Lysander nodded, mechanically.
“Splendid.” When Titus clapped his hands together, we all jumped. “Then we have gathered here a Duchess, your humble patron and prince,” I didn’t even attempt to hide my laugh at the humble, especially when it tightened Titus’ mouth into a tight line of annoyance, “and how impressive, even a king.” Darby preened, entirely missing Titus’ mocking tone. “How about you put on a musical performance to delight us on Monday night?”
When I’d been expecting a public flogging, an evening of song and entertainment sounded delightful and yet once again, as if Titus was springing a trap.
“A magical tribute to Gilbert and Sullivan under the Comic Opera Hex, where we can’t stop singing until we’ve completed all fourteen operettas from start to finish, even the ghastly Princess Ida?” I gasped.
“I didn’t mean that sort of…”
“Don’t tell me you intend to force us to recreate Wagner’s The Ring cycle without a break?” I held my hand to my chest in horror. “You brute!”
Titus’ wings stretched out in a display of dominance (or simply to stop me talking). “A normal, average, performance on instruments to accompany the Enchanted Ball.”
Well, that was one way to silence me. I gaped at him, frozen.
Everything returned to that one night. I’d prayed to be saved, and I’d lost everything.
Please, don’t take me back there…
But I knew that I’d never left, not truly.
Yet there was something in Titus’ eyes, which made me shudder, because I could tell that he’d never left either.
We’d both lived in the shadow of that night and our choices. The ghosts had haunted us.
I shook my head.
Titus expression, however, was steely. “A recreation of that night would be nostalgic, don’t you think? But this time, the witch won’t stand me up.” His smile was all teeth. “If I’m pleased, as patron, I’ll extend the same luxuries to the Immortals as I do the Princes. I like to help, where I can. But if I’m disappointed and feel that the students aren’t attempting to become reformed,” he sighed, as if personally hurt at the thought, “then the Immortals will become the Princes’ whipping boys and that includes you.” Why did he look suddenly so wistful? Then his gaze became flinty. “Don’t you have a whipping boy of your own to pull from the walls? Go and save him. I’d be most put out if our long-awaited reunion was ruined by your grief over a dead mage.”
Chapter Thirteen
MAGENTA
I’d stood in this portrait gallery, as my magic had swirled in a whirlwind of anguish, and witnessed the walling up of two shimages who I loved. I’d believed in the bleakness of grief that I’d lost them forever. I’d never dared hope that I’d stand here, waiting to pull out one of them from the walls…alive.
Was that irony, symmetry, or Fate?
Truly, I didn’t give a flying bat’s back leg because my Immortals and I had earned Fox’s freedom.
And it had a cost that would hurt my princely lovers.
I glanced at Lysander who stood straight backed at my side but close enough for our shoulders to touch. Silver moonlight flooded through the arched window in the West Wing, illuminating the sharpness of his cheekbones and the bruising that shadowed along it.
I winced.
In this gallery, amid the portraits of every Rebel who’d ever been killed, in a place where Robin had died and Fox had been taken from me, it was wrong that it should be a fae prince who kept me silent but reassuring company.
Yet it was fair. Lysander had, after all, paid for Ezekiel’s freedom.
I studied the way that Lysander’s jaw clenched, and his pulse fluttered in his throat. He worked so hard not to show his distress, but why hadn’t I realized before that his protection of the Princes was admirable?
We were both Prefects. Perhaps, I’d spent too long alone to understand true responsibility.
I scrunched up my nose: my chest felt all squishy and squirmy that a fae had taught me something.
Bask certainly believed that we could teach interesting things to the Prince. Although, his idea of both teaching and interesting were quite different to Lysander’s.
Lysander caught my eye, before brushing his fingers against mine. My skin tingled like electric had jumped between us at even the slight touch. My heart beat faster. Our magic reached out, desperate to explore. I wrenched it back, although my hand crept into Lysander’s like I couldn’t hold it back.
Traitor hand.
Lysander’s eyes widened, but then he smiled in a genuine, soft way that I’d never seen before. This time, the squishy sensation traveled into my guts as well.
Perhaps, I had wind.
Lysander clasped my hand, however, pulling it tight to his chest like I’d change my mind and wrench away from him.
Typical possessive fae.
I tried to ignore Damelza, who was tapping at the wall beneath the magic mirror and pressing her cheek against it. It was disconcertingly either like someone checking for damp, an infestation of rats, or a medium calling to the spirit world. I didn’t know whether she was pranking me or truly trying to work on the spell.
Possibly both…?
With a hoarse cawing, Flair and Echo flapped through the open window. I winced, as they landed on each of my shoulders, and their scaly claws bit into me through my dress.
“We watched you win the tournament like a fucking legend, boss." Flair rambled a series of clicks with a sense of pride. Cauldrons and potions, I wasn't imagining the pride. "The freaky as fuck horse had almost as pretty wings as us."
I tapped Flair’s beak reprovingly.
Echo rubbed his pink feathery head against my cheek. "Why'd you drop the elf on his arse? His hair's even prettier." His eyes opened with horror. "You could've broken his prick."
I frowned. "I don't break pricks. I mean, I almost broke Sleipnir’s, but that was the one time…"
Lysander raised his eyebrow. "Good to know, although there is such a thing as overshare, especially about the Immortals’ private parts. One is reassured."
Sometimes,, I forgot that my familiars were invisible to other people.
I flushed, hissing at my familiars, "Why are you even here? Fly away."
Lysander's eyebrow raised so high that it disappeared into his hairline. "Well, if my royal personage isn't welcome, you only had to say."
He attempted to pull his hand out of mine, but I held on tight.
"Nosiness mostly," Flair replied, as if Lysander hadn't answered. "Plus, we couldn't bear another century stuck with you wailing and..."
"But she's so beautiful when she cries." Echo sighed. Was that sweet or disturbingly psychopathic? I could never decide with my familiars. "Because you love the fuckable mage, my Magenta. So, we do too."
My eyes burned with tears.
"M-my apologies," Lysander stuttered, dragging me closer. "One had no intention of distressing you. My noble self has much more cutting remarks prepared for such an occasion."
I huffed, wiping at my eyes. "I believe you. You have a spectacular talent for insults."