The Glass Queen Read online

  Thick, oppressive silence reigned. Philipp peered at Charlotte, looking shocked to the core. Had a curse just been spoken over the entire kingdom? After what had happened with Leonora...there was a chance.

  “This points to ‘The Little Cinder Girl’ fairy tale. But how can that be?” Philipp scrubbed a hand over his mouth. “You and I...we are the prince and Cinder. The babe cannot be part of our fairy tale, for it is finished. We are living our happily-ever-after. Unless...” He stared at Ashleigh through narrowed eyes. “Our fairy tale is repeating because the child tainted my perfect ending.”

  How could he say such a thing? “Perhaps you are not the marriage-minded prince but the evil king who despises his daughter.”

  “You know as well as I that the tales are symbolic rather than literal. The obvious is never the answer. What seems to be right is always wrong. What seems to go this way always veers that way. But I would take care, were I you.” His voice turned menacing. “The king who despises his daughter has a queen who dies far too soon.”

  Charlotte’s breath hitched. The threat both terrified and thrilled her. The queen’s untimely death marked the beginning of the tale for Cinder.

  Ashleigh could be its end, loved beyond imagining.

  Charlotte almost laughed then, deciding she adored the prophecies, after all.

  “You know it doesn’t matter what role Ashleigh plays, Philipp,” she said, smug. “Fate has plans for her. Ruin those plans, and fate will ruin you right back.”

  1

  Our tale begins with love and light.

  Take care, my dears, lest it end with fright.

  Ashleigh

  The Provence of Fleur

  Fourteen years later

  Hot tears poured down my cheeks, burning twin tracks of sadness into my skin. The salty droplets trickled onto my tongue, letting me taste my own misery.

  The worst had happened. My mother was dead, killed inside our home mere days ago. I’d been right there, at her side, but I’d been unconscious. There to help but unable to do so, thanks to my malformed heart; I’d passed out right before the murder occurred.

  A sob mounted an escape, but I bit my tongue, remaining silent. Father expected me to be stoic in times of distress. Mother would want me to be. Never let them know they’ve hurt you, my darling. You’ll only show them where to strike next.

  I tried to be stoic. For Momma’s sake, I tried so hard, but I felt like a broken vase glued together with wishes.

  Today was her funeral. Queen Charlotte Charmaine-Anskelisa. The greatest person ever to live. Mother extraordinaire. A small handful of family and friends had gathered in the royal gardens to say goodbye.

  How could I ever say goodbye? I’d adored her, and she’d adored me, too. Momma might have been the only one. I’d spent most of my days in bed, forgotten by my father and ignored by servants.

  Now I watched, helpless, as flames spread from my mother’s gown to her lovely bronze skin. In the Provence of Fleur, my home, we held tradition sacred. When someone died, their body was placed atop a bed of rose petals and sealed inside a glass coffin. One piece of glass acted as a magnifier and, as beams of sunlight passed through it, the body would catch fire and burn to ash.

  I whimpered and shifted my gaze to the marble statues that formed a circle around us, creating a hidden clearing in the heart of the garden. Momma’s favorite place. Each statue depicted the likenesses of a past king or queen, with roses of every color twined at the base. I used to watch her from my window as she tended those roses, with birds perched on her shoulders.

  I wiped my cheeks with the back of a shaky hand and moved my gaze to my uncle, King Challen, ruler of Sevón, and his children, sixteen-year-old Prince Roth Charmaine and fourteen-year-old Princess Farrah Charmaine.

  King Challen was a big man, one of the strongest I’d ever seen, with dark hair and green eyes. He and his family rarely traveled here, and I couldn’t blame them. How many times had my father made a play to take over their kingdom? Only recently had the two realms reached an accord.

  The king evinced no emotion, but he kept his head down to show his respect.

  The royal siblings did, too, their ability to stand still impressive. They’d brought a friend and bodyguard along with them. Sixteen-year-old Saxon Skylair, a winged avian prince who’d been exiled from the Avian Mountains for reasons unknown.

  The moment my gaze landed on him, my damaged heart pounded a little too hard, a silky whisper drifting through my mind. Go to him. Take comfort.

  Um...what? Take comfort from a boy? A stranger? Besides, I doubted I could be comforted by anyone. Though I was fascinated by him. I’d always been fascinated by the avian.

  So little was known about them. The details found in history books were always contradictory; I never knew what was truth or fabrication.

  This exiled prince had hair the color of jet, flawless brown skin, and eyes like a moonlit sky: deep, rich amber with pinpricks of black. Massive blue wings arched over his shoulders and flanked his sides, somehow both beautiful and menacing.

  Once I’d asked Momma if I could touch an avian’s wings, and she’d turned bright red before escorting me to my bedroom to tell me that I absolutely could not, should not, ever, ever, ever ask to touch an avian’s wings. It was considered an “unwanted advance.” Whatever that meant. Momma had refused to explain.

  Saxon’s image blurred. How I missed my mother. Because of Queen Charlotte, I’d known deep, abiding love. I wouldn’t trade our days together for anything, especially not a lessening of this pain. This pain said she’d lived a good life. This pain said she would be remembered.

  This pain said I’d known life’s greatest gift—love.

  Had Prince Saxon ever known that kind of love from his family?

  I blinked and moved my attention to his mother and only sister—Queen Raven and Princess Tempest, who had come to pay their respects. They stood across from him, but they never looked his way or acknowledged his presence.

  Why had they kicked him from his home as a child? Did they see him as my father saw me? Lacking? Or had he committed some kind of unforgivable crime?

  How many times had my father complained about the avian and their tendency to address even the smallest offense with a severe punishment? Hurt an avian once, and they’d hurt you back—twice.

  Over the years, I’d learned to be an excellent observer. I caught Prince Saxon casting a glance at his family, his expression flashing from impassive to longing to furious. Whatever had happened, he missed his loved ones, and my chest squeezed with sympathy.

  My reaction to him did not go unnoticed. He must have sensed me. He dragged his gaze my way, and our eyes met. The fury faded, and he offered me a sad half smile. He was so beautiful. Like one of the statues has come to life.

  Out of habit, I reached up to stroke the ring that hung around my neck. A gift from Momma, and my most cherished possession. The band was made of metal, with a rose etched into the center.

  The prince’s smile slowly faded into a frown. He narrowed his eyes, staring where my fingers wove through the chain. Fury pulsed from him anew, but this time, it wasn’t softened with longing. He balled his fists.

  Tremors rushed through me. My father planted his hands on my shoulders, bent down and hissed, “Be still or be gone.”

  I flinched, and he released me from his too-tight grip.

  As the minutes ticked by, I tried to avoid glancing at Prince Saxon, I really did. But I had to know if the avian was still glaring at me or not. I must have been mistaken.

  Oh, no. No mistake. He was glaring. But, but...why? What had I done to deserve such animosity, today of all days?

  An hour ago, we’d exchanged a grand total of ten words. He’d looked at me strangely, as if he knew me but couldn’t quite place me, and said, “May you always find gold.” A common greeting in Sevón.

 
I’d curtsied and replied with the Fleuridian equivalent, “May your roses forever bloom.”

  Still he glared.

  As the heat from the coffin intensified, warmth throbbed in my cheeks and my insides melted into a nice Ashleigh stew. My lungs protested strongly, and I hunched over to ease my breathing. The new position did no good, however. Panic sprouted, parts of me icing.

  Don’t you dare pass out. Not here, not now. Inhale. Exhale.

  Behind me, fingers snapped, and I knew my father had summoned a guard to carry me back to the palace. To my room. To my bed. Where I would be forced to while away the day...the months...the years alone, without the kindness and caring of my beautiful mother.

  A sob bubbled out, and there was no stopping it. “Please, Father. Don’t make me leave—”

  “Be quiet.” He squeezed my shoulders with more force. “You will return to the palace, and that’s that.”

  Abandon my mother before the funeral ended? Hardly. I wanted to be here until the last flame was extinguished. The guard would have to drag me kicking and screaming—

  The guard picked me up and marched away, my frail body clutched to his chest. He did it with no resistance from me. I was too weak to fight.

  Fighting fresh tears, I looked back. My gaze collided with Prince Saxon’s. Still he glared, watching me from beneath those narrowed lids, his long, black lashes nearly fused together.

  As soon as the guard cleared the garden, he muttered, “Why must I be the one to care for the Glass Princess? I’m not lazy or behind in my training. I’m good at my job. One of the best.”

  Humiliation singed me. Who would dare to speak to my father in such a way, or use a nickname that implied he was so weak he would shatter at any moment? “I’m able to walk,” I gritted out. “Put me down. I’ll finish the journey on my own.”

  He ignored me, because I was beneath his notice. Nothing but a helpless doll. A worthless trinket without a voice.

  I didn’t care. It didn’t matter. Except I cared and it mattered. But one day I would ensure the world saw value in me. I would be strong, a queen of battle, my feats the stuff of legend. I would be shielded by golden armor, and I would wield the most powerful weapons ever created, because I would design every piece myself.

  Over the years, I’d watched more than my mother’s gardening from my window. I’d witnessed countless military training sessions, awed by the ferocious warriors and their gear. I couldn’t imagine anyone trying to harm a soldier, much less naysay one. Everyone listened when they spoke, even the king. Everyone noticed their presence and respected their opinions. They had great value.

  I’d already designed a lightweight crossbow for smaller grips like mine. The arrows weren’t actually arrows but metal shards that loaded into a spring trap with the help of a special lever. My first creation. I just needed to have it made, though I preferred to learn how to make it myself.

  A thrill fizzed inside me at the thought. Eventually I hoped to craft and sell my designs, then use the profits to buy a magical ability from a witch. Another form of strength and power.

  Little wonder I craved an ability of my own. Sometimes, I even imagined powerful magic already stirred deep inside me, buried too deep to access. Wishful thinking, of course. If I’d had a secret well of magic, I would have healed my heart and saved Momma.

  New tears gathered, stinging. “Set. Me. Down.”

  He did—at the palace door, as ordered. As soon as he hefted me to my feet, he hurried off.

  I wobbled, my knees already knocking with fatigue. I looked to the ivy-covered palace behind me, then peered back at the garden, seemingly miles away. Could I make it? Would I court Father’s wrath for nothing?

  I...didn’t care. If I was to become a queen of battle, I had to take the occasional risk.

  Who was more worthy of a risk than my mother?

  I lifted the hem of my mourning gown and lumbered forward. When I passed the garden entrance, I mewled with relief. Remaining in the shadows, I snuck through the elaborate maze of thorns and flowers. Midway... I was making good progress, breathing heavily but functioning—until my heart decided to curl into itself, sending a shaft of pain down my left arm and a spike of dizziness to my head.

  I groaned and staggered about, struggling to stay on my feet. Inhale. Exhale. In, out. In, out. Just as the healers had taught me. In, out. The dizziness only worsened, consciousness wavering. My blood cooled, and my teeth chattered. Black dots wove through my vision.

  Do not faint. Not here. Not now.

  Inhale. I eased down and made it to my knees, then shrank into a ball.

  Exhale. I would remain awake... I wouldn’t...

  The darkness swallowed me in one tasty bite.

  * * *

  “Hello, Ashleigh.”

  A familiar voice woke me, light chasing the haze of darkness from my mind. Struggling to focus, I blinked open my eyes. A figure framed by golden light stood above me.

  His identity clicked as I jolted upright. “Milo.” The royal warlock’s son. The very warlock who’d come to work at the palace soon after my birth, hired by my mother to act as her—our—personal magic wielder. Or so I’d been told. Milo and his father lived at the palace, and his father had died right alongside my mother, in the same way, killed by the same assailant.

  Poor Milo. How I ached for him. While he and I weren’t the best of friends, I hated knowing anyone felt as grief-stricken as I did.

  More than once, I’d wondered how the killer had defeated his father. A warlock was a male witch, and a royal warlock was usually more powerful than most others. For someone to have slayed Milo’s father...what kind of power had they wielded?

  Fingers snapped in front of my face. “You about to pass out again?”

  “No, sorry. Just got lost in thought.” Milo was only a few years older than me, tall and lean, with golden hair, golden eyes and golden skin. Like most magic wielders, he sported metal wrist cuffs. He wore dark leather underneath gold-plated armor that I would love to examine more closely. He resembled a god of war, intimidating and kind of menacing. So, the same as always.

  Most girls in the palace melted in his presence, but I’d never been drawn to him. There was something about him... Maybe it was the way he watched people, as if they possessed something that belonged to him, and he would cross any line to get it back.

  An elaborate iron key hung from his neck. The same key his father used to wear. I remembered the way my mother used to stare at it, her yearning palpable. When I’d asked her why she liked it, she’d told me, I used to have one just like it, and I wish with all my being that I still did, so that I could give it to you.

  My chin quivered, and I gulped. “Has your father’s funeral ended?”

  He gave a single, jerky nod.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, Milo.” I’d always liked his father. Every year Momma had used secret passages to take me down to the catacombs, where the warlock stayed. At her request, he would mix a foul-smelling liquid that I had to drink while he mumbled something about a “mind barrier.” Afterward, my head had hurt for weeks, but I hadn’t minded because he’d always treated me with kindness. If a mind barrier aided me, for whatever reason, I would happily suffer.

  What would happen without the barrier, now that the warlock was gone?

  “Don’t be,” Milo said, and shrugged. “He was selfish. He would rather help others than his own son.”

  His vehemence startled me. The warlock had not struck me as a selfish man. Wasn’t helping others a good thing?

  Milo sat down a few inches away from me, as if we sat so close all the time. Not the least bit awkward at all. Not even a little. “What do you remember about the day your mother and my father died?”

  He wished to discuss this now? “Why?”

  “Despite our differences, he was my father. I’d like to know how he died, an
d since you were the only other person in the room...”

  A choking sound left me. “I’m sorry, Milo, but I don’t remember anything of significance. My mother took me to your father’s chambers, as usual, and—” I paused. Milo had never been present during the drinking of the potion and the chanting of the spell. He didn’t know about it, and I shouldn’t tell him, my mother’s constant warning drilled into my head. Tell no one, my darling. Your life hangs in the balance.

  Why, Momma?

  The few times I’d asked, she’d only ever told me, It’s safer if you don’t know.

  “Go on,” he insisted.

  I licked my lips. “As we passed through the doorway, I fainted. I—I’m not sure how much time I lost before I awoke in...in...a pool of blood.” Her blood. The warlock’s, too. They’d both lain beside me.

  Momma’s green gaze had been open, staring at nothing, her expression frozen in terror. A crimson-soaked dagger had protruded from the warlock’s chest, but my sweet mother had possessed wounds all over.

  I sniffled. Why hadn’t I been hurt? Why hadn’t I hugged my mother that morning or told her how special she was?

  “Did he look like he suffered?” Milo asked casually.

  I shifted, uncomfortable. How was I supposed to answer that? The truth? Yes, he appeared to have died in agony.

  In the end, Milo smiled, as if he’d gleaned the answer—and liked it. Then he stood and walked a slow circle around me, saying, “I’ve been going through my father’s things, and I’ve read some very interesting things about you, Princess Ashleigh.”

  His smugness...

  “I know who you truly are,” he announced.

  My brow furrowed with confusion. “I don’t understand. Who am I truly?”

  He continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “She lives in you, but she is not you and you are not her. Not yet. She is a queen, and you are the servant she possesses...the two separated only by a mystical wall.”