Kieran

Before dinner, Imogen warns me to properly dress for the occasion. I presume she means to tell me she will personally restore my mortality if I show up for dancing lessons in a robe.

“What’s the occasion?” I overhear Isabelle ask Astrid on their way up the staircase where we part to the East and West Wings.

“You will know soon enough,” Astrid responds cryptically.

The suppressed excitement in her voice is obvious. It makes me feel terrible for dreading our plans for later. So to make up for it, I scour through my wardrobe for something decent to wear.

In the end I give up on a choice of colours and settle for a night-blue jacket with gold trimmings down the lapels and collars. Surprisingly, the white breeches I find still fit me.

Since there are no mirrors in my room, I make my way down to the banquet hall early.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the line of mirrors which stand against one wall – a clever method to make this already huge hall look even more spacious. A man I don’t recognize stares right back at me in the mirror. His hands are held behind his back. His chin is held high in a manner that is less authoritative than it is curious. Once before, my shoulders would have been thrown back by princely practice.

Now, I am no longer bound by the crown.

A shifting blue comes into view on the staircase which descends from the doors. I turn.

And inhale sharply.

Every step she takes to carefully descend down the steps causes the light from the chandeliers to catch against the shimmers in her tumbling skirts, built upon layers and layers of wispy blue tulle. The intricate patterns of her ice-white bodice look like they are sown onto her skin itself, shying away from her collarbone and shoulders as they travel down to her wrists.

I may not be a prince, but Astrid is, in every way, worthy of a crown. She is worth so much more than that – even if she weren’t wearing my mother’s gown.

She stops moving when she reaches the dead center of the hall. I suddenly remember that I have to join her.

“Don’t look so frightened,” she laughs at me. She wears a hint of makeup tonight. Her soft pink lips further accentuate the green in her eyes and the freckles across her nose.

My tongue tries to remember how to move. “What are we learning today?”

“Not the swing, I am afraid.”

“Aw, shucks. What a shame,” I mutter with mock regret.

She responds with a roll of her eyes, but her gaze travels from my polished shoes to my hair in a manner so quick, I almost dismiss it as a glance at the floor.

“I will teach you a simpler dance we used to do in Ainsfrel,” she says. Nowadays, whenever she speaks of her hometown, she speaks of it like it is slowly disappearing into the past. “What of the music?”

I gesture to the far end of the hall. The instruments lying dormant on the dusty chairs suddenly remember they have a purpose. As if picked up by invisible musicians, they are lifted into the air and start to play a slow, gradual tune.

I bow low. She curtsies in turn.

“Your Highness…” She giggles, and I think I have found a new variation of opium. “May I have this dance?”

Her words puppeteer every movement of my muscles. We weave between a small imaginary crowd before circling each other, our shoulders teasing as they brush against one another before we part. The viola lulls into a slow lullaby before it halts completely in a moment of anticipation, as if we are sitting on a roller coaster and waiting for a drop. Her lips stretch over her teeth in obvious thrill, but her eyes are focused on the lesson.

She holds out a hand, her body surging forward. “And now we may -”

My hand catches hers. The other rests on the fabric on her waist.

This entire castle comes alive.

Everything I’d always hated about this place, about the world and time itself fades into irrelevance. Here there is only her breath tickling against my chin and the lingering smell of soap on her hair.

Astrid looks completely taken aback when I pull her closer – an unmistakable gravity. A streak nearly the colour of her hair runs up her jaws to her temples.

Her hand hesitates upon mine. I can feel every callous on her palm. The slight shift of her abdomen as she inhales deeply. Her fingertips streak idly across the back of my hand. I don’t know if my heart is beating faster, or if it has stopped completely, and my accelerated healing is just bringing me back to life again and again.

Finally, she lifts that tantalizing hand of hers up to my shoulder.

“Right,” she clears her throat, glancing at the mirrors. “Now, you’ll want to take the first step forward with your left foot – no, your left…”

My feet stumble over hers multiple times. She winces and complains, but her expression is patient. When the embarrassment heats my face, she laughs at me instead.

“You must guide me through a quick turn…” she twirls under my hand, but something in the movement in my wrist causes her to nearly trip over her own feet.

“Sorry,” I say abashedly.

“And we shall weave between the crowd again,” she continues without batting an eyelash. “Do you remember the steps?”

I don’t, but I don’t dare to tell her that. So I pretend to move aimlessly and take a break when her back is turned on me. When she turns to face me again, I snap back to attention.

“Towards the end of the dance,” she says, “The partners circle one another once before parting. Remember to bow. Are you ready?”

“Ready, Your Ladyship.” I screw up my face and rub my hands together in exaggerated anticipation.

She scoffs. “Oh, don’t be a fool.”

We take strides towards each other. Before she can turn her shoulder, I catch her hand and spin her clumsily.

A startled, “Oh!” escapes her lips. She catches my arm to steady herself, her eyes watching our messy feet. I try not to dwell on my barbaric dancing and instead allow myself the stolen luxury of holding her close, just for tonight. Just for now.

Her exhales tickle against my chin. I feel her fingers curl over my hand. I hope for her approval as my free hand tentatively slips over her waist again.

We sway from side to side, albeit a little awkwardly. I can barely hear the music over the sound of my own heart beating: a sign that I am alive.

“Beautiful,” is all I can breathe out.

She blinks repeatedly, as if I have startled her.

And then she laughs.

“The stars must be falling from the sky,” she says. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you pay me a genuine compliment before.”

“Don’t be silly,” I scoff incredulously. But at the back of my mind, my thoughts scour to find any memory of me complimenting her. I come up empty.

Huh. Maybe I really have been daft.

“Sorry,” I mumble, but she shakes her head dismissively.

“It is of no consequence. Although I have sometimes caught myself wondering if you were the only person in the whole world who didn’t find me…” she grimaces when she realizes she probably can’t find a more modest term to describe what she means to say. “Er…”

“Attractive?” I finish for her. I suppress a smile as she turns her face to the side.

“Indeed, you are right,” I nod seriously. “I have made the mistake of being idle about your beauty. It seems that in all my years of living, my brain has somehow wired itself to notice beauty and immediately chalk it off as something ephemeral. Someday beauty will fade, I always tell myself. And then…and then in your case, I guess there will only be your courage despite your shaking bones, your stubborn kindness and your curious intelligence.”

I shake my head. “But that is no justification. Maybe it’s possible that one day you will lose your allure, and yet still remain as beautiful as ever. But who will know until time tells us so?”

Astrid isn’t smiling anymore. She meets my gaze with the same curious expression she wears whenever she reads a book. For the first time in a long time, I don’t want her to look away from my face.

When she finally speaks again, she tells me: “That sounds like some sort of backhanded compliment.”

I snort. “Me, giving you a sincere compliment? Perish the thought!”

She chuckles. Lifting her hand from my shoulder, she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Since we’re paying each other non-compliments, then I shall say this: that you have stopped looking handsome to me after some time.”

My nose scrunches up. “Thanks?”

“It’s true,” she nods sagely. “When you finally got rid of that thicket on your face and cleaned up a little, I was not expecting you to look, well, decent. But then the days grew by and I started to get used to your looks. Sometimes I even notice when a new blemish appears on your face, or when your nose catches the wrong kind of light and looks rather...”

“I’m sorry. Are you going to keep going?”

“What I’m trying to say is,” she eyes me in exasperation, as if I should have ridden out the train of insults instead. “That now I think I only see you. Kieran.”

She reaches up to pick something off the hair above my ear. Then she leaves her hand there, fingers combed through my hair.

“And you are the most beautiful – no, the most human person I have ever met. Someone who deserves a second chance at happiness.”

We both stand very still, and I resist the urge to fall deeper into this unending ocean. I fail.

“Do you understand?” she insists.

I nod mutely. But I don’t. I don’t understand any of this. I don’t understand what I’m supposed to want.

She lets her hand fall. I savor the last of her warmth before she inevitably drops her other hand, releasing me. As she should.

We step away from each other.

Astrid clears her throat. She gives me a wan smile, smoothing her skirts with her hands.

“I suppose you aren’t so terrible so as to cause Isabel to run screaming in the other direction.”

I bow to her. She dips into a quick curtsy, a strange look lingering on her face as she studies me.

I watch the ground, confused as to why it isn’t shifting beneath my feet when I feel as if the world is turning over twice as fast, until the click of her shoes against the floor retreats up the staircase.