BLYTHE STOOD AT THE FRONT DOOR OF WISTERIA GARDENS CLAD IN only her
ruined wedding dress. She had no coat to protect her from autumn’s chill as the sky darkened—she’d left it in the carriage with the rest of her belongings. Once, months ago, she’d stood in this very spot of her own accord, readying herself to propose marriage to the man she truly believed was a prince who’d be able to help solve all her problems.
She supposed there was some dark humor to be found as she pounded on the door—this time with his ring on her finger—though Blythe was having trouble unmasking it.
It took Aris far too long to throw open the door, his eyes twin blades that sliced across her. He’d changed attire since the wedding, the collar of his white button-down looser and his waistcoat disappeared. “I thought I sent you away.”
Oh, what grand illusions she had of one day pummeling this man’s thick head into the snow that would soon shroud this entire mountaintop. “That was a cruel trick, Aris.” She shivered as her breath made plumes in the air. “Why would you bring me to the garden of all places?”
“What garden?” he scoffed. “You were meant to go to the train station, you prat. I’d hoped to get at least a month free from your whining.”
“I never made it to any station. If it wasn’t you who brought me back, then who did? Am I to believe the driver magicked me here?”
Blythe noticed that Aris was rubbing absently at his left hand, near the spot where hers still burned. He stepped outside, scanning behind her for what she presumed was any sign of the carriage. He could look all he liked,
but neither it nor her belongings were anywhere nearby. It was as though the sky had swallowed her up and spit her out on his doorstep.
Behind Aris, Blythe caught a glimpse of a glowing hearth and tried to duck beneath his arm and step inside. The moment her foot crossed the threshold, however, a great pressure seized Blythe’s chest and she was tossed back onto the lawn. She hissed with pain not from the blow of falling onto her backside, but from the ring of light that flared as bright as starlight upon her finger. She clutched it to her chest as the skin beneath it burned.
Aris, blast him, tossed his golden head back with a riot of laughter that made her wish for a pair of shears. She’d cut that pretty hair right off his head the moment she had the chance.
“Shall I fetch you a blanket?” he asked, smug. “If the house doesn’t want you in it, then perhaps you can make a space for yourself in the stables. A beastly little rat like you should feel at home there.” He turned to go back inside. Like Blythe, however, Aris was at once tossed backward as he tried to reenter Wisteria Gardens. His own ring flared gold, and he clutched at it with his opposite hand, trying to tear it off. “Blast it, you infernal—”
“Aris.” Blythe was barely breathing. Her focus was trained on the space between their hands, where a golden thread shone bright. She moved her hand toward him and the thread shrank. Then she jerked it back, but rather than snap, the thread tugged at Aris’s band as well.
“Careful,” he grunted, but Blythe wasn’t listening. She stood, once again testing a step closer to her new groom. The heat on her finger lessened.
“Together,” she whispered, making a face as she glared at the wretched thing. “I think it wants us to stay together.”
“To enter my home?”
“Our home,” Blythe corrected as Aris rose to his feet, dusting dirt from his pants. “I think the ring is what brought me back here.” Saying the words aloud felt ridiculous, but how else could she explain that searing burn upon her finger?
Aris ran a hand through his hair, pulling too tightly at the strands. “Do you ever listen to yourself when you speak? If a magical ring wanted you back at Wisteria, then why would it stop you from coming inside?”
Blythe hated to give him credit, but Aris had a point. There had to be more to it, a piece that she was still missing. She took Aris by the shoulder,
trying to pull him to her side.
He jerked back, shrinking away like her touch alone would soil him. “Get your hands off of me, you boorish—”
“I’m not sure whether you’ve noticed, but it’s getting dark,” Blythe snapped. “As cold as I am now, it’ll be worse in a few hours. So unless you feel like building us a fire and sleeping beneath the stars, I suggest you cooperate.”
“You may be wild enough to sleep on the dirt, but I will do no such thing.” Aris stepped toward the door again, only to scowl at the manor as it halted him at the threshold. “I have magic, you foolish girl.”
“Go on and use it, then,” she challenged. “Use your silly enchantments and get us inside.” If she had to spend another minute stuffed in her suffocating gown, she would lose her mind.
“Enchantments? You’ve been reading too many fairy tales.” After another unsuccessful attempt at ramming his way into the manor, his eyes flashed a burnished gold. Enraged, Aris began to roll up his sleeves as if to better his concentration. Once, Blythe had to focus all her attention into seeing the golden threads that wound around him. Now, she only had to squint to see the full scene as Aris winked out of view only to reappear seconds later, the threads unraveling at his feet. Given the heaviness of his breathing, Blythe guessed that whatever he’d tried had not gone according to plan. He punched the door only to be tossed once more onto his backside, clutching his left hand.
Blythe watched his ridiculousness with her arms folded, preserving her warmth.
“Now can we try my way?” she pressed, unflinching when Aris stalked forward to stand before her, his hair disheveled.
“And what, exactly, is your way?”
Blythe didn’t subject herself to looking at Aris, but instead directed her attention to her left hand. Aris was right that Blythe had read many fairy tales, enough to understand that all stories had some truth, no matter how fantastical. And the truth was that it could be no coincidence that this bond between her and Aris had taken the form of a wedding band.
Quietly, she told him, “I think you should try to carry me over the threshold,” and as silly as the words felt upon her tongue, Blythe could hear the truth in them and knew in her bones that she was right. The rings were a
reminder of their bond—of their marriage—and both she and Aris had a role to play.
“Carry you? You have the world’s most luxurious slippers. Use them.”
It was a struggle for Blythe to maintain her temper, though she tried her hardest as she motioned toward the thread binding their rings. “It’s tradition, Aris. I am your wife, and when a husband brings his wife home for the first time, he’s to carry her over the threshold.”
“It’s also tradition to consummate the wedding night, but you’re not in your right mind if you think—”
“Dear God, just carry me!” Perhaps it was her confidence, or perhaps it was that Aris could somehow sense that she was minutes away from prying the clothes off his body so that she might find extra warmth, but either way Aris’s mouth snapped shut. He looked none too happy to be standing so close to her, and literally grimaced—yes, grimaced, as though he was touching rubbish with his bare hands—as he gripped her by the waist. He was a breath from tossing her over his shoulder like some barbarian before Blythe grabbed hold of his wrist and instead placed it on the small of her back.
“Hold me properly, you brute!” she gasped. “Not like I’m some prize from a hunt!”
“A prize you are not.” His frown was so deep that she wouldn’t have been surprised if it grew roots and made a permanent home on his face, though Aris sighed only once before hoisting Blythe bridal-style into his arms. “I despise you.”
“I loathe you, too, darling. Now get walking.” Blythe held her breath as he started for the door, squeezing her eyes shut when Aris took a step over the threshold. The next time she opened them, they were inside the palace.
Even Aris had the decency to look shocked before his expression quickly soured. Blythe, however, was practically bursting with joy, for her skin was already pricking with the warmth of the hearth.
“Wonderful,” she said. “Now if you could put me down—”
Aris didn’t wait for the end of that sentence. Nor did he wait until they were nearer to a chair. Without a lick of remorse, he dropped Blythe straight onto the hardwood floor. She hit it rump-first and turned to bare her teeth at the man as she rubbed the pain from the small of her back. But Aris was already gone, his blond head disappearing down the hall as he twisted his
ring finger.
Blythe didn’t bother following him and turned her attention instead to her new home.
Wisteria Gardens was nothing like the regal palace that Blythe had visited before. Gone were the ivory paneling and the gilded flourishes, the walls nothing but bare slate stone. The statues and art that had once been proudly displayed, too, had given way to dust and cobwebs. Blythe thought back to the stories she’d read, thinking of fairy-tale homes with their many curses and secrets. Wisteria Gardens felt very much the same. Even the hearth, which had felt like the greatest reprieve only moments ago, now seemed sad and wearied. Its flames flickered, shrinking as she sidled up to it. The poor thing groaned from the exertion of keeping itself alive, pluming dark gray smoke with low crackles that seemed like it was coughing.
“I see you’ve redecorated,” Blythe whispered, though she knew no one was there to listen. “In case you were wondering, I much preferred how it looked before.” She kicked her slippers off and set them beside the woeful flames to dry. While she would have given her own arm to be able to bathe and tear herself free from her wedding gown, Blythe hadn’t the faintest clue whether the rest of her belongings had been sent over from Thorn Grove yet. And considering everything else had been with her in the carriage…
She dragged a hand down her face. Had Aris been more accommodating, she might have asked to borrow something. As it was, she pulled the lace fabric away from where it bunched into her armpits before setting off, deciding that if the rest of her luggage was here, she wasn’t going to find it by sitting in the parlor.
It was time, she supposed, to settle into her new home.
 |
Blythe had a distinct memory of walking into Wisteria Gardens—or simply Wisteria, as Aris called it—for the first time and believing that any person would be lucky to live among such splendor. She even recalled believing that she herself would have been happy to exist in such a space.
What a fool she’d been to have ever put that idea into the universe.
Blythe had expected that Wisteria would have dozens of rooms to choose from and maintain, and yet as she made her way up one of the creaking double staircases and passed walls made of chipped stone that looked a hair’s breadth away from crushing her beneath its rubble, she found that there was but a single door situated at the end of the narrow, unadorned hallway. So unnerving was the sight of that door that Blythe thought to turn heel and instead search other floors of the manor for a library. Or perhaps there was a dining room to investigate.
Wisteria, however, had other plans.
The moment Blythe tried to turn from the withered mahogany door, a strange pressure set her back on the path toward it, twisting her feet and pushing her forward as if the manor itself was goading her down the hall. She tried once more to turn back toward the staircase, not caring for the way the edges of her mind grew fuzzy whenever she glanced away from the door. It was undoubtedly Aris’s doing, and for that reason Blythe fought against it. Yet as soon as she managed to turn away, it was as if the hall stretched endlessly forward, only stone as far as the eye could see. It reminded her of the prison where her father had been detained, desolate and decaying. So empty was the stretch of space that it was disorienting.
Blythe took one step from the door, then another five. No matter how much she walked, however, she never seemed to get anywhere. With a fire in her belly she turned to glare at the space behind her, heart skipping a beat upon realizing that it was still within arm’s reach. Beneath her breath, she cursed Aris’s name. It seemed there was no getting around his games for the time being, and she was left with little choice but to grasp the knob and throw the door open, seized by a rush of cold air that set her teeth chattering.
This was her room?
Every window had been left open, and thanks to the surrounding stone that hoarded every ounce of the bitter cold, it was more unbearable inside Wisteria than it’d been in the courtyard. Blythe hugged herself, wishing all the while that she had something other than lace to cover herself with. Fortunately, there was a hearth inside her drawing room, a cramped and dingy space that looked as though someone had taken it by the corners and pinched the room together. Unfortunately, the hearth wasn’t lit and Blythe hadn’t the faintest idea how to use the tinderbox that had been tossed
haphazardly beside it. She clutched it to her chest regardless—for surely it could not be so difficult to start a fire—and continued into what was evidently to be her suite.
The room was positively uninhabitable. Apart from the tinderbox, Aris had not made the slightest effort to make Wisteria accommodating. The walls and floors were not made of wood, but of the same gray stone as the rest of the manor, so frigid against her bare feet that her toes numbed. There was but a single piece of furniture in the drawing room—a simple oak writing desk. Inside the drawer was a crooked pen and an ancient jar of congealed ink. The parchment, though, was of fine quality. Probably, Blythe guessed, because Aris had overheard her conversation with her father and was mocking their meager attempts at subterfuge.
So ridiculous was this beast of a man that she scoffed and shoved the items back into the drawer.
Blythe abandoned any hope that her bedroom would be more hospitable as she stepped inside, for there was no bed, but in its place a flat slab of raised stone to lie upon. Blythe pondered the shape of the stone, for it looked very much like some sort of strange sacrificial altar that an evil witch might use.
Like the drawing room, there was no rug nor so much as a vase. No wallpaper, or even curtains to cover the windows she slammed shut. There was, at least, her honeymoon luggage, which had somehow made its return to Wisteria. How fortunate it was that the almighty Aris had deemed her worthy enough to have her belongings, for the swath of fabric on her “bed” was more a rag than a blanket, and was hardly proper protection from this dreadfully frigid hovel. She’d need to bundle up if she was to stand a chance in this place. There was nowhere to hang said clothing, however, nor did it seem that Aris had any hired staff to help with the washing.
To her name, Blythe had only her packed and ready travel chests, and she understood at once how easy Aris was making it for her to leave. For her to call off their marriage and put an end to the oath she’d made to protect Signa. He was all but pushing her out the door, and were she any less stubborn, she might have had the mind to go.
“You’d certainly like that, wouldn’t you?” she seethed at the room, whose walls groaned a weary response.
Aris would need to try harder if he believed that a bit of cold and
discomfort was all it would take for her to break.
Blythe flung open the lid of her packing chest and rifled through it to procure the warmest items she owned—a hodgepodge assortment of wool dresses and coats, of which she pulled out multiple. They’d be a thousand times more practical and infinitely warmer, but first she’d need to get into them.
Blythe drew a breath before she leaned over her desk, one side of her cheek pressed against the wood as she reached for the laces of her corset, stretching the tips of her fingers in a desperate attempt to free herself from the ridiculous sham of a bridal gown. It took at least twenty minutes of straining from multiple angles before she managed to loosen the remaining ties, sighing her relief as she shimmied out of the taffeta, kicked it to the side, and hurried into a wool wrapper, a coat heavier than she was, mittens, and a fresh pair of dry slippers. Only then was she able to quell her brewing tension, her focus shifting to the fact that at least her room didn’t seem to be situated anywhere near his.
Aris probably had the warmest room in the palace, decorated with gilded wallpaper, rugs so plush they thawed the toes, and a dozen mirrors and paintings of his own likeness. It probably had perfect sun-blocking curtains and a bed that felt like clouds, too. That bastard.
Blythe moved to the hearth next and spent a solid half hour with the tinderbox, prying her gloves off and then stuffing them back on whenever her fingers became too numb to properly grasp the tools. She tried to recall every time she had ever watched her previous lady’s maid, Elaine, make the fire. Blythe went through every motion she could remember, striking steel against flint until she frightened herself with the sparks and had to try again. Upon realizing that she had no idea what to do after those sparks were made, however, Blythe eventually recognized that it was a useless endeavor and decided it was time to try her luck elsewhere, for she wasn’t only cold but also hungry.
She cracked the door into the hallway open and poked her head out. She blinked once, then twice, and when she was certain that the walls weren’t morphing or stretching around her, she stepped through.
“Aris?” Blythe set a hand against the right wall, having once heard it was a certain way to escape any maze, which was precisely what Wisteria felt like. “I’m not sure how it works for you, but I require sustenance to
maintain my existence and I’m certain that one could hear my stomach all the way across town.”
Silence rang through the palace, and Blythe’s skin crawled as she made her way down the hall. New doors paved her path, each of them identical with the exception of their handles. One was brass, another iron. Some were in the shape of birds, and another a small fox head. Hers, she noticed as she looked back, was wooden and carved with a rather hideous head of a wild boar that hadn’t been there earlier. It seemed almost sentient when she stared into its eerie brass eyes and at the tusks she’d have to reach into to grasp the handle. They looked ready to bite her at any moment; the only consolation Blythe felt was that she at least would never have trouble remembering which room was hers.
She continued farther down the hall with a hand pressed to her stomach. She hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d told Aris that it was in severe protest; its rumbling was loud enough to rouse someone from sleep. In her stress, Blythe hadn’t been able to eat the prior night and hardly had any opportunity for a bite during the reception. She was famished, which was perhaps her least favorite thing in the world.
Apart from Aris.
She intended to head downstairs and find the kitchen, but before she took hold of the railing Blythe noticed that the dimmed candlelight above her head was flickering. Not just one candle, but all of them. It was as though something had stolen their light, for they did not cast a typical glow upon the floor. Their flames instead pulled toward the staircase that stretched up toward the ballroom. Though vastly different from when she’d first visited, Blythe recognized the space; up the stairs and down the hall was where she’d met Aris for the first time. And as the light pooled ahead, illuminating her path, she got the sense that she was meant to follow it.
Blythe hurried upward, passing the flat iron doors of a once-gilded ballroom bathed in amber. She chased after a light that glowed brighter as it led her to a familiar portrait—the only one she’d seen so far, and frankly one of the lone sources of color left in Wisteria.
Life’s portrait remained untouched, exactly as it’d been the day Blythe had first seen it. And yet looking at it felt like an entirely new experience, for Blythe recognized the woman for who she was now—her husband’s first wife. The one whom he’d actually loved, and had fought so hard to get
back.
Blythe hesitated beneath the towering portrait. It was a strange thing— beautiful, certainly, but unnerving. The woman stood in a haze of water, surrounded by foxes that peered out among ferns with eyes that glowed gold from the light that drenched the portrait. Life’s eyes, however, had been cut off.
Blythe drew a step closer, searching the curve of Life’s cheek, the tenderness of slender fingers wound around the handle of a chalice. She searched every piece of this woman for any sign that she could be Signa, but Blythe found no similarity. Squinting, she noticed that the canvas had a long seam down the center that was barely visible to the naked eye. She followed its path to discover that it wasn’t a seam at all, but the edge of a door. One that she immediately stepped toward, grasping a small handle that was hidden among the ferns. Before she could turn it, however, the door swung open.
Blythe staggered back, scarcely avoiding having her face struck by the wood. Aris’s dour presence filled the hall as he stood at the threshold with folded arms and a seemingly permanent scowl curling his lips. Though his body concealed most of the room, Blythe managed to catch a glimpse of a brilliantly bold tapestry above his head. It seemed there were more, too. Giant, colorful creations that traveled on lines stretching across the ceiling. She stared past Aris, trying to get a better vantage, but he stepped outside and shut the door behind him.
“Is that where you work?” She moved closer. “What is it that you do in there?” A deep curiosity festered within her, though if the haughty set of his jaw was any indicator, Aris was not inclined to share details.
“This room is off limits” came his answer, as chilled as ice. “You have a suite of your own. Go to it.”
Blythe puffed the full extent of her sigh from somewhere deep in her lungs, sparing him none of her resentment. “You are primeval if you think that where you put me could ever be called a suite. It feels as though I’ve been trapped on an expedition to the arctic north. Which is not how I would ever choose to spend my honeymoon, in case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t.” He didn’t lean back against the portrait but instead held his spine so rigid that for perhaps the first time, Blythe found that he looked more inhuman than not. “It’s not my fault that you can’t start a fire.”
She made a fist around the skirts of her gown. “It is your fault that I have need for one.”
“What do you suppose I’m to do about—” He stilled, forehead crinkled as Blythe’s stomach chose that precise moment to scream its dissatisfaction over the fact that she still was not eating. She only stared back, refusing to let herself feel any embarrassment, for it was Aris who should feel bad for putting her in such a state.
When he continued to glare at her with clear disgust, Blythe pressed on, “Why don’t we agree to solve this problem later? Perhaps after supper. You do eat, don’t you?”
The light shifted away from the portrait as Aris stepped closer. “Of course I eat, you wretched girl.”
Such splendid news made Blythe clap her hands, ignoring the insult. By now, his insults felt almost like terms of endearment. It seemed they were destined for a lifetime of exchanging them, and she wondered what other names he might come up with in the future. “Wonderful. What are we having?”
“We?” There seemed to be a silent battle waging within him. Whatever he was stewing over, Blythe didn’t care. She waited, arms crossed, until he finally hissed through clenched teeth, “There’s nothing prepared.”
“Nothing prepared?” Surely she had misheard. How could that be? “You told me months ago that you have a cook and a butler.” Though she knew she sounded ridiculous, Blythe’s growling stomach refused to surrender hope. Desperately, she asked, “Then what were you planning to eat?”
There was little warning for what came next as Aris gripped her by the shoulder, fingers curling into her skin. And suddenly, the walls of Wisteria were melting around her once more.
