The Glass Queen (The Forest of Good and Evil #2) - Gena Showalter Page 0,8

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