our dance. When I would look into his eyes, and know he wasn’t just the one to save me, but the one for me. The one who made me feel like I wasn’t dying, but brimming with life. A life I’d spend with him.
I’d had that moment during the ball. And now again.
But he wasn’t my prince. He wasn’t the one for me.
No. I wouldn’t spoil this moment with such desolate thoughts. This could be my last chance to be with him.
I forged into a new harmony to end our duet.
“Sweet William returned with a ring
And bees made them their queen and king
From their love roses with no thorns did thrive
In the woods forever after they shared their lives”
With a final spin, we came to a stop, with him laughing, and I giggling with a freedom I’d only ever found with him.
When we quietened, he said, “I still can’t credit how you know this version.”
Because no princess would be taught a song where one escaped marrying a king to live with a wild man in the woods.
“It was through personal research.”
“Aha. Now that makes sense.” He started striding again before giving me a sideways glance. “Though it’s actually less credible than the tragic version, since princesses don’t marry wild men.”
No, they didn’t. But I’d also been raised to believe princes didn’t marry common girls, and they were doing just that left and right around me.
Everything in my life had turned out to be either an outright lie, or a catastrophic mismanagement, leaving me with the one choice of having no choice at all.
So here I was, making the one choice I could make, taking a detour that could literally cost me my life.
It had certainly cost me my heart, all over again.
Any remaining mirth faded, just like my body.
After a while, I said, “I always felt this version spoke of flower fairies, anyway. Those tiny pixies you’d see in children’s books.”
“Where did you get that idea?”
“Sweet William and Marguerite are flowers—carnations and daisies. And she was ‘beloved by bees,’ as flowers tend to be. I wonder why these characters were such a popular topic for songs and poetry.”
“My guess is because Sweet William is literally called ‘the poet’s carnation’ in Armorican.”
“Don’t tell me you speak Armorican!”
“My grandmother insisted I learn it,” he said, expression fondly resigned. “She believed we’d be invaded by Northlanders, and I ought to impress our new overlords with my mastery of their language. After years of linguistic torture, we went to war with the Avongartans instead, who happen to speak a hideous language.”
I couldn’t hold back a giggle. Though his grandmother’s idea was a practical fear, since it nearly came true. “How do you say Sweet William in Armorican?”
“L'œillet de poète,” he said with a nasal affectation, like when I’d mockingly mimicked my tutors. “More literally, Doux Guillaume.”
“Doesn’t œillet mean eyelet? Like the holes in honeycomb?”
“Could also be the eye of a needle. But the honeycomb does suit all the bees in the ballad.”
“Why do words have so many meanings? In my curse, “sleep” turned out to mean anything but. At least my brother’s curse was plain and easy. Just get a pretty girl to love him.”
“I’m glad it did work out that way, otherwise I would have orchestrated their meeting for nothing.”
My thoughts came to a complete halt. “What?”
He laughed wearily. “I was stationed in Rosemead towards the end of the war, and I needed my friend to be himself again. It also didn’t hurt that the sooner the heir was human again, the sooner he could boot your uncle out of the regency. I needed to find him the right girl, and Bonnie practically fell in my lap.” He chuckled again at the memory. “I tricked her into thinking I kidnapped her father to ‘sacrifice him to the Beast.’ I needed her to choose to go up to Leander, and hopefully trade her life for her father’s, so they’d be stuck together until they fell in love. And wouldn’t you know it? It all went completely to plan!”
My mouth eased open, but only stammering came out. “You…you…”
Robin winked. “…should be the best man at their wedding, yes. Especially since I also came to their rescue on that fairy path when the redcaps almost made a meal of them.”
His words mingled with Marzeya’s, flowing through my reeling mind like wind through a forest, whispering echoes.
The only thing in common between your curse and your brother’s isn’t his solution, but the catalyst for his rescue.
Robin had