CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Autumn

I awoke to the scent of my grandmother’s garden at the lodge. I rolled onto my back beneath the covers, taking a lungful of the fresh, slightly damp air. It was wonderful, light and refreshing sun warming the white covers of my bed . . .

It took me three breaths to realize my room shouldn’t smell like a spring day, and when I sat up and opened my eyes, I gasped. Every available surface was covered in gifts, and at their center was an enormous bunch of red roses.

Glancing at my bedside clock—or, rather, a bowl of tulips that I had to move aside to see the time—I realized it was nearing ten o’clock. Sure enough, I could hear the sound of cooking downstairs, the low hum of a hair-dryer from my parents’ room, and the Sagean chatter of Athan outside.

I threw the covers back and padded over in my nightie to the roses, finding two cards hanging over the rim of the vase. The first was adorned with balloons and a birthday cake, and on its back was a message:

Hope you don’t mind me charming my way into your heart ;)

Happy Birthday, and lots of love,

Fallon

Jerk! If he thought flowers could ever, ever make me forgive him . . . I opened the second card, read it, and then burned it in fury.

Do not ever insult me like that again. That hurt. If it were up to me I would have told you weeks ago. But it isn’t.

H.R.H. Prince Fallon

What about my hurt at being lied to? At being kept ignorant like I was a little child!

I moved to the next bunch of flowers, these a mix of roses and carnations in muted gold and yellow surrounded by ferns. They were from Edmund, who had sent an ornate birthday card, which stood among several gifts, including a wooden shoe-box wrapped in ribbon. In the box, I found a beautiful pair of shoes made of silk and adorned with glass jewels, perfect for wearing with a gown; I couldn’t help but laugh as I saw there was no heel to them whatsoever.

Next was a flowerpot filled with white flowers with yellow centers, shaped like tiny gramophones, which precariously clung to tumbling, ivy-like stems hanging over the edge of my desk. Dropping to my knees and reading the label, I found out they were from the entire Mortheno family, and that the flowers were called “convolvulus” and symbolized humble perseverance. Taking up a handful of the slightly sticky plants, I buried my nose in them and inhaled, admiring the way the stems spiraled and twisted around one another.

I moved to the brightest set of flowers, these a group of tall yellow roses in a clear vase, sent by the duchy of Victoria. Next to the vase was a hamper of goodies, chocolate and fresh fruit mainly, and wrapped in lilac tissue were sets upon sets of linen, golden and threaded with beautiful patterns that I thought might be a coat of arms, but I didn’t dare unfold the beautiful origami presentation to check. There were towels stitched with my initials, too.

By far the largest bunch of flowers were the roses arranged to imitate the duchy of England’s insignia, a mix of red and magically withered golden roses and fake Death’s Touch—a thoughtful gesture, given the humans in the household. They were too heavy for me to lift without the help of my magic, and it was with some twisting and turning that I found the attached card, stamped and sealed with a waxen Athenean coat of arms. Inside was a handwritten message wishing me many happy returns, and an informal invitation to sit on the council. It stated the flowers were from the entire royal family, but when I checked the signature, it looked like it was signed in the king’s own hand.

“Lords of Earth,” I finally breathed, taking a step back. I had known it was a Sagean tradition to shower a girl with flowers on important birthdays, but even I was shocked by the number and their senders. Continuing to work my way along the vases, I was puzzled at how the duchy of Milan, and Brittany, or the viscount in Bavaria even knew where to send them, or how to get past the security I was now encumbered with. When I found the orchid sent from the Sagean embassy in London and its attached, apologetic card, I got my explanation. But there were more: from the headmistress of St. Sapphire’s and other teachers; former school friends and not-so-former—as I found a necklace and single glass pink rose from Jo. Finally I found a pile of much more human gifts, these full of cheap makeup sets and gift cards from my friends; there were even birthday cards covered in “sweet sixteen” sentiments from aunts and uncles I didn’t know existed on my mother’s side.

With a long sigh, I dropped back onto my bed, feeling extremely ambivalent. On the one hand, I was angry and agitated about what had transpired the evening before, but I was also disappointed . . . he had lied to me. Why hadn’t he just told me he came because of the Extermino? It made no sense, and beyond my suspicion that the rebellious faction were behind her death, I didn’t know what it had to do with my grandmother, but it was better than being lied to.

The pink tulips on my bedside table caught my eye. The white vase they had been placed in was circled with an equally shocking-pink ribbon, and beneath it was a card, slightly damp and imprinted with a circle of water from the vase.

I snatched it up and tore it open, feeling my heart sink as I saw the inscription on the front. “To our daughter . . .” Inside was a message written in my father’s hand but signed by both parents.

I threw the card into the pillow and let the ripped envelope flutter to the floor in two halves.

With the help of a little magic, I was showered and presentable in ten minutes, and followed my nose down to the kitchen, where I found my father loading two plates up with scrambled eggs; there was already a tomato-and-something concoction waiting for me. Unlike my bedroom, which was all chintz and floral patterns, the modern kitchen looked odd covered in freshly cut flowers—and covered it was. It looked like my father had harvested every flower still alive in our garden in the November chill. The scent, combined with the cooking, was divine, and I made a point of telling him so.

His head jolted around in several clicks as he lifted the pan off the heat, clearly surprised that I was initiating a conversation with him.

“Happy birthday,” he said a little awkwardly, and went back to his cooking. “Your mother is still getting ready. I thought we could do some presents before she comes down.”

“Sure,” I answered slowly, beginning on my food. I eyed him. He was at best a nervous man, but he usually had the good manners to face people when talking to them.

“So . . . the Mortheno girl told me you and the prince had a little set-to last night.”

Oh, so this is where he is going. I had never been one for fatherly heart-to-hearts, and wasn’t about to start now, when freedom from the parental home was within my grasp. “A tiff. We’ll be fine. I’m still going to Athenea when I’m called.”

“You’re okay then? No cartons of ice cream and chick flicks needed?”

“I’m peachy,” I lied. “Why?”

He shrugged in a noncommittal way and added sausages to the pan. I had frozen, fork halfway to my mouth, waiting for his answer. When it eventually came, I let the cutlery clatter to my plate loudly.

“The prince dropped by this morning.”

“What?!”

He turned down the heat on the sausages and came and straddled one of the stools to face me. I very rarely got this close to him, except for the rare hug, and that did not afford me the opportunity to meet his gaze. I had never noticed before how much his eyes resembled my own.

“Firstly, he asked me to give you this.” From his trouser pocket, he pulled a tiny box, the kind used to store a ring. My heart stopped as I took it from him. With an encouraging nod from my father, I peeled the two halves apart.

Inside was a sturdy gold chain, threaded with thick, bejeweled beads and hung with tiny charms. Holding it up to the light, I could see that the multicolored gems of the beads were not pure, and had been etched with multiple coats of arms, including my own and Athenea’s. The craftsmanship, given the size, was astounding: even with the aid of magic, that kind of artistry didn’t come cheap. In contrast, several of the charms—a miniature Big Ben, a tiny blue-and-white-striped surfboard, a maple leaf, a plastic Dartmoor pony, and a rubbery Devonian flag—were tacky, the sort of things picked up in tourist shops, though the significance of each was worth more than the gems ever could be. But it was the large goldenA that caught my attention, because inscribed on its back in tiny, almost indiscernible letters were my full name and title. It was a charm bracelet. A charm bracelet made and assembled just for me.

“Wow,” was all I managed, as my father helped me fasten the chain around my slim wrist. It was a snug fit, sliding just as far as the base of my hand as I straightened my arm to admire it.

“And . . .” my father continued, snapping me back to reality, “he asked for my permission to, well, his words were ‘court’ you.”

My eyes went straight to pink and I was sure my skin must be as red as the tomatoes on my plate. “He did?”

“And I gave my permission. He’s clearly mad about you, and you about him, if the way you have become more tolerable is any measure. This is the twenty-first century; you are your own woman now, sixteen and a duchess, you can make your own decisions. You can sail your own ship. It’s what your grandmother brought you up to do.”

I was surprised at the harshness of his words. No parental lecture on guys? No warning on the dangers of the adult world?

I shook my head slightly and raised my shoulders as if to say, “So?”

“But your mother and I were talking, and we’re both afraid that this is the nail in the coffin. You’ll go off to Athenea, be a duchess, and we . . . we’ll get sidelined.”

His bottom lip was trembling, and I tried to look at anything but him, yet couldn’t tear my gaze away. He looked like a lost little boy, waiting on me with big, round, pleading eyes, resting all his weight on the back of the stool like he might forget how to sit if he didn’t.

“You can visit,” I said tentatively.

“No,” came the stern reply as my mother entered the kitchen. “You won’t put your father through the trauma. You will visit us, whenever the Sagean season ceases to need you.”

I wanted to protest. I wanted to point out that I might have schooling to consider, and then there would be the security, and the press if the relationship between Fallon and me became public. But a second look at my father, and I knew I couldn’t force him to the home of our people. Because, truthfully, he just wasn’t one of us.

“I’ll try,” I said coldly, and went back to eating.

“We thought it best to be practical with your big present this year,” my mother replied, just as coolly. “So we’ve ordered a number of things for you to take to Athenea, tailor-made; the other gifts we have for you we can do later.”

“Yes,” my father said weakly, oblivious to the way the air was starting to singe with the smell of burning pork. “I couldn’t remember everything a lady Sage needs in winter, but I thought ball gowns, gloves, slippers, and day clothes . . . corsets and shoes, and riding clothes, too. Anything else, and there’s more than enough deposited in your account to cover you for the season.”

“Thank you,” I said quietly, making a note to find out who they had hired to take up the work. Perhaps the one and only characteristic I had inherited from my mother was her sharp sense of style; but her style was not mine, and I didn’t trust her shopping abilities to be suitable for Sage.

“There’s also this,” my mother continued, picking a thick letter out from the pile of birthday cards in the middle of the island. “It’s from your grandmother. She told us to give it to you on your sixteenth birthday.”

I took it with a shaking hand. The envelope was a regular yellow manila type, but as I turned it over, I found the sweeping hand of my grandmother, letters large and elongated, and written in ink rather than ballpoint pen.

I gestured toward the door, silently asking permission to open the envelope in private. My father nodded, but I was cut off by my mother’s sharp tongue.

“I suppose this is the last birthday we will spend with you.”

I paused at the door, expecting her to continue, but that seemed to be it. I stared at her. I didn’t feel any rush of remorse at that statement. It was a simple fact of my existence.

“I’ll be down for lunch,” I answered.

I bolted up the stairs and settled on the window seat. My hand was still shaking as I prised the letter open. The flap of the envelope was well stuck, but the letter inside felt thin and fragile as I pulled it out. The first thing I saw was the date at the very top of the paper; no wonder the paper was so delicate—the letter was sixteen years old and had been written the day I was born.

I was inexplicably terrified, holding this ghost of my flesh and blood. It wasn’t a comfortable thought, being talked to from beyond the grave. But it had to be read.

Keeper of my Blood,

Today you were born, and the ancient kingdom into which you have been delivered rejoiced. The family and duchy you will one day lead gather this day and weep, because you are the miracle we had begged fate to give us. Welcome, Lady Autumn Rose, to this world. I solemnly swear to guide you as best I can and for as long as I can through its perils, so you may be ready to face the destiny laid out for you.

As you grow up, you will learn why you are so special to this family, and though you may not always understand what is going on around you, trust that you are loved by kin and kingdom alike.

As you grow up, you will learn that you will be my image in so many ways, some good and some bad. You will learn that I am a seer, and you will learn that you are a seer, and that the curse we share is key to our futures. My visions have enabled me to see that the pressure I have exerted on your parents to produce an heir is more than a selfish whim, and is, in fact, fate at work in its most subtle guise. Your visions will, quite simply, produce a better future for all who survive to see it.

The simple fact of the matter is that both I and another seer and friend of mine, Eaglen, have repeatedly seen my impending murder as an innocent by the Extermino. You will think my fate unjust, but understand that I must die so that you may live and suffer among humans in the home of your parents; so that you may appreciate the challenges that we as a people face. It will make you stronger, and wiser. I have seen this. This is known to be the truth.

My fate is fulfilled now, and your fate will sooner or later descend upon you. I have taken the calculated decision to interfere with fate—something you should be wary of doing—and tell this to you now, so you may prepare yourself for an unknown future.

I have little advice to give, because I cannot see any events beyond my own death. My one and only order is for you to go straight to the Athenea, because they will shelter you, and may even have seen you coming. Other suggestions are mere guesswork. Eaglen is your ally in the vamperic kingdom, where you must quickly find your sister He**ine; Antae is an extraordinary academic and even greater seer, and will have predicted your coming to the very day; the Mortheno family will keep you safe. Distance yourself from the petty nobility, and for fate’s sake, keep the humans of the Inter at arm’s length, because nothing good will come of their bickering.

I feel privileged to die for the woman who will change it all. My only regret is that I shall not see you into womanhood and watch you enjoy the blessing of raising your own children; a blessing I will find in nurturing you, knowing you are the last of our line and were born to awaken the nine.

Her fate is set in stone,

Bound to sit upon the first throne.

The last of her line and a symbol of the fine,

She is the last of the fall; a deity among all.

Her teacher, her love, her lie,

Alone, the first innocent must die,

For the girl, born to awaken the nine.

You are the first He**ine of Contanal’s Prophecy, my child. You are the hope of our people, and you must prevent the war he and so many others saw coming.

My child, Lady He**ine, find your allies with haste and seek out the fellow He**ines with similar speed. Time is your enemy.

In life and in death,

Prof. R. Al-Summers

Duchess of England

No.

No!

She died as an innocent. She died because of me! This is what the Athenea had kept from me for so long. This was why she died . . .

The weight of the guilt forced me down onto the floor and I surrendered to it, crumpling into a dead faint.

Somewhere, deep in my heart, I hoped I would never wake up.