Part 27 (2/2)

”You are not my king. I don't have to answer to you in this way.”

”I am your father's emissary, which means here, in this place, when you look at me, all you should see is your father. I speak for him. I act for him. I report everything back to him. You will treat me as though I am him.” The cup Simon has just scrubbed clean cracks in his gloved hand. ”Is that clear?”

”Yes,” I say, leaving my half-eaten apple on the polished mahogany banister, and head up the stairs to my room.

”Good night, then,” Simon calls merrily after me. ”Oh, and please try to keep your daily spending to at least a ten-thousanddollar minimum.”

k I dream fitfully, waking and falling back asleep, for the rest of the morning. I see my mother's face. I hear her voice. I remember that she used to whisper a lullaby in my ear when I was too young to tell anyone. I can't quite hear the little melody, but I can feel it.

I hadn't allowed myself to fully think of her in so long, but once I did yesterday, it's like I can't push away her ghost. She haunts me.

I see her standing in my bedchambers, looking pale and withered. I am sitting at a table, playing chess with Rowan. We are both seven years old. I am bigger than Rowan but he always beats me when we play strategy games. I prefer to wrestle. I ask our mother for a gla.s.s of water and she reaches for the pitcher that sits on the mantel of the fireplace.

She cries out and collapses, falling face-first against the marble fireplace. I hear the crack of her skull against the stone hearth.

”Mother!” I shout and run to her. It takes most of my strength to turn her limp body over. A gash in her forehead weeps blood. Not knowing what else to do, I clasp my small hands over it, trying to staunch the bleeding, and shout at Rowan to run for help.

”I'm not your servant, Haden,” he says, and moves his rook forward to capture the queen I'd left unprotected on the chessboard when I rushed from the table. ”We're better off without her. Now come finish our game. I just put you in check.”

Blood seeps out from under my fingers, staining Mother's ashy hair red. I can't stop the bleeding. I hear a soft gasp from the doorway and notice Garrick, small and scrawny, lurking in the corridor, only a few feet away from us, as usual. He blinks at me. The boy is a Lesser. Bred for following orders. ”Go!” I shout to him. ”Get help! Get my father!”

Garrick, only five years old, half my size and almost as bony as my mother, bounds away. I hear the smack of his sandaled feet against the stone floor as he heads down the corridor toward my father's chambers.

My mother's eyelashes flutter open, but her jade green eyes seem unable to focus.

”I'm here, Mother,” I say.

She seems to recognize my voice. She lifts one finger as if she is trying to raise her whole hand but the rest won't cooperate. ”Haden, my son,” she whispers. ”Always remember who you are.” Her eyelids slide shut, a low rattle echoes from her throat, and her finger trembles as it lowers to lie as still as her others.

”No, Mother!” I shout at her. ”Don't leave me!”

I try shaking her, but she doesn't move. I clasp my hands over her head wound again, determined not to let her go. It takes so long for my father to return with Garrick that my mother's warm blood has grown cold and thick under my hands. ”She's dying,” I say to him when he finally enters the room with two of his advisors and a couple of servants. My father nods. He snaps his fingers and says, ”Clean up this mess,” to his attendants. He turns to leave without giving his wife a second look.

”No, no, no,” I scream at him. ”You have to do something! Save her. Take her to the healing chambers!”

”It's too late,” one of the servants says.

The other attendant tries to pull me away from my mother's body. Anger, and another emotion I don't understand, surges through my small body. I scream and kick at the servant's legs. A stinging pain p.r.i.c.ks at the backs of my eyes. A terrible wail fills my ears. . . .

k I sit bolt upright in my bed. I am cold, but my chest is damp with sweat. My phone wails again from the top of my dresser. I am grateful for the sound-grateful it awakened me before the rest of that memory can play out in my dream. Grateful not to witness what I did next-not to relive the moment of my unforgivable shame.

Brimstone s.h.i.+fts and yawns at my feet. I nudge her off my toes and stumble to get my phone from the dresser. I hurry to answer it when I see Daphne's name.

”h.e.l.lo?”

”Were you still asleep?”

”Long night.”

”Me, too,” she says. ”But I've been up since seven.”

”Did you go with your father, then?”

”Yeah,” she says. ”And you know, it was better than I thought it would be. Got a little odd toward the end, but it was actually kind of fun.”

”I'm happy for you.”

”The only problem is, now Joe thinks I'm going to go on tour with him this summer.”

”This summer?” A pang of guilt hits me in the chest. Daphne may not ever see a summer again.

”Yeah, can you imagine? I can barely stand sharing a mansion with the guy; can you picture us in a tour bus? And his drummer is kind of a weirdo.” She pauses to take a breath. ”But, hey, I'm guessing you haven't checked your email yet. Considering you're Sleeping Beauty and all.”

”Who?”

”Never mind. Anyway, check your email. I think I've found the perfect song for our duet. I sent you the music.”

”Give me a minute.” I open my email app. Other than the welcome packet that came from the school at the beginning of the year, her message is the only one in my inbox. I open the file she's sent and peruse it, glad I'd used a YouTube video to learn how to read music since my first lesson with her.

”This is good,” I say, imagining the sounds of the notes as I read them.

”It's 'Falling Slowly' by Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova- from one of my favorite movies. It's the first duet I thought of, but after looking at several others, I think it's the best option.” I read over the words. Imagining the lyrics with the notes evokes an uncertain, wanting ache in my chest. ”It's perfect.”

”It's going to take a lot of practice,” she says. ”Are you up for spending that much time with me over the next couple of weeks?”

”Yes,” I say.

At this moment, there's nothing I want more.

chapter forty-two.

daphne

The next couple of weeks are pretty much a blur. Between homework, sitting in on a second round of auditions to help Joe and Mr. Morgan select the other princ.i.p.al roles for the spring musical-I make sure to put in a good word for Lexie for the role for Persephone, not only because of the truce we made, but because she actually deserves the part-and rehearsing with Haden every afternoon and lunch break, I am shocked when I realize that Thanksgiving is already upon us.

Thankfully, Joe decides not to cook Thanksgiving dinner himself, and instead, we join a couple of his bandmates for a private party at Bobby Rox's restaurant. The food is divine, but to my surprise, I enjoy the company. Bobby and his wife, Elle, have the cutest daughter, and Chris Trip, the band's ba.s.sist has everyone in st.i.tches over his impersonations of Mr. Fitzgerald, their overly chipper manager.

When Joe pa.s.ses up the Thanksgiving champagne and opts for the cranberry juice mixed with Sprite concoction that I order for myself from the kitchen, Bobby slaps Joe on the back and says, ”You've been a good influence on our ole boy here, Daphne!”

”Hear, hear!” agrees Chris. ”I thought Joe could write his way out of a bottle of Jack Daniel's, but he's even better sober. Those songs he's writing for your school play are amazing.”

<script>