip throbbed. Everything was gone. Everyone . . .

Where is my family? she said, forming each word carefully, like they might explode if disturbed. Did they sleep as well?

Silence, unbroken except for the hum of the city. She continued to stare at the view, watching people scurrying along the road below. She did not want to touch the question again, did not want to ask, but the silence dragged on, each second heavy, and the truth hardened in her stomach.

Rodric. She dug her fingers into the window ledge, pressing until her knuckles turned white. Forcing the pressure down, away, out of her body and into the stifling stone. Where is my family?

I’m sorry, Princess, he said. They’re—they died. A long time ago.

They died, she repeated. Meaningless words, really. How could your family, your whole world, vanish while you slept? It wasn’t death, with aging and sickness and pain and grief, when they were simply gone. Lost decades ago, while she remained young and unchanged. She slid her hands off the windowsill and stared at her pale skin.

Was it the sleep, or the shock, or just her own weakness that made her feel numb, like she was in a dream still? She did not scream. She did not cry. A small part of her curled up in her chest, and when she looked up, the light burned her eyes.

I’m sorry, Rodric said again.

She did not reply.

Should we go downstairs? he asked. Everyone is waiting.

Everyone?

Some of the court. My family. Not as many as you might hope, but . . .

She turned, her hair trailing across her neck. He had a gentle face. He seemed to mean well. Your family? she said. My family is dead.

He smiled, a hopeful little smile. They can be your family now too.

She stared at him.

He blushed. Shall we go? He held out his arm.

Yes, she said slowly, carefully, clinging to the word. Her legs shook, so she placed her hand on the crook of his elbow, as lightly as she could. His doublet was soft under her fingertips.

Are you all right?

Yes. It was all she could say.

Rodric ducked his head. This way. As if she needed prompting.

Dust settled on her lips and between her eyelashes as they walked. It coated everything, rising up in a cloud every time Aurora took a step or brushed her hand against the banister. It scratched her throat, the lines behind her teeth, and she coughed.

They walked down the stairs, around and around, until Aurora’s head spun. The staircase became neater with every turn. The dust thinned. New tapestries hung from the walls. In one, a golden-haired girl kissed a prince under a wedding arch. A few steps farther down, the same girl slept in a huge bed, lit only by the glow of a thousand fairies. Then she was sitting before a rickety spinning wheel, a single finger raised. Aurora stopped and brushed the same finger down the cloth. Her nail caught on the rough thread. These are of me?

Yes, Rodric said. They were gifts. In honor of you. I don’t—I don’t know from whom.

Aurora looked back up the spiraling staircase, straining to make out the wedding picture. Her promised future, captured on the wall for all to see.

They walked on, until the decay began to seem almost artistic. Cobwebs hung from some corners, but they did not block the stairs, and there were no spiders in sight. The stones only had a light coating of dust, and a few torches lit the way. Someone has cleaned here, she said.

No one’s used the tower in years, Rodric replied. But people visited sometimes. He spoke quickly and a little too loudly, his voice reaching out to fill the silence. Not to—not to try to wake you, of course. That—that was only princes and—and people like that. There is a bit of a superstition, actually, he added. About entering the tower. Only the boy who goes to awaken you in his eighteenth year can climb the stairs. Everyone else must wait below. If he is accompanied, or if anyone else disturbs you, you will never wake up. But some people still got a glance. At the tapestries. And the stairs.

Aurora stared at her feet. A thousand tiny needles prickled inside her head. She could think of no reply.

A heavy wooden door waited at the end of the staircase, blocking out all sound from beyond. Aurora stared at it. She had not walked through it in years, not since her father decided that even the rest of the castle was unsafe for her. It was longer than years now. Lifetimes. The door had marked the way out, the way to freedom, for her whole quiet little life. What was it now?

Rodric’s hand hovered over the brass knocker. The moment lingered, and then he nodded, once, and pushed. The door slid open, just an inch, wobbling as though uncertain whether to swing forward or slam shut.

Well? A sharp voice cut through the gap. Is she awake?

Yes, Rodric said. His voice cracked on the word. Yes, he repeated with more conviction. She’s awake.

The door was torn open. Aurora blinked, raising one shaking hand to cover her face.

A woman stood before them. She had a long bony face, brown skin, and sleek black hair tied in an elaborate knot at the back of her head. She stared at Aurora, mouth open, cold eyes scanning her, as though searching for some flaw, some sign she wasn’t real. It’s true, she said, as though she did not quite believe it. The princess is awake.

A pause. Then chatter, growing louder and louder, the voices running over one another and rattling in Aurora’s head. A crowd stood beyond the door.

Aurora had not been around more than ten people at a time in her whole life. Her parents, her guards, her maid, plus the occasional foreign visitor when she was younger, before her father grew too afraid. They were all dead now.

The woman grabbed Aurora’s hands and pulled her forward, over the threshold of the tower, into the corridor. Aurora tugged back, trying to slip her hands out of the woman’s grip, but she did not let go.

A tall and portly man stood beside the door. He had a thick brown beard, and his smile seemed to cover half of his face. Men and women filled the corridor behind him. They huddled in small groups, whispering behind hands and golden-feathered fans. They all wore brightly colored silks and rich velvets, and the women were dressed in sweeping sleeves and high-waisted dresses. Jewels glinted around their necks and between the twists in their hair. The whispering stopped as soon as she appeared. Every one of them stared at her.

Presenting the Princess Aurora, the woman said with an imperious trill. Her hand tightened on Aurora’s wrist, and when she spoke again, it was so quiet that Aurora could barely make out the word. Curtsy.

Aurora grabbed her skirts and bent her shuddering knees, bowing her head and letting her hair fall across her face. She could feel every eye boring into her, judging every inch of flesh they saw. Aurora kept her head low. So many strangers, all staring, all evaluating her like she was some exotic, impossible creature. She squeezed her hands into fists around the cloth.

Oh, don’t waste time on formalities, the jovial man said. He had a booming voice, more that of an actor than of a ruler, but his golden crown declared that he must be the king. You will soon be family, my dear! Before Aurora could stand up again, he pulled her into a bone-crunching hug that stole the air from her lungs. She stood limp in his arms, her face flat against his chest. He smelled of sweat and heavy perfume. We are so happy to have you here! When he released her, she swayed backward, and her hand slammed into the wall to steady herself.

Perhaps if she could sit, if she could close her eyes, this would all fade away like a bad dream, and she would be home again.

Now, now, John, the woman said, her voice light but as thin as a needle’s point. Let’s not smother the girl. She rested a hand on his arm.

The king chuckled. Of course, of course. I am just excited to meet our future daughter-in-law in person.

Pardon me, Aurora said. Her voice sounded far off. Even those two polite, meaningless little words exhausted her. But I don’t know who you are.

The woman started, a slight frown forming between her eyebrows, as though surprised that Aurora had spoken. She stretched her lips into a thin smile, but the king beamed. I am King John the Third, ruler of Alyssinia for the past ten years, and this is my wife. He gestured vaguely at the woman, who bobbed her head.

You may call me Iris.

Aurora nodded. Her hair tickled her cheek.

My daughter, Isabelle, is the young thing hiding over there, the king continued. Isabelle?

Don’t be shy, dear, a woman said. Greet the princess. She pushed a small brown-haired girl forward. The girl blushed. She looked eight or nine years old. When she curtsied, her whole body shook. And of course you’ve met our son, Rodric.

Rodric bowed, his hair flopping about his face.

Well, the king said. Now that we’re all acquainted, I think we had better make the announcement, don’t you?

The queen looked Aurora up and down, taking in her dust-covered feet and the blood spotted across her hand. I am sure the people will forgive you, my dear, if you are a little less than pristine. Just this once. You have come rather a long way to join us.

Oh, I think she looks lovely, the king said with a grin. Quite quaint. Come along then, come along. Sir Stefan, he said to a man beside him. Please send out the heralds. A little extra pomp and circumstance, if you please. It is hardly a normal day.

The man bowed stiffly and set off down the corridor. The king followed him, and then the queen, snatching Aurora’s hand again as she passed. Aurora stumbled forward, trying to keep up with the woman’s hurried pace. The courtiers fell into step behind, and the whispering began again, a surging rush that pressed against the inside of Aurora’s skull and shoved her thoughts aside. The queen held her hand so tightly that it throbbed.

Say nothing, the queen said in her ear as they turned onto another corridor and headed down some sweeping stairs. You only need to smile. We will take care of the rest.

The rest of what? Aurora wondered, but she could not challenge this severe, elegant stranger. Each footstep echoed in her head, driving in the thought that her parents were dead, dead, and a century had passed.

They reached a large set of doors with standing bears carved into the wood. The hallway felt familiar, an echo of the last time she had seen it before her tower door had been locked, but every difference jumped out, breaking up the picture into a hundred jarring fragments. The bright red of the banners, like blood running down the walls. The guards, dressed in red too, staring at her with disbelieving eyes. The sharp trill of trumpets, muffled and distorted by the door.

The queen pressed Aurora’s hand against Rodric’s arm, squeezing until the fabric bunched beneath her fingers. Then she nodded, once, her eyes shifting to her son. Well done, she said softly. You will make us proud. She paused, as though she wished to say something else, but then she simply nodded again and followed her husband through the doors.

Aurora and Rodric waited on the threshold. Through the gap between the doors, Aurora could see flashes of color, hundreds of people, all surging together.

They have been waiting since morning, Rodric said quietly. The optimistic ones. I was certain I would have to go out and disappoint them. . . .

Instead, he was bringing the prize. Aurora wanted to release his arm, to step away, but her hand would not move.

A herald’s voice rose over the crowd, so loud and clear that even Aurora could make out the words. Presenting, for the first time, the Princess Aurora!

Hands pushed open the doors. Rodric stepped forward, and Aurora stumbled with him, her feet still tangling in her impractical skirts. All dressed up for a celebration, a century ago.

The roar of the crowd hit her, knocking the breath from her lungs.

They stepped onto a dais, with stone steps leading down to a square below. Everything else was hidden behind the mass of people, filling every space, crammed together into spots of jostling, bustling color, blurring before Aurora’s eyes. And the noise they made . . . the screaming, cheering delight, chanting her name, chanting for Rodric, celebrating like their savior had just stepped out of the mist.

She still had blood on her finger. How improper, she thought vaguely. She burrowed it deeper into Rodric’s sleeve, clutching the material so tightly that her hand ached.

The queen stood to the side, staring at Aurora expectantly. Slowly, carefully, Aurora sank into another curtsy. The roar grew. Hidden behind a wall of blonde hair, Aurora screwed up her eyes, fighting back the panic that clutched her chest, the scream that scratched the back of her throat. Everyone I know is dead, she thought. And yet these strangers act as though they love me.

She held the curtsy for a long moment, her knees shuddering under the skirts. One. Two. Three. Then she released her grimace and stood up straight, pulling her face back into something neutral, if not a smile.

The king